Martin Lloyd-Jones, in his book Preaching and Preachers, writes that "The best way of checking any tendency to pride - pride in your preaching or in anything else you may do or may be - is to read on Sunday nights the biography of some great saint." It is reading that will humble us, remind us that there is a vast universe, that we are a small part of it, and we are both nothing special in particular and also not alone in our pride and joy and fear and sin. Reading gets us out of our own way, out of our own world, and into a much larger reality. Biography, as Lloyd Jones mentions, is an excellent source for this. Not only does biography humble, it also inspires.
Reading about John Steinbeck's life and work has that effect on me. In my last post I discussed one of the reasons I love Steinbeck's works so much, citing his willingness to try anything that interested him, try it with passion, regardless of whether or not he thought he'd be good at it. Tonight I look at his doggedness, his ability to grind, and the understanding that he couldn't become a great novelist in a day.
In one of the interviews I recently read about him, the interviewer wrote this about him:
"He wrote hard for almost fifteen years before he had his first success. He has always written more than he has published. Indeed, he destroyed two full-length novels before Cup of Gold, his first published novel, made its appearance in 1929."
He destroyed two full novels. They're gone. Years of work, thousands of words, pages and pages of thoughts and ideas and communication of his heart and mind, and he threw them away. Gone. I typically have to cut and throw away 20% of any sermon I write for the purposes of time and clarity, and I am breathlessly despondent with each click of the delete key. But I've never had to throw away a whole sermon, or even a blog post, let alone a novel.
It took Steinbeck fifteen years worth of grinding out pages that would never be read to get to his first success. Let that one sink in.
What are you doing now, that in fifteen years, might define you? Can you name anything you do that will matter in fifteen years? Not because it lasted, but because you threw it away, and threw some more away, and threw enough time and energy doing what nobody would see to reach a lasting contribution?
Yes, this is a call to put hours and commitment into something and stick with it. Of course it's that. But more so than that, this is a call to be doing something today that might matter in fifteen years - something big, something that you love, something that feeds you and the world. It doesn't have to feed the world today. But might it, down the road, after it's fed you and you've thrown it away, be your contribution?
Steinbeck was beginning a life's work, a great literary career, and he didn't know it. He had no assurances that he was headed anywhere of significance. But he wrote anyway.
Someone asked him in an interview was his personal philosophy was. His response: "Like everyone else in the world I want to be good and strong and virtuous and wise and loved." Writing, unnoticed for a really long time, allowed him to do that. And it reminds me today to get down some words, take in another book, work on another sermon, and feed good and true and loving words into my daughters and wife as often as possible. No one may notice or remember any of it. But in fifteen years, that work will have produced something that matters greatly to me.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Thursday, July 14, 2016
The Right Kind of Stupidity
I love John Steinbeck. It's an improbable love affair that has nothing to do with being introduced to his work in school or introducing him to students myself as an instructor now. Frankly, I don't know when it began. But his words squeeze truth and joy out of thin air, offering literary manna in the form of comedy and tragedy, whether written to alarm or agitate or educate or delight.
One of my first reads this summer was Douglas Wilson's book Writers to Read: Nine Names that Belong on Your Bookshelf. In it Wilson describes nine authors and their attributes that make them worthy of his recommendation, his admiration, and his desire to introduce them, on a personal level, to his audience. Writers Wilson, "If books are among our friends, we ought to apply similar standards to them that we apply to our flesh-and-blood friend. We should want to choose them wisely and well and hope that we will be the better for their companionship." He offers us, then, his favorite "friends" and the authors who have written them.
It made me consider my own literary love affairs and why I would want anyone I know to be introduced. In that spirit, I begin with this post to attempt to share with you my relationship with Steinbeckian lyric and lore.
Steinbeck wrote a lot of stuff. A lot. Late in his career, he decided he wanted to try writing for the theater, which was far from what anyone would term his comfort zone. In an interview, he offered these thoughts: "I'm just determined I'm going to learn something about the theatre. Last time we were kicked around like dogs but I still want to do it. This shows a truly pure quality of stupidity. Just nuts. I'm so fascinated by everything about the theatre. I don't really care if the show's a flop."
John Steinbeck is the right kind of stupid, and I love him for it. Throughout his career, he tries. Just to find out. He just wants to see. See if part-time college work is for him. See if a California country boy can embrace living in New York. See if living in migratory camps and writing about it can change the American landscape. See if he can properly and accurately put his best friend Ed Ricketts into his works and have his audience be as pleased with him as Steinbeck is. Try war journalism, try breaking all the rules of writing a novel, try commentary on the past and commentary on the present and commentary on what it's like to get into a vehicle with a dog and drive across the country.
