Category: Legacy

I Saw A Man Today

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I saw a man yesterday.

He stood at a gravestone. In grass, at an angle to the front of the stone. So he could read the epitaph, but did not have to absorb it head on. The pitiless truth of death a glancing blow.


He had a yellow trucker’s cap on. Bright yellow, with mesh around the back. Printing on the cap in cheery white letters. One size fits all.


He had on velcro walking shoes, tan slacks, and a blue windbreaker. It was a warm day. The sun did not reach him.


He stood in mourning. He stood in confusion (he knew WHY he was standing there – I don’t mean that).


I mean THIS: he was confused why he hadn’t gone WITH her.


‘What am I going to do with the rest of the day?’


His handlers stood a respectful distance away; midway between the grave and the sedan. As if he had asked them before to leave him alone with grief.


Sometimes he wants to feel the full dose of sadness. Sometimes others standing close don’t actually help him take the pain. The unalloyed concentration of feeling. The hammered, throbbing thumb before the numbing ice. Keening.


A purity of searing solitude is the only song he can hear.


Who of us knows that pain, or that loss, or that grief? I only know enough to not speak, especially to a man in a yellow cap and tears in the creases of his face.


The tear gets hung up on a few stray whiskers before it tracks off his jaw, down his loosened neck, and into his frayed collar.


Why should he? Wear a new shirt, that is.


He hopes he won’t be around long enough to need a new wardrobe.


And yet…


And yet, he still visits the grave. He puts his hand in his pocket. Resolutely jangles his change. Adjusts his cap. Roughly brushes his nose with a clubbed hand. Allergy season. Not despair.


There is a nobility there. Easier to stay inside. Watch the television (even though there are no good programs on anymore) (And he can’t watch their favorite program, either – she isn’t there to laugh with him).


“Noblesse Oblige” – The art of doing the right thing because people are counting on you to set the standard.  Even when, especially when, it is hard.


He is a member of the royalty of the wounded. The only way in is through suffering. The doorway to the club appeared after his first gallon of tears. It opened after he stopped counting the mornings that he threw half a pot of coffee away. After the creamer (only she drank it) went sour.


Do they sell butter half a stick at a time?


I saw a man yesterday.


I saw a noble man.

Our Son Marries and We Gain A Daughter -A Glorious Weekend.

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Picture a two pieces of driftwood, first in an ocean, then finding land. Together.  Picture two strangers growing into friends… then best friends… then into the love of each other’s life.  Surround those two with freshly-met, new family (for, indeed, EVERYone that shared this is now family) that swells the celebration with a riotous gout of joy, happiness, love, and depth of feeling.

Thus did we, Ken and Angie – the groom’s parents – find ourselves. An idyllic estate outside of Parker, CO, hosted both family and friends for the three-day weekend. Little did we know that, although we knew it would be cool, this would be a time filled with such profound emotion, abiding confidence, and an honored pride in knowing and sharing with all these people.

A lovely invitation that gives little indication of the glory and perfection to come.

Part of The Estate where Ethan and Amanda married each other.

Amanda and Ethan sharing their hopes for the weekend.

Angie and Ken (that’s us) – so proud and moved to be part of Ethan and Amanda’s joy.

Profound and total joy and commitment on their faces. Many of us weep.

Angie, Mark, June, and Ken – the pure privilege and happiness of new family.

Jacob, Cassidy, Ethan recreating a childhood picture pose. Our hearts flood.

The benediction of a sunset on the day.

I’ve never seen a happier mother or a happier groom. Dancing in the evening.

The women of the wedding all showing their team spirit. Three generations filled the party and gave us reason to stop worrying about anything; we’ll be fine. The posing of this picture, in real-time, was hilarious and joyful.

Ethan’s long-time group of friends traveled from all over the country to come and welcome Amanda into the club. What started as a rowdy group of boys playing “Risk” and chess in each other’s basements has grown into the next generation of brilliant people who will look after stuff so we don’t have to.

At the meeting in which Amanda and Ethan shared their hopes for the weekend, we all took a turn naming ourselves and sharing a favorite wedding memory. What, at first, seemed like a logistical job assignment meeting turned into a heartfelt time of generational sharing and blessing and recognition of the unique measure of the weekend. We knew we were gaining a daughter – we didn’t realize how rich the experience would be.

Remember how ‘mithril’ was a gift beyond price? Remember the packed days of summer that Calvin and Hobbes lived through? Remember your excitement at seeing seeds sprout into a perfect garden? Think of the majesty of the sequoias, the untiring determination of a ruby-throated hummingbird, the thundering roar of Niagara Falls, the whisper of a breeze through the your favorite forest. Remind yourself of the smile of grandparents, who love us always and no matter what. Remember the pride of parents when they see a kid find their path. Feel your face crackle with beauty at the rising of the sun, or the perfection of a song, or the rightness of a well-written poem.

