Life Really Is A Stage

Ever since the fourth grade, I’ve been on a stage of some sort. In fourth grade, my older brother, Jack, was in the musical “Bye Bye Birdie” in his high school.  They needed a “kid” to play Randolph McAfee, a part that was my brother’s son.  I got to sing two solos and I have to tell you, I was bit hard by the acting thingy.  Loved it.

Singing has always been a big part of my life all the way through the years.  In fifth grade, I was selected to perform with four of my classmates in a barbershop quartet, billed as the “Wee Four Quartet.”  Dressed in our different colored vests, white shirts and bow ties complete with a straw hat, I have to say we were stylin’. Well, stylin’ for fifth graders, anyway.

In sixth grade, I formed my own band.  Yeah, we were pretty not so awfully good.  But, it did get me noticed by a group of older guys who asked me to play drums and sing for them, so I did that for two years.  Mostly a Top Forty cover band, we had a lot of gigs, entered contests, that sort of thing.  Fun times.  Great times.  And great memories.

Continued on into high school.  Plays.  Musicals.  Choirs.  Solo stuff.  Eventually a couple of commercials.  Weddings and funerals.  It didn’t matter to me because I did what I did and loved it. 

One time towards the end of my senior year, I performed as a front act on a benefit show.  Six songs with my accompanist- a great guitarist.  It was towards the end of the first song when I noticed a middle-aged woman in the first row trying to get my attention subtly, quietly, without too many people noticing her.  Had no idea what she was doing or why she was doing it until I took a bow at the end of the song.  Bright spotlight.  One of two guys on stage.  Dark slacks.  And my fly wide open with five more songs to go.  Hmmm . . . yup!

Life Really Is A Stage.  Our Stage.  A stage to make and create as we see fit.  Some of the props are ours, while some props are handed to us, given to us without our asking, without our wanting, without a chance to say, “No thanks!  I’d rather not!”

And while on that stage, while using those props, we build our own one act play.  Our Life.  We live it.  We speak it.  We act it out.  It’s ours and ours alone.  We share it.  We might try to hide it.  Sometimes we recreate the dialogue, the actions and the costumes.  Other times, we borrow or create and craft the dialogue and actions and costumes to fit what we are and do now.

But ultimately, it is our stage and our one act play.  While there might be other characters . . . a wife, a child or two, a boy or girl friend, other family members, friends, acquaintances . . . what we do on that stage is our choice, our life, our one act play.  Through happy times.  Exciting times.  Difficult times.  Sad times.  All times in between.  Some new experiences, some older experiences, but ours nonetheless.  All ours.

Life Really Is A Stage.  And, we hold that stage . . . our stage . . . for as long as we live.  Some, like my mom a long time- 99 years-, while others of us shorter, much shorter, or maybe one or two of us, longer.  We never know when we will step off that stage.  Tragically.  Dramatically.  Sympathetically.  Heroically.  Silently.  Eventually, each of us will step off that stage.

So, it is a matter what we do while we’re on that stage that counts.  Do we perform to the best of our ability, or do we perform with mediocrity?  Do we perform with gusto and enthusiasm, or do we perform lethargically and lackadaisically? Do we write the script, or do we allow others to dictate what we say and how we say it?  Do we act out our own one act play as the actor and director, or do we dance to someone else’s tune and act by someone else’s directorial style? It is a choice how we act, what we say, how we perform.  Our choice.  Ours alone.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

Life Madness - A Game Of Mistakes

I had coached basketball for ten years, two on the college level.  I kinda sorta know how I got into basketball, and it is an odd story for a guy who stands only five foot eight (and my wife swears I’m shrinking), can’t jump, can’t dribble at all with my left hand, and can’t shoot.  I guess other than that, I’m pretty good.  Not!

When I was in eighth grade, Father Jim pulled me aside and asked me to coach the sixth graders.  Hmmm . . .  Okay, I guess I can do that.  He’d give me the practice routine and I’d run them through a practice and he’d sit on the sideline with me when they had a game.  That was my first taste of it.