Critics, be damned, he shouts with every swipe of the pen in a new direction. I don't write for you.
And I am delighted by this. Reading a lesser known work of his, or one of his so-called "experiments" (which he considered such texts as Of Mice and Men and East of Eden), I can see him smirking, giddy at the attempt. There is joy in the words, in the tinkering, in the curiosity that must be satisfied. Can I do this? What will it look like?
In Steinbeck's career, and sprinkled lightly in so many of his texts, I see his example, and it implores me: "Get out and do things, even if you'll be bad at them. Quit worrying about winning or being successful. Worry about doing. Find out. And find out for you."
Try. Experiment. Do. Wise thoughts, for sure. I can only hope to be stupid enough to dare them myself.
Try. Experiment. Do. Wise thoughts, for sure. I can only hope to be stupid enough to dare them myself.
Monday, July 11, 2016
Changing Moods
I am fond of saying that an individual cannot let feelings dictate their reality. I know I've written about it here on this blog on more than one occasion, and I just mentioned it once again in the last sermon that I gave. It is an unpopular and difficult truth, and it is one that I struggle with consistently. Frustration and fatigue can be crippling for me when they strike. Six months into the year, and my blog output has been terrible. My reading list hasn't been much better. I've been too tired, or too stressed, or too distracted to get much done that I know I want to and need to and should get done. But how can you be tired for six months? Or distracted?
There are ways to fight this, of course. Mostly those ways are repeating this truth over and over and hoping it sticks. And it does, for me personally, until I'm tired or stressed or distracted again. Then I tend to forget. A bag of Doritos and 2 hours of re-runs later, I've accomplished nothing, done nothing to improve my "feelings," and ultimately I've stayed up late enough to ensure that I'm tired again the next day and more stressed due to a lack of personal productivity. In hindsight, repeating this truth hasn't necessarily helped in the middle of living it.
I may have run across a better way, though. I've been taking down notes and important passages from a book I read months ago and have meant to collect notes regarding for a while. Having been tired and distracted, I'm only now getting them down. Anyway, the book is Martin Lloyd-Jones' Preaching and Preachers. It is a meticulous and passionate collection of Lloyd-Jones' perspective on every possible aspect of preaching. As I collected the notes, I came across this passage:
"The preacher should never be moody; but he will have varying moods. No man can tell what he will feel like tomorrow morning; you do not control that. Our business is to do something about these changing moods and not to allow ourselves to become victims of them. You are not exactly the same two days running, and you have to treat yourself according to your varying conditions. So you will have to discover what is the most appropriate reading for yourself in these varying states. There will be times when you will be unhappy. There are these states and conditions of the soul, and the sooner you learn how to deal with them, and how to handle them, the better it will be for you and for the people to whom you preach."
Reading a book on how to improve my own occasional preaching, I unexpectedly found this paragraph that made my English teacher heart cry out triumphantly. Don't like your mood? Then read! Do something about your changing mood. That something is read. And read with purpose.
This is a far cry from my typical Nick-at-Nite marathon or glass of wine approach.
What does your anger need? Or your lethargy? What sets your distracted mind back on your priorities? What will fight against your own provincialism and victimhood? You need a plan. I need a plan. A literary plan.
Not only does reading attack a mood, it also works proactively to create it. I seldom walk away from Steinbeck without inspiration to write. The Bible keeps me grateful. Calvin and Hobbes comic books remind me to not think like a father all the time, and any book with two children on my lap listening makes me feel like the most valued man on the planet. Other authors, like Shauna Niequist, even make me want to cook, or at least enjoy what my wife cooks, and sit around a big table with good friends and loud conversation. I cannot point to anything on a screen, any screen, that comes close to producing any of this.
Whatever the mood, it seems that there's a book for that. If you're not sure what it is, pick one up anyway. It'll lead you to some feeling far more worthy of calling a reality than the predatory fatigue and frustration.
There are ways to fight this, of course. Mostly those ways are repeating this truth over and over and hoping it sticks. And it does, for me personally, until I'm tired or stressed or distracted again. Then I tend to forget. A bag of Doritos and 2 hours of re-runs later, I've accomplished nothing, done nothing to improve my "feelings," and ultimately I've stayed up late enough to ensure that I'm tired again the next day and more stressed due to a lack of personal productivity. In hindsight, repeating this truth hasn't necessarily helped in the middle of living it.