All of that.

Ethan and Amanda gave ALL of that to us this weekend.

Shattered By This Story

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Do you count the blessing of every day?  I thought I did, until I came across this story as I casually perused the local violin shop’s website.  In considering selling my viola, I looked up the shop’s website, McHugh’s Violins.  He has a sterling reputation and did some excellent repair work for me a few years ago in preparation for my return to the concert stage (my return was not nearly as dramatic as it sounds).

As I blithely wend my way through my retirement and into my second career as a writer, I consider passing on my wonderful musical instrument, the viola that my parents had gifted me upon graduation from high school.

I spent my years at University of Northern Colorado playing for hours – in chamber groups, in a practice room, in at least 3 different symphonies.  I loved those days.  The gift of serenity through classical music came to me as a 4th grader, playing “Barcarolle”, and continued through all the years I played.  Even though my practice hours were on the low side of the spectrum of music majors at UNC, I did still spend hours in Fraser Hall on that campus.  My wife and I fell in love in those hallways and practice rooms and rehearsals and concert halls.

I recently tried a revival of my career in the viola section, but, due to a series of realizations, the largest of which was I didn’t want to practice the hours I needed in order to excel again, I now count myself as a listener rather than a player.

I have different ambitions and dreams now yet no less hopeful that when I wanted to be an actual viola player in a professional, full-time orchestra.  I am creating a different kind of art but I love that I write best when I run endless classical music through my Bose headphones.

Back to the violin shop.  I got no further than the first sentence on his website (“My sweet wife Susie passed away peacefully on October 18th, 2016”) when I clicked on this link, “Our Journey”, and read his faithful, loving, heartbreaking, shattering account of their loving battle with her cancer.  I can’t imagine.  His and her story stopped time for me as I read from the beginning entry to the final one.  Please, take a few minutes and read.

Another friend of ours has blogged her entire journey through cancer.  The short answer is, in her words, “cancer sucks”, but that friends and family deeply matter.  You can read her journey right here in Michelle’s Blog.

 

I realize that today’s the day.  Make your move; make your memories; make your love known.

Brothel Tokens and Cartography

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The Delano District of Wichita, KS, used to be for cowboys.  Did you know that cowboys weren’t “cowboys” until they crossed into Oklahoma?  They were “drovers” because the men in question didn’t like to be called “boys”.

Cowboys could drive their cattle all the way into Wichita, which meant across the Arkansas River and to the stockyards, but they had to go back to Delano for whoring and drinking.  Cowboys were NOT ALLOWED TO STAY in Wichita because they would cause too much trouble looking for drink and women.  Plus Delano was a separate place.  Now it is merely a historic district of Wichita.

Have a look at the gold coin in the pictures.  That is a”brothel token”.  A real thing that cowboys or drovers used to get upon completion of a cattle drive.  “Good for one dollar in trade in girls, whiskey, or food” is what it says on the front.

In a little under 65 minutes yesterday, I learned an astounding amount of Kansas cattle history at Westlink Library, in Wichita, KS (Wichita Public Library).  Westlink staff had invited Tom Averill from Washburn University and Mary Lou Rivers from the Chisholm Trail 150th Anniversary Celebration (Chisholm Trail 150th) to come speak to a select few readers who had an hour (plus 5 minutes) to spare.

We had all agreed to read this book.  I happened to see it in a stack by the librarian’s elbow a few weeks ago and asked if I could attend the book talk.  As is their wont, the library happily said yes and set me up as an attendee.  Free.  No charge to come hear living history.

The book centers around an ‘eastern’ Kansan, Leo, who goes out west (near Hays) to teach and both get away from bad decisions back east and start over in the west.  He meets up with a cowboy/rancher and another, older cowboy who have always worked cattle and the land.  The ‘executive summary’ of the book is (and there will NOT be a test) that Leo learns enough to be a cowboy and help drive cattle all the way into Kansas City to the Stockyards back in the 1970’s.  Nice little story, right?

It was only after the expert treatment and discussion from the Washburn professor that I realized how deep the comparisons to life’s complexities the story ran.  As we discussed characters, archetypes, foreboding, and allegory I realized how many books carried similar themes in them.   I thought of Cold Mountain, Lord of the Flies, Lonesome Dove, and the movies City Slickers and The Graduate.  Those of you who teach will already know this.  Those of you who read will have already seen this.  Even though I read quite a bit, the profound truths that we polished took me by surprise during those 65 minutes.  I left the library grateful for the discovery of a vital geographical landmark in my personal map of understanding.

