W for Whiskey?

 When the past bumps up against the future it can often create a dilemma. 
 

This was recently brought to my attention.  I was on the phone with a major computer manufacturer about an item I ordered that was delivered to me defective.  Talking to the customer service representative I could hear an accent in his voice.  Of course he could hear an accent in mine, considering the fact I live in the Southern U.S. where accents and dialects are as numerous as ants at a Sunday picnic.  That's for another blog, though.

To make sure that he understood me correctly he repeated back to me every letter in my name and email address.  In doing this he used the "standard" word-for-a-letter format.  For example, for M he repeated, "M as in Mike?"  Now, this intrigues me because my name is Mark, why did I have to be called Mike?  That's another blog to write, too.  He proceeded to say, "A as in Alfa, R as in Romeo, K as Kilo."  I said all of this was correct.  When he came to my middle name which begins with "W" he said, "W as in whiskey."

Now, let me stop here because the word for "W" is whiskey, every time.  This has been a standard in use since the late 1950's.  "W" for whiskey.  Now, this really means nothing in the big picture called life but my life always comes into view when I hear "W" for whiskey.  My middle name begins with "W" (just in case you weren't following along) and it is the name given to me by my father to honor his brother.  Here's some quick family history on my part.  My father grew up in an era of hard and poor living in the South during the 20's and 30's.  It was a rough time for him and his family.  He quit school in the 7th grade to go to work eventually overcoming several obstacles to make a good living in hotel management before dying at the age of 46. 

Here's where the "W" for whiskey gets me every time.  My dad was an alcoholic.  I'm not talking about the nice, sweet, kindly fumbling and bumbling drunks we laugh at on TV sitcoms of the past.  I'm thinking Otis from The Andy Griffith Show here.  My dad was what you might call a mean drunk.  He drank whiskey and drank it hard.  For a time he lived hard.  There was a struggle with relationships, job commitments, and he had health problems.  Before he quit drinking two years before his death, which might have been the best two years of his life, he had lived a life where alcohol undermined his worth, value, and the lives of those around him. 

As a child growing up witnessing all of this; seeing the anger, hearing the angry slurs and profanity it became apparent to me that every time the sales person says "W" for whiskey I'm reminded in that moment, in that brief moment, that I come from a family where whiskey was not a "stand-in" for the letter, W.    

W for whiskey.  Why not "W for walking or whimsical or worship?  Some will say, "Mark, you think too much."  That's probably true.

What else is true is that what I experienced in my childhood has helped me to become the person I am; far from perfect.  I've had my own share of pain and struggle and mistakes.  All of this has given to me a more empathetic sense of those around me.  Many of us struggle with identity issues, past pain, future anxiety, etc.  The thing about it all is that we don't have to be defined by it.  That "W" for whiskey is my past bumping up against my future.  The "present" of my life reminds me that I am not my father. Still, I sense his influence in my life in ways that reveal to me the good and sometimes the not so good.  The paradox of living is that each of us is made up of the raw materials given to us by our parents.  It is our task to make something valuable of it all.

I am a man seeking to live my life in the best way that I know.  I seek to be a good husband, father, grandfather, brother, and friend.  Sometimes the past knocks on the door and tries to tell me to give up; that the future isn't any better.  And I say let the past lie; I won't stay there any longer.

W for whiskey? 

Really? 

How about W for Worthy?

In light of yesterday's events at the Boston Marathon I found myself experiencing a variety of feelings:  shock, sadness, anger, and a kind of malaise.  It was that feeling of malaise or melancholy that intrigued me.  As a people who are becoming accustomed to events like this we can become jaded and think this is just the way we live now.  We can detach and disconnect from our feelings and even the life around us.  But yesterday was not common place.  It is not normal for bombs to explode at a seemingly safe event resulting in chaos, injury, and death.  It is not even normal for these things to happen in some far-removed middle-eastern locale.  Ours is a world broken and in our brokenness we are turning on each other and wreaking havoc; brokenness seemingly becomes perpetual.  I do not want to get used to bombings at marathons, murders in schools and at theaters, planes crashing into buildings, and families ripped apart by violence.  I do not want to accept that this is a way of life.  I do not want to become jaded to the point where I am no longer moved by the pain and suffering of those around me.  If this day should ever arrive it will be then that I will have lost my heart and in essence, my humanity.  I believe God is calling us to reach out in love, forgiveness, and reconciliation.  There is a price to be paid.  Just ask Jesus.  And the answer given might surprise us for in the answer of pain and suffering we might find hope and resurrection and even how to be human for the first time.  Don't lose heart.

A Few Photos from Lawrenceburg

Recently, I was in the Amish community near Lawrenceburg, Tennessee. Here are a few photos from that afternoon in mid March.

Nothing to See Here...Move Along.

"Nothing to see here; move along." How many times have we read or heard these words in a book or in a movie? Nothing to see. Really? Move along. For real? There's so much to see that we better stay put if we truly want to see. We miss it though, don't we? We miss the significance of things until we are hit between the eyes. So, what do we do? We move along, right?

