We All Have Scars

I think my daughter, Hannah, is on first name basis with every nurse, aide and doctor in several Emergency Rooms between Wisconsin and Virginia.  Between gymnastics, soccer and swimming she’s had concussions, breaks, sprains and one damaged rotator cuff.  I’ve always wondered, if not marveled at Hannah’s ability to get hurt in swimming.  Exactly how does one do that short of drowning or perhaps ramming one’s head into a wall (which she actually did when she was younger)? 

One particular break, a wrist, was placed for a time in a hard cast.  No swimming.  No soccer.  No much of anything.  When it came time to have the cast removed, the nurse took the saw and started cutting.  Hannah started to cry silently, saying that “it hurt.”  Hmmm . . . That wasn’t supposed to happen.  Come to find out that the blade on the saw actually cut deeply into Hannah’s forearm, leaving a scar that is present and visible today.  It is raised and turns a pretty pale pink, almost purple, in the summer sun.

In my senior year of high school, I had just gotten out of a dress rehearsal for a music show.  The final performance was that evening.  I had three solos to perform and I was in several group ensembles as well.  I was eating dinner and someone playfully threw something at me and I ducked.  When I did, I hit my chin on the corner of the table and split my chin open.  It hurt, but not terribly so.  And then there was blood.  My chin was swollen and I had to wear a clumsy bandage on it.  Perhaps I should have gotten stitches.  To this day, I have a scar on my chin.  Not very noticeable, but I see and feel it each time I shave.

We All Have Scars.

Some scars are big, some are small.  Some scars are noticeable, some not so much.  Some scars are visible to the eye, some hidden beneath clothing.  Some scars are a sort of “trophy” from this game or that contest.  Some scars are a result of just everyday living, and some scars are an accident in childhood or adulthood.

We All Have Scars.

And . . . each of us has scars that are not visible to the eye, scars not visible anywhere on our body by anyone, maybe not even to ourselves. 

These scars are the emotional scars we carry with us.

We might have been born into and spent childhood raised in a less than loving, supportive, or nurturing home.  A childhood where going without was the norm rather than an anomaly.  A childhood where hearing the words “my dumb one” “he’s not so bright” “she’s not very pretty” “he’s not very handsome” “she’s a difficult child” were (are?) as common as “hello” “goodnight” “see you later” might have been.  The words “I love you!” might never have been uttered or heard.

Or . . . a childhood where we were ignored or treated as indifferently as a chair or the living room curtains might have been (is?).  Taken for granted.  Assumed.  An afterthought. Nothing special, just there. 

We All Have Scars.

We might have been the product of meanness, neglect, or unfortunately, abuse.  We might have wondered (and perhaps still wonder?) where the next meal will come from and what it might be, if the electricity or heat will remain on, when the next fist might be felt, the next curse might be heard.  Who might be there for me . . . for us . . . when it seems no one is there now and perhaps, never was in the first place.

Yes, We All Have Scars.

The question I have for you . . . for each of us . . . is, are we, have we, learned from the acquisition of the scar?  What are you, we, doing now that is different and is a result of what we have learned?  Are you, we, continuing on with the cycle or are we going about life . . . our life, other’s lives . . . differently?  What have we learned from our scars?  Just what have we learned?  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

Thoughts On Lent

When I was growing up in my large (ten of us kids, plus mom and dad, a dog named Buttons and a canary named Lance), Lent was a big deal.  A really big deal.

Within the forty days, there would be one trip to church on a Saturday for visit in the confessional.  There was the Lenten Candle that we would have a ceremony involving prayer and a scripture reading each Sunday before our dinner together. 

There would be a rosary or two, maybe three, all of us kneeling and praying together in the living room with Dad and Mom leading.  We would receive ashes on Ash Wednesday, go to church on Good Friday, light candles on Holy Saturday, and then church on Easter morning.  A really big deal.

Growing up, we had to give up something for Lent.  It had to be something important to us and my Dad would have veto rights.  It might be something like no soda a couple nights a week, or no TV on a certain night, or no desserts.  We would pick something and we’d have to live with that choice for all of Lent, for all of the forty days.  Heck, sometimes it felt more like forty years, especially if it was a no dessert option.

It was Father Mike who in late elementary school, talked to us about the necessity of repairing relationships.  Relationships with God . . . with each other . . . with ourselves.  In his eyes, Lent was the perfect opportunity for this, although he suggested that it should be done all the time, not just in those forty days.

I still practiced this routine well into my adult life, but I did change it up some. 

While living and working in Omaha, I met Father Paul, a tall, gentle priest who in college was actually a theater major.  His sermons were like one act plays: at once entertaining and meaningful.  I remember really clearly that at the beginning of Lent one year, Father Paul gave a sermon about doing something rather than giving up something.  He used the words, “Why give a gift of a ball and bat to a child, if you’re not going to go out and play with the child?”  That question, that idea, has stuck with me all these years.

Doing Something instead of Giving Something Up.