I went to high school and played my first two years.  I was known for my defense, which was probably okay, since that was all- and I do mean ‘all’- I could do.  When I was a junior, the head coach called me into his office at the end of tryouts and told me that football season had ended.  I remember looking at him rather quizzically, and he said something to the effect that, “I play basketball like I played football.”  I actually thought that was a complement, because I was pretty good.  I could take a hit and I could deliver them.  Started both ways at fullback and linebacker.  So, I thought I had made the basketball team.  Ah, no.  He cut me.  Right then and there.  But, he asked if I was interested in coaching the eighth grade team.  Hmmm . . . Okay, I guess I can do that.  Only this time, I wasn’t furnished with a practice routine.  I had to make up my own.  And no one sat on the bench with me.  I was alone.  By myself.  Just me.  Yup, just me.

Got to college and actually thought I’d coach football, my first love (way, way before I met Kim- really).

Nope.  My first job was a teacher and head boys basketball coach at the second smallest school in the state.  Did that for three years, had quite a bit of success, and was recruited to coach at the college level.  Did that for two years, hated it, and went to back to high school for another five.

Somewhere along the way, I heard someone a whole lot smarter than me say that basketball was A Game Of Mistakes:  the team that makes the least amount of mistakes wins.

Sort of describes life, doesn’t it?

Life is A Game Of Mistakes.  Each day, every day.  A Game Of Mistakes.

We hope that the mistakes we make aren’t too big or too serious.  We hope that the mistakes we make aren’t hurtful to others.  Hopefully.  But we do make mistakes.  Constantly. 

Some mistakes are easily overcome.  Some mistakes are soon forgotten.  Others, well, not so much.

There are some mistakes that haunt us, sometimes dominate us, sometimes control us in the way we think, the way we act, and in the way we react.

The good thing, the very great thing, is that each morning brings a new day . . . a new start . . . a do over.  Each morning we get to rectify what took place the day before (I had written a previous post, Mornings, that speaks to the beauty of do overs). 

And if we have the courage to remember that we are human, that yes, mistakes happen and that mistakes can be forgiven if learned from, Life Madness goes on . . . and on.  Yes, Life Madness is A Game Of Mistakes.  Because in life, mistakes happen.  To the best of us, to the brightest among us, to all of us.  If we remember that, Life Madness, much like March Madness, can be fun and enjoyable.  After all, life should be enjoyable.  It really should.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

99 Years, Sorry, And Goodbye

Last night, my daughter Emily and I were talking about her grandmother, my mom, and all the things she saw, witnessed, and lived through in her 99 Years.  Short answer . . . a lot!  A whole lot.

Born in 1914, she watched her mom vote for the first time in the election of 1920, the first time women could vote in the United States.  Probably too young to realize the importance of it all, but still, a witness to it.  Born just after the first automobiles were built, I know she lived a long, long time before her family could ever afford one.  A lot of their farm work had to be done by hand, by foot, by horse and mule.  I know her family wasn’t well off, so many of the household chores, like laundry, had to be done by hand. 

Lived through Prohibition, also in the 1920s, both the banning of alcohol and then the reinstatement of it.  She drank a little, smoked a little.  Gave up smoking once, picked up the habit again much later in life, and then gave it up for good.  Up until a few years ago, she enjoyed a glass of white wine before bedtime. 

Lived through the Great War, the “War To End All Wars” only to live through it all a second time, while raising her family along the way.  Lived through the Korean Conflict- not technically a war, though there seemed to be quite a bit of bloodshed and bombs bursting in the air.  Lived through the Vietnam War, and worried when one of her sons served over there for a year or two.  He made it out in one piece.

Lived through the racial unrest, the March On Selma, listened to Martin Luther King’s great speech.  Mostly listened to the radio, but had a black and white television, and then one that broadcast in color.  She traveled the country in a station wagon and a Winnebago travel trailer.  Before that, a good, old-fashioned green canvas army tent with a dirt floor and cots. 