This is Easter Monday which for me is usually a day of reflection following a very harried week of activity leading up to Resurrection Sunday. I find that I wish I could "move along" and not think for a bit or wrestle with life's problems but Mondays seem to be made for wrestling. Nonetheless, I was reflecting on the first day of the week as recorded in John's Gospel in the New Testament. On that first day of the week the women and disciples of Jesus go the tomb where he was buried only to find the tomb vacant. They fear that the body of Jesus has been stolen. They are bewildered and afraid because when one expects to find death but death is absent there are questions to be asked. Perhaps the dead person has now become a ghost or worse yet, a zombie!

I'm intrigued, however, by the response of the first disciples who entered the tomb that day. John's gospel tells us they went in, had a look around and then went home. That has always struck me as odd and interesting. They went home. Now, you might ask, "Where else could they go?" Good question. I'm not sure what I would have done at that point but to return home doesn't seem likely. I might have begun a search for Jesus. Or I might have texted my friends or sent out a tweet or created a page on Facebook related to my experience hoping to garner an outlandish number of "likes". "If you've seen Jesus, like us on Facebook!"

Granted, I exaggerate. Still, there is something happening here. Was there really nothing to see so that the only response for the disciples was to move along and go home? Once again, this intrigues me. It shouldn't though.

We all retreat to our homes. Home is our place of safety. Home is our castle where we feel fortified against the ills of the world. Home becomes a fortress where we surround ourselves with all the comforts we can afford and hope that no one will ring the doorbell and disturb us in our domain.

So, returning home seems like the natural thing to do.

In his book, "Falling Upward," Richard Rohr writes: “The familiar and the habitual are so falsely reassuring, and most of us make our homes there permanently. The new is always by definition unfamiliar and untested, so God, life, destiny, suffering have to give us a push—usually a big one—or we will not go. Someone has to make clear to us that homes are not meant to be lived in—but only to be moved out from.”

For me it seems apparent that what took place on that first resurrection Sunday was so radically different and new that the only initial response was to hold to the familiar, the "tried and true" of going home. Yet, home is not where God wants to take us; at least not home in how we think of it.

Consider that Jesus never stayed in one place for very long and was always on the go, moving in and out of communities in ministry and service. The idea of a place to escape was foreign to Jesus. Now, don't misunderstand me. There were times when Jesus needed some alone-time to recharge and renew his spirit but it was always for the purpose of moving out again never to take up permanent residence.

New things often frighten us. The unfamiliar can seem daunting. Not knowing can paralyze us from taking necessary steps for our betterment. Through the resurrection God was seeking to push those first followers of Jesus out of their "comfort zone" into new territory to blaze a path for the message of grace, love, and forgiveness they were called to proclaim.

As people we are often pushed and prodded to further retreat into our homes and ourselves. Crime, cancer, wars, poverty, hunger, the unknown..all of these things stir up fear in us and sometimes the only thing we know to do is to go home and pray nothing will bring us harm.

If, however, we are to face life that pushes us out of the familiarity of our comfort zones we are going to have to step out of the house, leave the yard, move out onto the street and go forth and claim the life we have been given. Home should not simply be a place of retreat and isolation. Home is the place where we learn that we have permission to leave. Home is where we receive the inner resolve to move out and climb the walls and barriers that threaten to entrap us.

You can't go home again. I think this is true but it doesn't have to be a negative. The irony is that when we leave home we are preparing for another home where we live in the safety of God's presence.

Nothing to see here; move along. Don't worry. God will go with you.

Life in the Middle

It has been said that there is a time for everything.  There is a time to be born and a time to die.  Check.  There is a time for war and a time for peace.  Check.  I would much rather have peace, though.  There is a time to cry and laugh and dance and hug and embrace and love and even hate.  We live in such a way that we experience a variety of "seasons" to life. 

What I'm finding in my life is that the seasons of life are not separate from other times.  Often these moments or seasons pile in one on top of the other and it is then that I am left to discern which pieces of the puzzle to pick up.  Where do I start? 

 

What is the first piece that is always crucial in assembling a puzzle?  Some might say it's the corner piece.  Perhaps.  It could be, though, that starting in the middle might not be such a bad idea, especially where our lives exist.  Starting in the middle means that I do not retreat to the edges (corners) and isolate or disconnect. 

 

The middle of life is life worth living.  Granted, it is often more challenging living in the middle.  It is easier to disengage and move to the periphery of life. 

Sometimes the thought is that when we get "our ducks in a row" then we can make better sense of what it means to live.  In reality life is more about "chasing the ducks" and finding meaning along the way.  That is why it is important (at least I think so) to find the times of my life in the middle of my life.  How ironic it is for me to be speaking about the middle of life since I recently turned 50 years of age.  Yes, I know.  It is the middle of a century.  My children were quick to remind me of this.  And yet I can't help but feel that in many ways the best is still to come regardless of past mistakes, struggles, or decisions. 

Recently I was reminded that to find hope in the midst of pain is a gift.  At least pain tells me I'm alive.  Should not living be a gift?  The challenge is to let go of the past while embracing the present but notice that letting go means clinging to something.  We let go of the past and its hurts and griefs while at the same time holding on to the present.  There must be something to hold in order to let something go.  This, in essence, is life in the middle. 

Yes, there is a time for everything and there is timing to everything.  Sometimes timing is not what we think it should be but hopefully in that moment we discover the time to embrace what is before us.  There is a time to laugh.  There is a time to dance (I can't dance very well, by the way).  Maybe it is time to cry.  Through it all it is time to live.  It is time to breathe.  What time is it in your life?