The more I think about it, especially as time goes on and I advance along the path on the Other Side Of The Mountain (a previous post), the more these two ideas go hand-in-hand. 

Repairing Relationships, and Doing Something instead of Giving Something Up.

I think both can . . . and should . . . happen.  Not just during Lent, but all the time, every day, throughout the year.  We can, and should, repair damaged, hurt relationships, by doing something about them.  It doesn’t matter who the relationship is with.  It could be with God; it could be with others; it could be with ourselves. 

If there is damage . . . if there is something not quite right, it behooves us to do something differently in how we act, in how we speak, in how we listen, in how we think.  Perhaps we need to reach out and risk being pushed away.  Perhaps we need to reach out again and risk being pushed away again.  And again. 

Lent is a good time to change direction.  Lent is a good time to take stock of where we are, what we do, what we’re about.  Lent is a good time to course correct.  It is a good time to change what we have been doing and try something a bit different.  And just as important, why should we limit this change of direction, this course correction to forty days in the Spring?  Perhaps it’s something we might do each and every day.  I have a feeling it might make our lives . . . and the lives of others . . . better.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

The Honor Of Resistance

Of all of the museums in Washington, D.C. that my family and I have been to, my favorite is the Holocaust Museum.  It tells a story of one moment in time and a story of a persecuted people.  It tells the story of their dehumanization, the story of the destruction of their lives, and the story of their broken and stolen future. 

 

At one point early in the museum, I remember receiving a little booklet with a name and picture of an individual.  There was a paragraph or two about their life before and after their time in the camp, most likely, their end, how they had died.  My little booklet was written about a child who died in one of the camps.  I remember my daughter, Emily, reading her little booklet, and over and over at each exhibit, she would whisper to me, “Dad, this is so sad!”

 

One exhibit was of an oral and video history of some of the camp survivors.  They spoke of their life in the camps, of their persecution, and of their loved ones who had survived, or perhaps, who had died.  They spoke of their life before, and then they spoke of their life after.

 

For me, the exhibit that was the most moving was of shoes.  A pile of shoes.  Hundreds of shoes.  Shoes of the lost.  Shoes of the dead.  Shoes of adult men and women.  Small shoes of children.  And like Emily said, “So sad!”

 

I’ve always admired stories of the men and women and children of the Resistance. 

 

Simple folks.  Farmers.  Small shop keepers.  No one special, really.  Only in that which they did would be considered special . . . remarkable.  Honorable.

 

They risked their beliefs, their lives against nearly impossible odds.  The risked almost certain death.  Men, women, and even children.  Used whatever weapons they could find, and certainly not the weapons of those who they fought against.

 

The Honor Of Resistance.

 

They fought against oppression.  They fought against domination.  They fought against dehumanization.  They spoke up and raised their voices in outcry when it would have been so very easy to remain silent.  They stood up when it would have been so very easy to sit down.

 

The Honor Of Resistance.

 

There might be times in our life when we are called to Resist.  There might be times in our life when we are called to stand up for what is right.  There might be times in our life when we are called to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves, to speak for those without a voice, to demand rights for those who don’t have any.

 

As I sit here and write this, there most assuredly will be times in our life when we must do what is right, say what is right, and not shrink away because it might be unpopular to do otherwise.  At that point in our life, at that very moment be it great or small, will we . . . each of us . . . have the same Honor To Resist?  Will we have that same courage?  Will we have that same strength?  Something to think about . . .

 

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

Lessons Learned From Elephants

For as long as I can remember, my mom has collected elephants.  It was her favorite animal by far, yet other than a trip to the zoo, I don’t believe my mom ever came close to one.  When I asked her about why she liked them so much, she’d shrug and smile and never really gave an answer.  So my brothers and sisters and I accepted it as “just one of those things.”

When we moved mom from her small two-bedroom condo to the nursing home where she now lives, we had to pack up her “stuff” and my sisters separated items each of us had given her from those things she took along with her.  Because her room at the nursing home was so small, you can imagine that over the years, there were fairly large piles for each of my brothers and sisters.

And then there was her collection of knick knacks.  And among those knick knacks was a large collection of elephants.  Different shapes and sizes and colors.  Each elephant made out of different material.  She could tell you stories about them, who had given her this one or that one and on what occasion it was given.  In my office at school, I have a small set that my family had given her.  A nice reminder and they cause me to smile when I look at them.  A nice and fond memory.

One of my writer/author friends on Facebook posted an interesting story on elephants.

Laurence Anthony, a legend in South Africa and the author of 3 books including one titled, The Elephant Whisperer, passed away on March 7, 2012.  Two days after his passing, wild elephants showed up at his home led by two large matriarchs.  Separate wild herds arrived in droves to say goodbye to their beloved man-friend.  A total of 31 elephants had walked over 12 miles to get to his South African House, and they traveled in a solemn one-by-one, single file procession.

All I can say is, “Wow!”  Yet, that doesn’t quite cut it.  I had, and have, many questions.  How did they know he had died?  How did they know where to go?  What did they do when they arrived?  What did his family and friends do when 31 elephants showed up at his house?  How long did they stay?