I may have run across a better way, though. I've been taking down notes and important passages from a book I read months ago and have meant to collect notes regarding for a while. Having been tired and distracted, I'm only now getting them down. Anyway, the book is Martin Lloyd-Jones' Preaching and Preachers. It is a meticulous and passionate collection of Lloyd-Jones' perspective on every possible aspect of preaching. As I collected the notes, I came across this passage:
"The preacher should never be moody; but he will have varying moods. No man can tell what he will feel like tomorrow morning; you do not control that. Our business is to do something about these changing moods and not to allow ourselves to become victims of them. You are not exactly the same two days running, and you have to treat yourself according to your varying conditions. So you will have to discover what is the most appropriate reading for yourself in these varying states. There will be times when you will be unhappy. There are these states and conditions of the soul, and the sooner you learn how to deal with them, and how to handle them, the better it will be for you and for the people to whom you preach."
Reading a book on how to improve my own occasional preaching, I unexpectedly found this paragraph that made my English teacher heart cry out triumphantly. Don't like your mood? Then read! Do something about your changing mood. That something is read. And read with purpose.
This is a far cry from my typical Nick-at-Nite marathon or glass of wine approach.
What does your anger need? Or your lethargy? What sets your distracted mind back on your priorities? What will fight against your own provincialism and victimhood? You need a plan. I need a plan. A literary plan.
Not only does reading attack a mood, it also works proactively to create it. I seldom walk away from Steinbeck without inspiration to write. The Bible keeps me grateful. Calvin and Hobbes comic books remind me to not think like a father all the time, and any book with two children on my lap listening makes me feel like the most valued man on the planet. Other authors, like Shauna Niequist, even make me want to cook, or at least enjoy what my wife cooks, and sit around a big table with good friends and loud conversation. I cannot point to anything on a screen, any screen, that comes close to producing any of this.
Whatever the mood, it seems that there's a book for that. If you're not sure what it is, pick one up anyway. It'll lead you to some feeling far more worthy of calling a reality than the predatory fatigue and frustration.
Sunday, June 19, 2016
Father's Day Apologies
I'm not sure if it's a recent trend or not, but I've noticed that in churches on Father's Day, fathers commonly are in danger of being under attack. It's not on purpose, of course. Nor is it malicious. There are Father's Day well-wishes. Sometimes there is a celebration of manhood itself. But in an understandable rush to call God the ultimate Father, there is an admission and even an apology to all in the church body who have had less-than-stellar father figures. "Some of you have had absent fathers or abusive fathers or distant fathers," someone will say. And then they will point those to God as the faithful, love-without-end Father that He is. Rightfully so. But can you imagine the same thing being said on Mother's Day? On Mother's Day the lamenting and understanding tones are for those who wish to be mothers but either are not or can not for reasons out of their control. And they deserve those lamentations. But I don't hear the same for those who cannot be fathers. Instead, there are apologies for the bad ones.
There is a book that I teach to my juniors titled Until They Bring the Streetcars Back by Stanley Gordon West. In it the life of a teenage boy, Calvin Gant, is examined; and a major aspect of the plot is his tenuous relationship with his father. The father is distant but hard-working. He is generally serious with occasional flashes of frivolity. He served in the war, and that service changed him. He speaks sparingly of feelings and never of love. He demands much and provides much. He has a perfect record of attendance at work but a non-existent record at Cal's athletic events. It's been fascinating over the last 14 years in the classroom to hear student discussion on the merits and flaws of this father. Consensus has moved from generally positive and understanding to primarily critical in little more than a decade. Cal's father is a punching bag for them, a father who doesn't do enough, show up enough, express love enough. The flaws are memorable; the contributions, cast aside. For many of them, they say, the same goes for their own father.
This tells me that one of two situations is true: either we are too hard on fathers and quick to judge them if they are not the perfect balance of everything expected of men in the shifting expectations of the last 5 decades combined, or there truly are a lot of bad fathers out there.
I work hard to be a good father, but I admit that my great fear is that my children will remember me most in 30 years for my flaws rather than my contributions. That possibility haunts me if I allow it to. What flaws will stick out? My stubbornness? My fatigue-induced low tolerance? The frustration in my voice when they haven't obeyed as I saw fit? What have I missed that they won't forget or forgive? My daughters aren't even teenagers yet; I can't imagine the atrocities I'll commit during those years.
My father has the comfort of knowing that 30 years later, it is not the flaws that his son remembers. The flaws are mere foibles, and many are comical. One Father's day I remember we made my dad a shirt mocking his frequent and unmistakable use of the phrase, "You know?" in his conversational speech. It is "flaws" like this that make me remember and smile. I know who my father is, and I know he's not perfect. I'm not looking through some rose-colored glasses and waxing poetic about some non-existent past. Instead, I see who he was and is, and I know I see a good man and a good father who can rest easy knowing that.
I don't remember the absences so much as I remember the work ethic. I know he is stubborn, but only because he has stubbornly shown up every time I've needed him. He didn't let me choose the radio station, and he didn't let me choose when we were done working or what jobs were my responsibility. Because of those "flaws," I know and appreciate Paul Harvey and the satisfaction of a late night shower cleansing fatigue and manure from the day. He loitered when I preferred to hurry, and I learned the value of community.