I’ll explain.

As I write, read, interact, absorb, understand, and share with my world (that is, the people I come in contact with), I see myself standing on a particular spot of earth.  Sometimes it is a ridge, sometimes a valley, sometimes a shore, sometimes a cave.  My clearest understanding places are the ridges and peaks of the map – I have a fairly good understanding and can explain lucidly what the situation is.  Air Traffic Control is one of those – I mostly “get it”, and can talk a person through the basic systems.  20th century fiction is another; I’m conversant in a lot of what has been written in the last 70 years.  The valleys, shores, caves are topics in which I have little understanding or data of background to help me out.  The whole refugee situation, for instance, feels like a shore for me.  I know there is a huge problem, but I have little empirical, experienced data to make super decisions with, other than to say ‘we ought to be helping find a solution’.  Clear as mud? OK, on we go.

The joy of adding landmarks to my personal cartography made that book session a gift.  I simply grinned at each person who added a story yesterday.  One of the ladies had a relative (he was a ‘several greats’ relative) who actually remembered how the cattle drive went and how much the pay was – passed down so she knew it.  Another expert marveled at how many people said the Chisholm Trail passed across their land.  She described how the trail moved around a lot – the dry seasons it had to follow water more closely; the wet seasons it had to stay higher to avoid soggy ground.  One point of discussion was how NYC people thought the entire state of Kansas was full of hicks and cowboys, but to cowboys you didn’t have to go farther than Kansas City to find city people (and yes, several of us DID say ‘everything’s up to date in Kansas City’).

Angie and I stopped in The Monarch, which is in Delano (where the cowboys could go, remember?), the other evening to cap off the work week.  The corner signpost, out the window, had a sign that said “The Chisholm Trail”.  We sat in the literal place where the cowboys came to recover from the long drives they’d just finished.

Discovery.  We are built for it.  We often stumble on it.  I certainly do…  it’s like opening the ‘junk drawer’ and realizing it is full of priceless memories.

I’ve got no real idea where we are headed, and I have precious few answers about what is going on today, but it sure is nice to look back over the ground we’ve covered.

Get to the ridge, set your load down, take a deep breath, and look around a little.  Let us know what you see.

Oysters, Potatoes, and Candles

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I find myself remembering, with great fondness, Mom and Dad’s tradition of potato soup and oyster stew on Christmas Eve.  We did this as early as I can remember; always after we got back from church.

The Christmas Eve service is the one where you can play with fire, even if you are a little kid.  Because you ‘Pass the Peace of Christ’, you see.  Each person gets a candle upon entering the sanctuary, which, at the end of the service, you tip towards the lighted candle to light your own wick.  It is very important NOT to tip the LIGHTED candle.  The person with the lighted candle holds the flame straight up, and the ‘new candle’ tips toward the flame.  I loved this candle business because this was before the days of Boy Scouts where we were SUPPOSED to (reSPONSibly) play with fire.  The wax that managed to drip onto my fingers, through the paper candle holder, was merely a bonus to peel off and inspect for fingerprints.

With the heady responsibility of fire stewardship successfully carried out for another year, we returned to our warm home with the promise of two different kinds of soup.   Oyster crackers, all we could eat, made an appearance with Christmas Eve soup, too.  Take a moment and remember dropping those round crackers into soup; then slowly dunking them for a swim.  Although a simple meal, I now realize that potato soup takes quite a bit of work.  Fresh potatoes, peeled and cut into pieces, are not instantly ready.

Oyster stew, even with canned oysters, also takes a lot of preparation.  I dearly hope that I said ‘thank you’ to my mom for always having this traditional meal ready soon after our return from church.  I have only eaten oyster stew on Christmas Eve at my parent’s house in the middle of Nebraska.  I truly love the memory of this meal.  I imagine it is made other places in the world, but I have not tried it.

Imagine for a moment, having the luxury of choice.  Which pot will you fill your bowl with first?

Also, we got to open ONE present on Christmas Eve.  Only one – so the torment of choice dominated my very being, WHICH ONE FOR NOW??? What if I missed the best one?  Or more dire, what if I OPENED the best one on Christmas Eve – what would I do in the morning with no ‘good’ presents left??  Of course, it never came to that.  And we never got “bad” presents.  My over-active imagination at work, I guess.  I still have a ‘delayed gratification’ mentality about many things, gift-opening specifically.  If there was a way to NEVER open a gift, but still enjoy the feeling of having it to open, I would bottle that and sell it.

Gifts, of course, are for giving and opening, not for hoarding.