Seen a lot.  Did a lot.  Lived a lot in 99 Years.

Last night I received a call from my brother that mom wasn’t doing very well.  Not well at all.  We had hoped she’d make it to 100 Years, but now we don’t think she’ll make it next weekend. 

My sister, Judy, was with her when my little brother, Jeff, called.  In the course of the conversation, mom told him she was sorry.  Said the same thing to my sister, Mary, when she called.  Said the same thing to Judy just before she left for the evening.

99 Years, and Sorry.

Hmmm . . .

I guess she, like we . . . each of us . . . have things to be Sorry about, to be Sorry for.  Never perfect lives, though we do try.  Maybe in that striving to be perfect is where there really is the need to be Sorry . . .  for those we’ve wronged, including ourselves, along the way.  Sorry for those we’ve pushed aside, trampled over, in our efforts to be perfect.  Rather ironic, I think.

So, 99 Years, and Sorry.

So when I heard mom said that to Jeff, to Mary, to Judy, made me realize that mom is coming to an end, to a close.  She’s making amends, as best she can, in the best way she can, using the best words she can.  And I think to myself, I’m Sorry too.  A lot to be Sorry for.  A lot.

My family is already making plans.  Phone calls have been made, will be made again.  Notices sent and given.

For each of us to appreciate, to celebrate a life filled to the brim in those 99 Years.  To pay our respects, for each of us to say, we’re Sorry. 

And finally, for each of us to say, Goodbye.

Only for a little while.  More of a “See you later, alligator.”  And I can hear her answer, “In a while crocodile.” 

99 Years, Sorry, and Goodbye.  Mom.

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

The Samaritan Woman

There are many characters in the Bible that I find fascinating.  I’ve written about the Prodigal Son and his father, two of my favorites.  A loving father who gave his son some time and distance in order to find himself, but continued to watch and wait faithfully for his return.  The other, a truculent youth, who perhaps thought he knew it all, eager to step out on his own, only to fail miserably as he made mistake after mistake, but came to his senses, came home and said he was sorry, offering to live the life as a servant.  And the father accepted the apology and loved his son, happy that his son came to his senses.  A lesson of contrition, remorse and repentance, and forgiveness.

 

I can relate to Jonah, the guy who tried to run from his call, who tried to run and ignore his duty, who just didn’t want to go and do what he was supposed to do, and as a result, ended up getting swallowed by a whale.  Eventually he ended up going where he was supposed to go in the first place and could have avoided the whale.  Several lessons there, I think.    

 

Elijah, the fiery prophet, who thundered and shouted his message, yet had to listen at a cave entrance to whispers and gentle murmurs, learning that not all messages need to be loud and forceful, but can be soothing and gentle and come in the least expected ways, and can be taught and conveyed by the least and lowly.

 

Peter is one of my favorites because he tried so hard, screwed up, and tried some more.  He denied ever knowing his Friend, even swore in his denial, but repented, tried again, and became a leader.  A lesson of perseverance, of never giving up or giving in.

 

The Samaritan Women.

 

Five husbands, living with a sixth.  Traveled a mile or so to a well to get water.  Wondered about that.  Maybe cast out, ignored, shunned.  Seen as evil, a tramp.  Seen as having no ethics, no morals.

 

Yet . . .

 

The Lord stopped to chat with her.  He was thirsty and asked her for a drink of water.  Interesting because Jews didn’t get along with the Samaritans.  The two groups disagreed with one another, didn’t share the same beliefs, didn’t live the same lifestyle, and didn’t have customs in common with each other.

 

Yet . . .

 

The Lord didn’t seem to recognize the differences, the disagreements.  The Lord overlooked the disparity in belief.  The Lord questioned The Samaritan Woman’s husband(s), but didn’t seem to judge her.  And she, in turn, went back to those very people who shunned her, who looked down on her, and invited them to come and listen to a “great prophet.”  And come they did.  And the Lord stayed two days with these people, these very different people.