Thank you, church, for your concern. But my father needs no apology for him. He is not God. But he helped me know God, and he helped me know callouses, and he helped me know the value of a face to face conversation. I hope I give my own children as much as my father gave to me so that they can look back at any flaws, hear the world's assessments of my shortcomings, and know that I did everything in love from the bottom of my heart, just like my dad taught me.
There is a book that I teach to my juniors titled Until They Bring the Streetcars Back by Stanley Gordon West. In it the life of a teenage boy, Calvin Gant, is examined; and a major aspect of the plot is his tenuous relationship with his father. The father is distant but hard-working. He is generally serious with occasional flashes of frivolity. He served in the war, and that service changed him. He speaks sparingly of feelings and never of love. He demands much and provides much. He has a perfect record of attendance at work but a non-existent record at Cal's athletic events. It's been fascinating over the last 14 years in the classroom to hear student discussion on the merits and flaws of this father. Consensus has moved from generally positive and understanding to primarily critical in little more than a decade. Cal's father is a punching bag for them, a father who doesn't do enough, show up enough, express love enough. The flaws are memorable; the contributions, cast aside. For many of them, they say, the same goes for their own father.
This tells me that one of two situations is true: either we are too hard on fathers and quick to judge them if they are not the perfect balance of everything expected of men in the shifting expectations of the last 5 decades combined, or there truly are a lot of bad fathers out there.
My father has the comfort of knowing that 30 years later, it is not the flaws that his son remembers. The flaws are mere foibles, and many are comical. One Father's day I remember we made my dad a shirt mocking his frequent and unmistakable use of the phrase, "You know?" in his conversational speech. It is "flaws" like this that make me remember and smile. I know who my father is, and I know he's not perfect. I'm not looking through some rose-colored glasses and waxing poetic about some non-existent past. Instead, I see who he was and is, and I know I see a good man and a good father who can rest easy knowing that.
I don't remember the absences so much as I remember the work ethic. I know he is stubborn, but only because he has stubbornly shown up every time I've needed him. He didn't let me choose the radio station, and he didn't let me choose when we were done working or what jobs were my responsibility. Because of those "flaws," I know and appreciate Paul Harvey and the satisfaction of a late night shower cleansing fatigue and manure from the day. He loitered when I preferred to hurry, and I learned the value of community.
Thank you, church, for your concern. But my father needs no apology for him. He is not God. But he helped me know God, and he helped me know callouses, and he helped me know the value of a face to face conversation. I hope I give my own children as much as my father gave to me so that they can look back at any flaws, hear the world's assessments of my shortcomings, and know that I did everything in love from the bottom of my heart, just like my dad taught me.
Sunday, May 8, 2016
A Firm Foundation
This week my daughters had their end of the year AWANA award ceremony. AWANA is a church program on Wednesday nights for kids preschool through elementary ages at our church where they memorize verses and listen to speakers and play other games. Typically the AWANA director has a speaker for the awards night, but this year she decided that instead of one speaker to have a couple of speakers who had gone through the AWANA program when they were a kid and now had kids in AWANA. Having been an AWANA alum myself, I agreed when asked to offer a few words on the stage.
I talked about how being in AWANA as a kid, though I didn't realize it at the time, provided a firm foundation for who I am today. I learned verses and truths that I understood in part at the time so that I could understand much more in full now. I learned that a church building is a place for fun and friends and learning, not just a place to sit down and shut up and wait until I was allowed to leave. And I learned that a church is a place where I mattered to adults, and my faith mattered to them. Until I had to speak about it, I hadn't really considered those lessons. But I see those same foundations being built in my kids today because of the work of the AWANA volunteers every Wednesday night.
I went through the AWANA program, received my firm foundation, and was given the opportunity to speak about it and its impact now on my kids, because of my mother.
She took me there. It was not a program at our church, but she took me there anyway. She told me it was important and made it important in the home. I can still smell the crock pot full of chili when we got home Wednesday nights, cooking all day so that we could eat together and still have enough time to get there. She challenged me each week to work through the books and learn as many verses as possible. My mother decided 30 years ago that this was important enough for us to do, and she was right. It wasn't just another activity that would fill our time. Instead, it was a firm foundation.
A friend of mine who spoke before me at this year's AWANA ceremony thought it would be cool if he brought in some of his old AWANA awards to show while he spoke so the kids could see them. He was also a circa-1985 attendee (though in a different church than me), and I recognized his awards as the same I worked for and received as a kid. I remember the pride I had in having achieved some of the AWANA honors, often admiring all the work I'd done to get there.