I do hope, this Eve, that you have a gift.  I hope you have a warm home to share.  I hope you have food to share.  I hope that your traditions are still alive, and that you have loved ones to whom you can pass these traditions.  Now that I am older, I realize how vital the message of Christmas Eve is; Jesus, on His way to save us from ourselves.

I wish blessings on you, your family, your tribe, and your efforts to bring light, peace, life, and love to this world.

Strained, Yet Not Broken

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Politicians – take the day off.  Now more than ever we need our creative genius to make sense of this.  We need painters, writers, musicians, dancers, storytellers – all artists to step forward.  Show us what we’ve done.  Tell us a story about who we are.    Court Musicians, sing us a song that binds us together and reminds us why we live next to each other.  Put a smile on our faces, give us a reason to hold another’s hand, show us how to stand tall.

This piece of music was written upon our entrance into the 2nd World War, and in homage to us, the little people.

Fanfare for the Common Man – Copland

“This was not judgement day – only morning.  Morning, excellent and fair.” William Styron, in Sophie’s Choice, a novel of the Holocaust.

This last line of the novel, as well as the last line of the movie, is spoken by Stingo, the young Southern gentleman in love with Sophie.  He had just found Sophie, the Polish immigrant, and Nathan, the Jewish manic-depressive, dead together in suicide.  And while it may have been “only morning” for the Southerner, I must point out that the other two characters in the story, an immigrant and a mental patient, did not feel safe enough to face another dawn.  THOSE two are who I want to feel safe.  We CAN do that.  WE can.  We must move forward, put down the dictionary of politics, and pick up the book that describes ‘loving others’.

We, the safe, MUST extend that safety to those in this country who are in fear today and in the coming days.   I am, through no fault of my own, one of the demographic that is least threatened by this win.  But, because I claim everyone as “my people”, MY PEOPLE need defending today.  I plead with you to rally as one group and support the Republic.  Everybody join in the circle.  Don’t cheer and don’t boo; just re-form.  Re-form so we all have a place in the circle.

It may very well be that we will only see the ‘benevolent dictator’, the ‘enlightened despot’, now that there is no longer a competition.  My hope is that the ‘king’ continues to live by our constitution rather than the whims that are so common with historical royalty. Larger than that, my hope is that we continue to value each other.  As family.

If there is a way to fix the budget, improve the trade deals, rebuild the infrastructure -WITHOUT DAMAGING people or their spirits – then I want that.  People are always more essential than things.  Lives are always more important than the checkbook.  Love is the biggest key to unity.

And a humble note of caution to my Jesus-believing friends, we have a LOT of loving to do and a LOT of judgmental gloating to stop.  Our days as servants should begin and end with grace.  There’s little need for judgment or pride or preening as a result of this election.  There is a massive need for grace, love, hope, inclusion.

My hope is that we see graciousness from every 2nd person in this country; that is, everyone who claims victory today.  That is ONE out of every TWO of us.  The OTHER of that two calls this a despairing defeat.   I also note that many who count themselves losers in this election are not ready to trust or rally or work together or believe.  That’s OK; please take the time you need.   (There will be plenty of time for political analysis – turn that off for now.)  I trust that ‘the collective we’ will hold the circle open for you.  Could we please wear our hearts on our sleeves and could we all honor that vulnerability?   Leave the next few days to hearts, minds, spirits.  Honor the tears you see on people’s faces, for that is the sign of sincerity in an age of freedom.

“We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection.” Abraham Lincoln, in his First Inaugural Address.

“We owe him an open mind and a chance to lead.” – Hillary Clinton, in her concession speech.

“We go forward with the presumption of good faith.  Now, we are all rooting for his success.”  President Obama, in remarks about the election.

“Now it’s time for America to bind the wounds of division; have to get together.   I pledge to every citizen of our land that I will be president for all Americans, and this is so important to me.” President-elect Trump, in his victory speech.

A word of thanks to all the Veterans who made this free election possible.  All of them have defended and will continue to defend your and my right to speak our mind and vote our conscience.  Thank you.  I have every confidence that every soldier in a uniform of the USA will defend each and every one of us.  Every single one.  Thank you.

You and I have assurances to speak – to our children, our neighbors, our detractors.  You and I have Americans to stand with – minorities, LGBTQ’s, those of other faiths, those of no faith, the poor, the rich, the well, the sick.

This is not rocket science.  At the end of the day, we stand together.