 

Perhaps there is a lesson for us there, too.  For all of us.

 

Perhaps we need to stop judging and start accepting.  Perhaps we need to seek to understand those who are different from us, who happen to live a different life and lifestyle from us. Perhaps we need to seek the common ground between those who we see as different, who we see as less than, and accept, talk, converse with them.  Perhaps they have something they can share with us, give to us that is beneficial, just as water was given to quench the thirst of The Lord.  And perhaps we have something beneficial to share with them.  Our gifts, our talents, a hand to help, words to guide, and ears to listen.  Something to think about . . .

 

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

Through Their Eyes

Kim and I adopted our son, Wil, from Guatemala in 1993.  His mother placed him up for adoption when he was five and it was a good thing she did, because in Wil’s own words spoken to us much later in his life, “I’d be dead by now.” 

 

In order to survive, to eat, he begged and panhandled.  School?  No way.  Sports or any of the other activities kids enjoy?  Nope.  Wil told us that if he wouldn’t have been adopted, he’d end up in a street gang like a couple of his older brothers and sisters. 

 

There was plenty of poverty and even more abuse.  One of the sad stories he shared with us was that he was afraid to play outside because every now and then the guerillas would come down from the hills, take kids- especially boys- and train them to be guerillas.  He didn’t want that.  I can’t imagine the fear he had, perhaps the lack of hope in his future he faced. 

 

Such a sad thing- the lack of hope.

 

Many years later at a different high school, an organization sponsored kids from Belfast to come to the United States in order to share their story.  Share they did.  Some of the same horrors, the same misery, the same lack of future, the same lack of hope.

 

Within the last week, there have been a series of articles on the children of Syria caught up in the raging civil war in that country.  Beautiful kids, boys and girls, kids of all ages.  Some with dirt smudges on their faces.  Some with bruises.  Some with cuts.  All with the same fear.  The same despair.  The same lack of hope that Wil and the kids from Belfast had.  All of these kids facing the same desperate future . . . if they even had a future, for their future was . . . is . . . a great unknown.

 

Through Their Eyes, no hope, no future.  Only uncertainty, only the question of, “What will happen to me?”  Indeed, what will become of them and the many, many children who come after them?

 

How very sad.

 

How very sad to face a future of the unknown.  How very sad to face a future without hope.

 

There are some who might say, “They need to learn about life, that life is unfair, that life can be hard.”  There might be others who might say, “What can we do?  I am only one man . . . one woman . . . I am struggling myself . . . they are so far away . . . there is nothing I can do.”

 

Perhaps all that is true.  Perhaps.

 

But, perhaps not.

 

Perhaps it might not be possible to help all the kids like Wil, to help the kids from Belfast, to help the kids living in Syria.  True.  I get that.

 

But perhaps we can love those kids whose lives we touch on a daily basis, on a regular basis, who walk into and around our lives, into and out of our lives.  Those kids who sit at our dinner table, who sleep under the same roof, who sit in a desk in front of us.  Those kids who, with eager anticipation, wait for us to read to them, or who climb onto our lap and want to be held.  Those kids who want us to play catch with them, who want us to sit at the end of the pier and fish with them, who want us to walk through the woods with them.  Those kids who want to be heard, who want to be listened to.  Those kids who want . . . and need . . . a hug.

 

Perhaps if we stop to see the world . . . their world . . . Through Their Eyes, we will come to understand what they long for, what they need.  Perhaps if we stop to see the world . . . their world . . . Through Their Eyes, we will come to understand what they fear, what questions they have, what it is they truly cannot comprehend nor understand.

 

And then and only then, if we take the time to see the world . . . their world . . . Through Their Eyes, we can begin to make their lives a better place, a safer place, a more loving place.  For them.  For us.  For all of us.  And Only Through Their Eyes.  Something to think about . . .

 

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!