I realize the truth now. It wasn't just my work. It wasn't just my activity. For me to accomplish anything, it required Mom. I know that now. I know that as sure as the Sunday and Monday and Tuesday nights in our home are spent learning verses together, sometimes through frustration and struggle, so too were far too many nights in my youth spent with Mom urging me to learn one more verse, or listening to me practice, or I'm certain tolerating my impatient frustration fits. She could have dropped me off at the door at 6:30 PM and picked me up at 8 and left it alone the rest of the week. But she couldn't. She was building a firm foundation. And she did.
I know now that to build that foundation, the Wednesday night routine at home is disrupted. Supper is sooner. Bags and Bibles and books and vests have to be rounded up and ready. Bedtime is later. The weekly routine is also disrupted. If it matters, if a kid is to learn and grow and put down brick by foundational brick that will be remembered, it has to matter to someone else as well. And that someone else for me was Mom.
This week my daughters got a note in the mail. It was from my mom. On the top of it was a handwritten verse from her, followed by a few words congratulating them on all their work and success this year. It seems she's still building that foundation, even if she lives two hours away. Building it through notes, the same notes she sent to me with a verse at the top when I was in college, two hours away. Building it through verses inside of plastic eggs on Easter morning, next to those precious M&M's and assorted pieces of chocolate. Building it through phone calls asking to hear the books of the Bible recited by them after hearing of their success. Building it because it was important 30 years ago, and it's important now.
My foundation has many bricks that have led to who I am and how I work and on what I build my family's foundation. I am thankful for all the AWANA bricks and a mother who quietly mortared them together.
Happy Mother's Day.
****To read more about how cool my Mom is, see these previous Mother's Day posts:
I talked about how being in AWANA as a kid, though I didn't realize it at the time, provided a firm foundation for who I am today. I learned verses and truths that I understood in part at the time so that I could understand much more in full now. I learned that a church building is a place for fun and friends and learning, not just a place to sit down and shut up and wait until I was allowed to leave. And I learned that a church is a place where I mattered to adults, and my faith mattered to them. Until I had to speak about it, I hadn't really considered those lessons. But I see those same foundations being built in my kids today because of the work of the AWANA volunteers every Wednesday night.
I went through the AWANA program, received my firm foundation, and was given the opportunity to speak about it and its impact now on my kids, because of my mother.
She took me there. It was not a program at our church, but she took me there anyway. She told me it was important and made it important in the home. I can still smell the crock pot full of chili when we got home Wednesday nights, cooking all day so that we could eat together and still have enough time to get there. She challenged me each week to work through the books and learn as many verses as possible. My mother decided 30 years ago that this was important enough for us to do, and she was right. It wasn't just another activity that would fill our time. Instead, it was a firm foundation.
A friend of mine who spoke before me at this year's AWANA ceremony thought it would be cool if he brought in some of his old AWANA awards to show while he spoke so the kids could see them. He was also a circa-1985 attendee (though in a different church than me), and I recognized his awards as the same I worked for and received as a kid. I remember the pride I had in having achieved some of the AWANA honors, often admiring all the work I'd done to get there.
I realize the truth now. It wasn't just my work. It wasn't just my activity. For me to accomplish anything, it required Mom. I know that now. I know that as sure as the Sunday and Monday and Tuesday nights in our home are spent learning verses together, sometimes through frustration and struggle, so too were far too many nights in my youth spent with Mom urging me to learn one more verse, or listening to me practice, or I'm certain tolerating my impatient frustration fits. She could have dropped me off at the door at 6:30 PM and picked me up at 8 and left it alone the rest of the week. But she couldn't. She was building a firm foundation. And she did.
I know now that to build that foundation, the Wednesday night routine at home is disrupted. Supper is sooner. Bags and Bibles and books and vests have to be rounded up and ready. Bedtime is later. The weekly routine is also disrupted. If it matters, if a kid is to learn and grow and put down brick by foundational brick that will be remembered, it has to matter to someone else as well. And that someone else for me was Mom.
This week my daughters got a note in the mail. It was from my mom. On the top of it was a handwritten verse from her, followed by a few words congratulating them on all their work and success this year. It seems she's still building that foundation, even if she lives two hours away. Building it through notes, the same notes she sent to me with a verse at the top when I was in college, two hours away. Building it through verses inside of plastic eggs on Easter morning, next to those precious M&M's and assorted pieces of chocolate. Building it through phone calls asking to hear the books of the Bible recited by them after hearing of their success. Building it because it was important 30 years ago, and it's important now.
My foundation has many bricks that have led to who I am and how I work and on what I build my family's foundation. I am thankful for all the AWANA bricks and a mother who quietly mortared them together.