 

Sharpened Pencils, Or, Our REAL teacher would never let us do that

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Since I have retired from my career in air traffic control for the FAA, I have started working as a substitute teacher.  Only part time, and only when I feel like it.  It isn’t my calling, but I truly enjoy it; kids are funny and amazing and heartbreaking and encouraging all at the same time.  One of the reasons I have so little worry about the future of our great nation is because I get to see these kids turn into the next generation of success.  Don’t bother me with “new” math or “teaching to the test” or “not enough money”for schools.  Those are all very real problems.  But I just watched a little kid who can’t tie his shoes log into a school’s website to complete homework and take a test.  The password wasn’t “password”, either.  Each kid has a unique ID and a different password for each device they are tasked to log into.  None of these kids had their passwords written on a sticky note, either.  Raise your hand if your passwords are all written down.  Yeah, me too.

Whenever I fill in for a teacher, a REAL teacher, I tell the class I only have two rules.  

  1. No tears
  2. No bloodshed

It’s usually pretty funny and lets them all drop their defenses because they know the “sub” is cool and won’t give them a hard time.  I tend to add a caveat about cell phones in the high school classes (“don’t make them a distraction and we will all pretend that you’ve left them put away the whole period”), which usually works.

I taught in an elementary school the other day.  The movie during the lunch period was “Monsters University”.  I hadn’t seen that before, but the 12 minutes I saw were great.  (Teachers get TWO pieces of pizza if you want, by the way). Pencils only get sharpened at the beginning of the day or at the end of the day.  But, as a substitute, I didn’t hear that rule until they ALL had to sharpen pencils in the MIDDLE of the day.  Big no-no, apparently.

Justice.  That makes sense to these kids.  If HE gets to sharpen his pencil (and how could I say no? His pencil clearly needed sharpening.  How can he learn letters if his pencil point is broken off?), then I should get to sharpen my pencil, too.  And so on, until everyone got a pencil sharpened.  My lyrical and cogent lecture on the critical reasons we must learn cursive may have gotten a bit diluted, shall we say, by the intermittent noise of the sharpener, but hey.  There is a price for excellence.

A few vignettes:  (I will change all the student names because they don’t need to be in the news just yet.)  Jacob poked approximately 60 holes in Daniel’s paper.  Daniel didn’t like that.  “Jacob, why did you poke holes in Daniel’s paper?”  “I don’t know.”  “Do you think you can apologize for that?”  “Sorry.”  “Can you say a whole sentence to apologize?”  “I am sorry.” (technically, a complete sentence.  But, then again, so is “Sorry.”)  “Can you say, ‘I am sorry for poking holes in your paper?'”  “I am sorry for poking holes in your paper.”  “Daniel, can you say thank you for apologizing?” “Thanks.”  I say, “Can we move forward now?”  They both nod in the affirmative.

Taten dropped the desktop on Kaitlyn’s fingers (did not know this yet).  Kaitlyn was crying (one of my 2 very simple rules!) “Kaitlyn, why are you crying?”  “Taten smashed my fingers in the desk,” she said with a hitch in her voice.  “Taten, did you do that?”  “Yes.”  “Why did you do that, Taten?”  “I don’t know.”  “Can you apologize for that?”  “Sorry.”  “Can you say a whole sentence for that?”  “I am sorry.”  Can you say, ‘I am sorry for slamming your fingers in the desk?'”  “I am sorry for slamming your fingers in the desk.”  “Kaitlyn, can you say thank you or ok to that?”  “It’s ok,” said Kaitlyn, tears gently beading down her cheeks.

Discipline is handled with clothespins.  Everyone starts at green (I think) and clips UP for being a good helper or example and clips DOWN for doing something against the rules.  Simple.  Except (and this is why so many of these kids will be good at debate or the legal profession) when one of them sees another doing something bad.  “Johnny took a drink out of someone else’s water bottle, can I move his clip down?”  “No, I don’t think you should move it because I didn’t see him do it.”  “Well, he did it.”  “Johnny, did you drink out of someone else’s water bottle?”  “No.”  “Missy says she saw you do that.  Are you telling me the truth?  Because lying about it is worse than actually drinking out of someone else’s bottle.”  I can see him gauging his response.  “Yes, I did drink out of the bottle.”  “Why did you drink out of that bottle?”  “I was thirsty.”  “Why didn’t you just ask to go get a drink?”  “I don’t know.”  “Do you think your teacher would have you clip down if you did that?”  “Probably.”  “OK, then you better clip down one.”

And, all of a sudden, I am judge and jury over a very kind-hearted, loving, energetic elementary student.  What if this is the start of a long string of crime and misbehavior?  What if he ends up in “Juvie” because I made him clip down for that behavior?  What if he moves out of his house and lives under a bridge when he’s older because of me? What if the teacher returns the next day and sees he has clipped down, asks him about it, and then he is in trouble forever because he didn’t behave for the sub???  It’s a lot of pressure – especially for a peacemaker/golden retriever like me.