I think we’ve all heard the saying that elephants don’t forget.  I don’t know if that is the case or not, but I think there must be something to it.  After all, how would these 31 elephants behave this way if they didn’t?  Just how smart are they?

Another of my writer/author friends posted a picture on Facebook of a momma and baby elephant with the caption, “Do you know that baby elephants throw themselves into the mud when they get upset?”

Hmmm . . .

A whole lot comes to mind . . .

Not quite sure what the appeal is.  Not quite sure what the attraction is.  I know there are mud baths and mud facials, but I can’t help but feel that sounds sort of gross.  Okay, maybe a whole lot of gross.  A lot of disgusting, actually. 

Well, I’m not an elephant and like my mom, other than a trip to the zoo, I’ve never been around them and I’ve never studied them, so I have no great knowledge of elephants.  None. 

But I think if a baby elephant sticks his or her head in mud, there must be some sort of comfort, some sort of appeal.  The elephant must seek some sort of comfort in mud that the baby can’t get from anything else. 

I know that it seems that mud is a kind of magnet for little children.  Seems they can’t go around a puddle, but will instead, stomp and slog right through it with an earnest, if not mischievous grin.

I know water soothes.  I know there is comfort in water.  Seems to me that water is a lot more appealing than mud.  But, hey, that’s just me.

I do know we seek comfort when there is distress.  I know it is human nature to give comfort when someone is in distress.  Whether we seek mud, or water, or a hug, or a shoulder to cry on and an ear for listening, or perhaps a silent and solemn presence like the herd of elephants, to give and to seek comfort is natural and necessary.  For each of us.  To each of us.  Evidently, for elephants too.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

The Benefit Of Two Wings

There is a story about a well-meaning mother who saw a butterfly struggling to get out of a cocoon.  The mother, as I said was well-meaning, so she decided to help the butterfly by opening up the cocoon so that the struggle would be less.  When the butterfly broke free, it ended up not being able to fly and in a short time, died.  What this mother didn’t know, unfortunately, was that through the struggle to get out of the cocoon, the butterfly’s wings would become strong enough to fly on its own.  The mother was just trying to help.

Every now and then, we hear of birds with broken wings.  They are unable to lift off the ground.  They have to be picked up and cared for until the wing is healed enough so that the bird can fly on its own.  One wing won’t do it by itself.  Birds need two wings.

The Benefit Of Two Wings.

As a former counselor, I’ve worked with parents of teenagers who would best be described as helicopter parents.  One parent comes to mind who intervened at any opportunity she could.  Her son did no wrong . . . never . . . none . . . ever.  It was always someone else’s fault.  Late work?  Miscommunication and a lack of clarity on the teacher’s part.  Late to school?  She drove, so she should be held accountable, not her son. 

Eventually, it grew.  Smoking?  On school grounds?  No way.  He wouldn’t do that.  A fight with another student?  The other student’s fault.  My son was provoked.

It seems that much like the well-meaning mother with the cocoon and butterfly, this well-meaning is hindering the strength of her son’s wings, inhibiting his ability to fly on his own.  I sometimes wonder if that young man ever learned to fly, or if like the butterfly, soon ‘died’ because of that inability.

The Benefit Of Two Wings.

I think there is also a benefit in having two wings that work, that are strong.  I think there is also a benefit in teaching one to use both wings.

I think that as parents, and as caring adults, there is a tendency to want to help children.  I think as caring adults, there is a tendency to want to help others, young or old.  I think that because of our own lives, our own mistakes, our own questionable and sometimes poor choices and the consequences we found ourselves in because of those mistakes and choices, we naturally want to protect our children, and the kids we work with from making those same mistakes, from making those same choices and falling into the same consequences we found ourselves in.

It’s only natural.  We’re human and we care . . . or at least we’re supposed to care, should care.

The problem . . . perhaps the balance . . . is in how much we can do, say, act and in what our children and other adults need to do on their own.

Brandon is a teacher and family friend.  We were discussing college and what we did or didn’t do while we were at college.  I remember worrying out loud over our daughter, Hannah, and what she might be faced with, what choices she would have to make, what decisions she might have to live with.  His response was, “You raised her.  You taught her.  Trust the job you did, the beliefs you instilled in her, and then trust her.”  I have to admit that I needed to hear that.  Had to hear that.

The Benefit Of Two Wings.

Kids need to learn to fly on their own.  Kids, and others, need to learn from their own mistakes, their own choices.  And then, learn from the consequences of those mistakes and choices.  It isn’t easy.  It’s hard to watch one of your . . . one of my . . . children struggle and suffer, even a little.  But without that struggle, their own wings, much like the butterfly’s wings, without the struggle with the cocoon, won’t grow or develop. 

If we can remember that, our kids will do well.  If we instill in them the belief and faith we have in them, give them support, encouragement, they will learn to fly on their own and their wings will take them in great and wonderful places, above and below the horizon.  Just as each of us did . . . and do . . . once upon a time.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!