Happy Mother's Day.
****To read more about how cool my Mom is, see these previous Mother's Day posts:
Thursday, April 28, 2016
My Month in a Bathroom
I've been unable to write for the past month, as I was busy in the bathroom.
On the road back to Iowa over Spring Break, Emily and I decided to do a quick bathroom remodel in our upstairs bathroom. We actually said and believed that - quick. We had no lofty goals; we were merely in it for functionality: a toilet that flushes consistently, tile that wasn't cracked, and a sink with room for soap. After making due for ten years with the secondary, second-class bathroom, we figured a fix-up would be low cost and low hassle. Tile, a toilet, and sink: how hard could it really be?
Not that hard, actually. But not that easy, either. Easy enough that it's finished now. Done. Mostly by me, a 36-year old without an official man-card and hands much more accustomed to keyboards and books than hammers and nails. It's amazing what one can learn from YouTube and a patient neighbor willing to teach. After a month of nights and weekends, this tiny 25 square foot space is like new. Or at least functioning.
I experienced a range of emotions during the project, which I'm sure many who have undertaken similar projects with similar levels of experience can attest to. The overconfidence of demolition came first. The momentum created by the ease and quick process of destruction is intoxicating and disorienting, leading one to actually believe they may be ahead of schedule. This is followed by a small dip of apprehension predicated on the knowledge that you have no knowledge and are paralyzed by the fear of beginning. But then, if you're fortunate, comes success. Sweet success. You do something for the first time. You create. You finish. You thump your chest, berating the project with derogatory epithets as if it, your opponent, had been defeated by your strength and moxie. You speak of your success, telling people about the project and the journey and how far you've come and how you, yes you, the one who nobody ever thought could, has indeed laid tile.
I was there. And it was sweet. Staring at the installed tile, the finishing touches having been completed in an adrenaline-packed flurry 30 minutes prior to dinner guests arriving, the swell of pride made me a believer. I could do this. I could be trusted with tools, and I would win. I had already won one battle. The war was at hand. Medals of valor, all around!
And this lasted for one day. One. Because after that one day, after the tile had settled and dried and cemented itself into permanence, I went to check on the project. I saw the flaws. All of them. They mocked me. They proclaimed their permanence. I knew I must stare at them and recognize their authority all my days in this house, and I sunk into a fog of dejection. I felt crushed under a mountain of despair. I ripped up my imagined man card.
My wife was there to pick up the pieces. My wife who understands me. My wife with the realistic home improvement expectations. In her wisdom, she laid it out there for me: "You know this isn't a sermon or a speech or a blog post, right? You can't spend hours pouring over every sentence, shaping it and revising it and re-revising it into submission. It doesn't work that way. Get over it." Ouch. She was right. A few weeks later, my imperfect, but pretty darn good for a renovation rookie bathroom is up and running.
This real-life story serves up many a metaphor. Pride cometh before the fall. Listen to your wife. Don't bite off more than you can chew. Or even Teddy Roosevelt's "the credit belongs to the man in the arena who strives, and errs, and falls short." Those all seem appropriate.
More so for me, though, was the realization of how much those tiny flaws in my home remodeling bothered me, how much I want to revise and refine and perfect them out of some sense of irreparable mark I was making on my home, and how few aspects of my real life with real consequence receive similar scrutiny. I almost never fixate on the inches, on the level, or on the cracks in my faith. Or in the way I use my time. Or in my relationships.
The bathroom flaws may never be recognized by guests, and that gives me comfort. But the same lack of recognition of the flaws in my spiritual house should not. If anything is worthy of intense scrutiny, it is that, visible to an audience or not.
So I go back to my real work now. I put down the power tools that I just learned to use and put away the mortar and grout and caulk. I collect my Menards leftovers and mistaken purchases and get my refund. I trade them in and scrutinize the flaws and mistakes I can work on and that do matter, and I roll up my sleeves.
On the road back to Iowa over Spring Break, Emily and I decided to do a quick bathroom remodel in our upstairs bathroom. We actually said and believed that - quick. We had no lofty goals; we were merely in it for functionality: a toilet that flushes consistently, tile that wasn't cracked, and a sink with room for soap. After making due for ten years with the secondary, second-class bathroom, we figured a fix-up would be low cost and low hassle. Tile, a toilet, and sink: how hard could it really be?
Not that hard, actually. But not that easy, either. Easy enough that it's finished now. Done. Mostly by me, a 36-year old without an official man-card and hands much more accustomed to keyboards and books than hammers and nails. It's amazing what one can learn from YouTube and a patient neighbor willing to teach. After a month of nights and weekends, this tiny 25 square foot space is like new. Or at least functioning.