All of this happened before 11 am.  I’d been there less than 3 hours.  I had 5 to go.  I was exhausted.

These students know these rules inside and out.  Occasionally, I will take time to have students explain to me what, exactly, the rules are.  We always raise our hand to speak, by the way.  A rule which I LOVE, and one that I can enforce with little worry of future criminal record.  Also, we take questions in the order that the hands went up.  Ocassionally I resort to ‘whoever is the quietest person sitting at their desk’.  (Except that has danger, too, because so MANY immediately get quiet so they can get called on and then are crestfallen when I don’t call on them and am I being fair and have I called on an equal number of boys and girls and have I ignored anyone and is the teacher’s pet getting away with something always having me call on her?)  Unless it is a bathroom emergency.  Then that student gets relief from the court.  (I know you see what I said there.)  

Clip ups lead to stamps on a card at the end of the day.  Purple means two stamps and blue means just one stamp.  The card is like a “frequent coffee” card.  You know, 10 stamps and then you get to pick a prize (at least I think that is the reward) from the teacher’s stash.  “No, you can’t pick a prize today because I don’t know where she keeps the prizes and she didn’t leave me a note about that.”  Crestfallen.  A grim acceptance of a darkened world because their normal teacher isn’t here.

A word about popsicle sticks.  Each student has one.  This is true for almost every elementary class I’ve taught.  Usually the sticks have a number corresponding to the student.  You’ve got to look at the name tag taped to their desk to find out which number stands for which student.  Sometimes you use the popsicle sticks to pick what lunch you want that day (lunch menu located on the school website; have a student help you find that web page).  Sometimes we use the sticks for the order in which we line up to go to lunch.  Or gym (actually, “PE”, not “gym”) (I’m not sure why we don’t call it “gym” anymore).  Or recess.

Encore recess is in the afternoon.  It is a privilege and not a right.  If you have school work left to do, you need to stay in during “Encore” and finish that work.  If you’ve clipped down, you have to walk a lap for each level you clipped down.  At which point, you must tell the teacher how you will do better in the future. “I promise I won’t poke holes in anyone’s paper because I know it’s wrong”.   My role is to look somber and encouraging and thank them for saying that, “Now go have a good time for the rest of recess”.  They scamper off.

One last funny thing – we take “restroom”breaks.  On the way to and from recess, music, or gym (sorry, PE) we stop at the toilets/sinks/water fountains.  A fantastic plan; everyone deserves physical comfort.  What’s FUNNY about it is the kids who go straight to the “after you are done, line up here” spot.  “You don’t need to go to the bathroom?”  Snickers ensue.  “What?”  “Use the RESTROOM, not the BATHROOM!”  “Oh, OK.  None of you needs to use the restroom?”  “No.”  And, those of you who have seen this know what’s coming when we all get back to the classroom…

“Teacher, can I go to the restroom/ get a drink?”  “Of course, will you come right back?”  “Yes.”  And off they go.  I smile.  They’ve got the system down.

Please hear me well now.  The reason I love spending time as a substitute teacher is because I see EVERY DAY the resilience of the human spirit.  I see these kids EVERY DAY work through difficult scholastic problems.  I see them negotiate with their friends and with their small group partners and with their teachers how to solve each and every problem they face.

They are SO persistent in their pursuit of understanding, knowledge, teamwork.  I cannot praise the REAL teachers enough about how successful they are in LOVING these students.  These students have bought in to their education because these fantastic teachers CARE and LOVE and EXPECT and AFFIRM.  Social contracts, written between teachers and classmates in order to lay ground rules, are all over the place.  And they WORK.  Bravo to the minds and hearts who instituted this.

Daniel and Jacob had a disagreement.  Now they don’t.  It is over and they move forward together.  Kaitlyn and Taten had a disagreement.  Now they don’t.  It is over.  Missy and Johnny had a disagreement.  It is over.

No grudges.  Just teammates.

We are going to be just fine.

Faith of A Child – My Faith

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Upon hearing the opening strains of “Jesus Christ Superstar” the other day, I realized my theology, my very understanding, of Jesus began here. My parents took us to this movie when it premiered in 1973 – at least that is when it made it to Hastings, NE, anyway.  I believe they knew what a groundswell this rock opera would bring.  I think their vision about the truly important and formative for us kids remained (remains to this day) at the forefront of their thinking.

Many images from the film float through my consciousness to this day; from the VW van that the cast drove into the desert with, unloading to begin the movie; the high priests rattling the scaffolding that represented the Temple during the song, “He’s Dangerous”; the lepers desperation to be touched and touch Jesus as he walked through their colony.