I experienced a range of emotions during the project, which I'm sure many who have undertaken similar projects with similar levels of experience can attest to. The overconfidence of demolition came first. The momentum created by the ease and quick process of destruction is intoxicating and disorienting, leading one to actually believe they may be ahead of schedule. This is followed by a small dip of apprehension predicated on the knowledge that you have no knowledge and are paralyzed by the fear of beginning. But then, if you're fortunate, comes success. Sweet success. You do something for the first time. You create. You finish. You thump your chest, berating the project with derogatory epithets as if it, your opponent, had been defeated by your strength and moxie. You speak of your success, telling people about the project and the journey and how far you've come and how you, yes you, the one who nobody ever thought could, has indeed laid tile.
I was there. And it was sweet. Staring at the installed tile, the finishing touches having been completed in an adrenaline-packed flurry 30 minutes prior to dinner guests arriving, the swell of pride made me a believer. I could do this. I could be trusted with tools, and I would win. I had already won one battle. The war was at hand. Medals of valor, all around!
And this lasted for one day. One. Because after that one day, after the tile had settled and dried and cemented itself into permanence, I went to check on the project. I saw the flaws. All of them. They mocked me. They proclaimed their permanence. I knew I must stare at them and recognize their authority all my days in this house, and I sunk into a fog of dejection. I felt crushed under a mountain of despair. I ripped up my imagined man card.
My wife was there to pick up the pieces. My wife who understands me. My wife with the realistic home improvement expectations. In her wisdom, she laid it out there for me: "You know this isn't a sermon or a speech or a blog post, right? You can't spend hours pouring over every sentence, shaping it and revising it and re-revising it into submission. It doesn't work that way. Get over it." Ouch. She was right. A few weeks later, my imperfect, but pretty darn good for a renovation rookie bathroom is up and running.
This real-life story serves up many a metaphor. Pride cometh before the fall. Listen to your wife. Don't bite off more than you can chew. Or even Teddy Roosevelt's "the credit belongs to the man in the arena who strives, and errs, and falls short." Those all seem appropriate.
More so for me, though, was the realization of how much those tiny flaws in my home remodeling bothered me, how much I want to revise and refine and perfect them out of some sense of irreparable mark I was making on my home, and how few aspects of my real life with real consequence receive similar scrutiny. I almost never fixate on the inches, on the level, or on the cracks in my faith. Or in the way I use my time. Or in my relationships.
The bathroom flaws may never be recognized by guests, and that gives me comfort. But the same lack of recognition of the flaws in my spiritual house should not. If anything is worthy of intense scrutiny, it is that, visible to an audience or not.
So I go back to my real work now. I put down the power tools that I just learned to use and put away the mortar and grout and caulk. I collect my Menards leftovers and mistaken purchases and get my refund. I trade them in and scrutinize the flaws and mistakes I can work on and that do matter, and I roll up my sleeves.
Thursday, March 24, 2016
A Purple Shirt and an Open Book
When I was in San Antonio last week on vacation with the family, I purposely wore a University of Northern Iowa shirt because I knew we would run into somebody, somewhere, who was a Panther at some time. It happens every time we leave the Midwest - invariably someone will see our proud purple gear and we'll get a "Go Panthers" and perhaps a conversation from a complete stranger. We are part of the same tribe: we've lived in the same community, had classes in the same buildings, hold many of the same values, and feel the strong tie of supporting a university who has few casual fans, but many loyal alumni. In the few hours we were on the Riverwalk and at The Alamo, it happened twice: both times with smiles, well-wishes, and the knowing and comfortable look of shared experience.
As Panthers, we like knowing we are not alone in the world. There is not one around every corner; in fact, I know of no other Panther flag flying in our community on game day, whereas Iowa and Iowa State flags and apparel are as common here as snow in March. There is a shared pride and boost in loyalty in the midst of fellow grads, an uptick in casual conversation and camaraderie. So the opportunity to wear the purple and gold outside of the state, particularly somewhere as far removed as Texas, is an opportunity for reciprocal gain.
The same seems to be true for those who dare to dawn superhero attire. I make this assumption as one who is not a superhero aficionado. I've seen some Batman movies, if that counts for much. But that is not my tribe. I do, however, now own a Superman t-shirt. I obtained this to satisfy the whims of my youngest daughter, a burgeoning member of the Wonder Woman clan, and her desire for all attendees to her most recent birthday celebration to be appropriately adorned in accordance with her theme. The shirt is comfortable, though, so I dared to wear it last week. I am afraid to do so again. In my few hours in public supporting the iconic "S," I was greeted as one of the tribe. It was clear I was somehow taking a side, making a claim of my love and history and rooting interest in the new Batman vs. Superman film. It was a little scary. I felt like apologetically explaining, that I was wearing this attire for the soft cotton, not the external brand. I was a poser, a fake, but I produced the same spirited response as if I had been legit.
A few days after our trip in San Antonio, I woke up earlier than my wife and kids in our hotel room in Oklahoma and decided to head down to the lobby to read before everyone got up. I picked up my iPad and a Time magazine and tip-toed out of the room. Upon entering the lobby, there was a separated square of love seats and couches next to a fire place and away from the televisions and breakfast area, perfect for avoiding distractions. There was already a woman sitting and reading on one of the couches, and I noticed she was reading a Bible. I sat down adjacent to her and asked if it would bother her if I sat down next to her. "No," she replied. "I'm just getting in my daily reading." I asked her which book of the Bible she was reading from, and we had a nice conversation for several minutes following.
"You know," she said, "not many years ago I wouldn't have ever dreamed of picking this book up. Now I start every day with it. It's such a treasure." I agreed, and she went on her way. On cue, I put the Time to the side and opened up my Bible app to start my day with some Psalms. A treasure indeed.
That brief exchange changed my day. Like me wearing my UNI shirt days before, she was stating her tribe in a hotel lobby at 6 AM. She gave someone else from the tribe an opportunity to not feel alone, a chance to exchange knowing smiles and connected conversation, and the motivation and pride to revel in that citizenship as well. A woman I'll probably never see again, in a hotel lobby in nowhere Oklahoma, during a morning I was merely killing some time, unintentionally joined with me. She properly turned my attention away from basketball scores, Twitter, and Time, and instead into words of Life. Later I met her family in the line for waffles, and she offered smiles and small talk with my daughters. We were all the better for it.
Some days that's all it takes: an open Bible and a smile. Seeing that made me a better father, husband, and disciple that day all the way north on I-35.
As Panthers, we like knowing we are not alone in the world. There is not one around every corner; in fact, I know of no other Panther flag flying in our community on game day, whereas Iowa and Iowa State flags and apparel are as common here as snow in March. There is a shared pride and boost in loyalty in the midst of fellow grads, an uptick in casual conversation and camaraderie. So the opportunity to wear the purple and gold outside of the state, particularly somewhere as far removed as Texas, is an opportunity for reciprocal gain.
The same seems to be true for those who dare to dawn superhero attire. I make this assumption as one who is not a superhero aficionado. I've seen some Batman movies, if that counts for much. But that is not my tribe. I do, however, now own a Superman t-shirt. I obtained this to satisfy the whims of my youngest daughter, a burgeoning member of the Wonder Woman clan, and her desire for all attendees to her most recent birthday celebration to be appropriately adorned in accordance with her theme. The shirt is comfortable, though, so I dared to wear it last week. I am afraid to do so again. In my few hours in public supporting the iconic "S," I was greeted as one of the tribe. It was clear I was somehow taking a side, making a claim of my love and history and rooting interest in the new Batman vs. Superman film. It was a little scary. I felt like apologetically explaining, that I was wearing this attire for the soft cotton, not the external brand. I was a poser, a fake, but I produced the same spirited response as if I had been legit.
A few days after our trip in San Antonio, I woke up earlier than my wife and kids in our hotel room in Oklahoma and decided to head down to the lobby to read before everyone got up. I picked up my iPad and a Time magazine and tip-toed out of the room. Upon entering the lobby, there was a separated square of love seats and couches next to a fire place and away from the televisions and breakfast area, perfect for avoiding distractions. There was already a woman sitting and reading on one of the couches, and I noticed she was reading a Bible. I sat down adjacent to her and asked if it would bother her if I sat down next to her. "No," she replied. "I'm just getting in my daily reading." I asked her which book of the Bible she was reading from, and we had a nice conversation for several minutes following.
"You know," she said, "not many years ago I wouldn't have ever dreamed of picking this book up. Now I start every day with it. It's such a treasure." I agreed, and she went on her way. On cue, I put the Time to the side and opened up my Bible app to start my day with some Psalms. A treasure indeed.
That brief exchange changed my day. Like me wearing my UNI shirt days before, she was stating her tribe in a hotel lobby at 6 AM. She gave someone else from the tribe an opportunity to not feel alone, a chance to exchange knowing smiles and connected conversation, and the motivation and pride to revel in that citizenship as well. A woman I'll probably never see again, in a hotel lobby in nowhere Oklahoma, during a morning I was merely killing some time, unintentionally joined with me. She properly turned my attention away from basketball scores, Twitter, and Time, and instead into words of Life. Later I met her family in the line for waffles, and she offered smiles and small talk with my daughters. We were all the better for it.
Some days that's all it takes: an open Bible and a smile. Seeing that made me a better father, husband, and disciple that day all the way north on I-35.
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