Most of this music turned into the subconscious loam that fertilizes my spirit.

Not under my control, and by that I mean, I didn’t mean to make that part of my spirituality.  It simply became part of what makes sense to me about the world.  And perhaps that is the very definition of “not my will, but thine”.  Probably not, if I were to ask a theologian to help me parse this through, but I take comfort in God’s hand on my life anyway.

The edgy electric guitar and rock feel of the Overture and the opening number or two set this music apart from what I was used to hearing.  I remember listening to lots of classical music – orchestral and choral, some John Denver, some Neil Diamond.   Handel’s “Messiah” – another of the single most definitive and formative musical pieces of my spiritual bedrock.  I don’t remember listening to any other “rock” than this ‘rock opera’ from Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice.

I understand the vanity of the apostles – “so we’ll all be remembered when we are gone.”  I understand the frustration of Jesus – “tried for 3 years, it seems like 30” (and, later, “it seems like 90”).  I understand the devotion AND the adoration of Mary Magdalene – “I don’t know how to love him”, and “I love Him so”.  Her heartbroken lament – “could we start again, please” along with Simon Peter’s “I think we get the point now”, dragged me to the foot of the cross, bereft along with them.

“I don’t want this cup of poison” is how Jesus starts his time of prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane, until he finally yields to God.  His dearest friend, Judas – “must you betray me with a kiss?”.  How few of us have NOT felt that betrayal by someone dear to us?  And that is GOOD, because Jesus modeled a response to that way before we had to go through it.

One of the very few things I am good at spiritually is that I continually have to start over.  Apologize, repent, explain, retreat; but always start again at the feet of Jesus.  Renewing my faith in humanity (especially today in our challenging world!!) is always easier with this ‘soundtrack’ running through my audio port.

We, in Wichita, are truly lucky, fortunate, blessed, to have the opportunity to see this live on stage – Music Theatre Wichita told this story in a way that surely rivals any production in any famous district anywhere in the world.  Thank you to the many at MTW who put their hearts and effort into the production.

“Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast” – William Congreve, 17th Century playwright.

If only I can continually play music through my soul, “everything’s all right, yes, everything’s fine.”

Mighty Hearts at Goddard High School

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More on the subject of experts – this time I am thinking of legends in high school.  Goddard High School, KS,  specifically.

I watched a wrestling tournament this past weekend.  I found myself watching the coach more than I watched the wrestlers themselves.  Of course, the wrestlers were in fantastic shape; low body fat, good muscle tone, anaerobic machines with lungs like a blacksmith’s bellows.  Three 2-minute rounds, unless there was a tie.  Then a 4th round.  If still tied, a 30-second round to decide it.  It quickly became clear why this team was a dynasty.

As each match progressed, the coach watched intently.  Each time his wrestler had a moment of space to hear direction, the coach would shout a command.  The command was often a short phrase or even a single word.  The wrestler, even as busy and winded as he was, would indicate with a flick of finger or a nod of his head that he heard and understood the coach.  That obedience, and comprehension, under pressure indicates how completely successful that coach is with his athletes.  Only the best athletes can be coached within a competition, and only the best coaches continue to be listened to.  I never saw that coach STOP coaching.  He never ran out of ideas or commands.  He never gave up on his wrestler.

That team lost very few matches that day.  Although I didn’t stay for the entire competition, his team clearly was superior to the other 4 or 5 teams.  A dynasty continues there and indications are strong for a powerful showing at the state level.

I also hear that the choral director from Goddard High is retiring.  A dynasty, indeed, in that program, too.  We have had the honor of watching and enjoying this director for the last 11 years while our three children went through high school.  She consistently trains individuals, small ensembles, and large groups to excel in local, regional, statewide, and national performances and competitions. 

“Music soothes the savage beast” – merely listening to her choral groups perform over the years has borne the truth of that statement out.  Beautiful music, sung poorly, does not satisfy.  Poor music, sung without intention and investment, does not satisfy.  Fortunately, for this beast (the author), poor music and poor performances simply do not occur with these groups.

This director has always chosen well-written music, and, further, has coached her singers to pour their hearts into their voices.  Somehow she convinces high school students, year after year, to set aside their egos, worries, relationship drama, cellphones, and jobs.  She convinces them to show their love for each other through the harmony of song.  How does a parent NOT weep at the beauty?

Recently, I have had the luxury of time.  Time to reflect on what I see.  Time to appreciate people who strive for excellence.  Time to glory at lives changed by the love of a person investing in another. 

We run and run and run to keep up with our list of demands, tasks, chores, hopes, dreams.  ALL of it matters.  ALL of it. 

But I say it matters most to those who are otherwise discarded, cast away, given up on – those who are saved by a mighty heart.  A willingness, by this coach and this director, to examine each soul that walks into the frame.

A mighty heart of unbending willpower – determined to save them all.

Air Traffic – Signing Off

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Being an air traffic controller is about being bossy. Being assertive (way more professional than bossy) BEFORE the pilots realize they could use help avoiding each other. Out of every 8 hour workday (around 6,325 of them) I spent behind a microphone, I figure there were 30 minutes that I truly needed to be there to help airplanes fly past each other without incident.  Most of the time is typical and routine.  “Cleared for takeoff”, “Cleared to land”, “Cleared Visual Approach, contact tower 118.2”, “Cleared direct Kansas City, contact Kansas City 120.2”.  That one time, though?  A misheard directive, an UNheard direction, two captains answering the same instruction – THEN is when a controller must listen, straighten, save the day, smooth over, confirm instructions, wish them well and send them on their way.

 

I should have reviewed the tape to find out whether the Lear jet pilot read back his hold short instructions that day when United departed runway 32, rotated early to avoid what the pilot thought was a ‘taxiing-too-quickly’ Learjet, and called Fort Worth HQ about the incident.  The controllers on duty saved the day – they saw it happening and firmly instructed the Lear jet to stop his taxi immediately.  Kept it from being worse than just an eye-opener.  I  remember the P-51 that didn’t have his gear down in Santa Maria, CA.  I told the Local Controller to tell him about his gear.  The pilot leveled off at about 50 feet, put the gear down, and landed about 400 feet farther down the runway.  That saved a WWII war bird from the junk pile.

 

People often talk about the many thousands of lives we have kept safe over a career of air traffic.  It rarely occurs to me while working how many people are on those airplanes that I am directing.  It is certainly more serious than a video game, but way less serious than what I imagine a doctor would feel in the ER.  There isn’t blood spurting everywhere that I have to personally stop with a clamp on the correct artery, for instance.  I do, however, remember the pit in my stomach from situations gone wrong.  The beginnings of the pit when the Cessna departed runway 19L to turn west and the T-38 off runway 19R was catching him. To the Cessna – “don’t climb anymore and level off on your current heading; A T-38 will pass above you from your right”. To the T-38 – “there is a Cessna off your left that will stay low so you can pass above him”.  It turned out fine, but they deserved a better plan from me.  Watching the Malibu at Oshkosh turn base to final and fall out of the sky sideways on his wing.  The fireball from the wing that broke off.  Not seeing any passengers get out of the airplane.  Later learning that they all got out, but that their faces were “full of profound fear and grief”.  Answering the phone the morning after Valentine’s Day a long time ago when the grown daughter of the C152 pilot called to find out if it was her dad on the plane. That plane had crashed the night before.  When America West said “that was close; I could see his smile”. And I had no idea what he was talking about.  Turns out a flight of two Citation tests had gotten separated, the second one saw the glint of an aircraft and turned towards it.  It wasn’t his wing man, it was a B737 on its way to Wichita.

[Author’s note added 2/17/16. to read more of my time at Oshkosh Airventure as a controller, click here: My Oshkosh Blog]

I believe that I was more often part of the solution than part of the problem.  More part of what WORKS in the federal government, rather than the type of government we all complain about.  I believe we all work towards that reality.  I believe the great majority of air traffic controllers take a fierce pride in providing “top shelf” control instructions in the safest airspace in the world.

 

I now have this single day of work left.  I already feel the true blessing that comes from completing a job.  I embrace the magnitude – the sheer atomic weight – of meeting, learning from, mentoring, working with, counting so many people as family in my 25 years and 7 months.   The roots of this mighty oak that is air traffic have taken hold in my bones.  And, though I will indeed make my last transmission tomorrow, I will never truly quit analyzing each airplane I see in order to discern its reason for flight.  My tribe will be in charge, and I will look skyward knowing that.

 

I leave you, you controllers still working, with these words:  Purpose your energy to the good of our customers.  Push yourself to a vigilant and conscientious awareness.  Stand and take notice – there will come a flight that doesn’t look right.  THAT is your opportunity to save a life.  It may only happen once.  It may be glaringly obvious – as in when an airplane actually declares an emergency because the flight crew KNOWS something is wrong.  It may sneak up on you; a student pilot wanders off its line and into the flight path of some other student pilot – and before you know it, they are at your attention’s mercy.  Be equal to the task – you must be.

 

I step aside in humility.  My heart is filled with grace and pride at the task, now faithfully completed.  Controllers: thank you in advance for continuing the work – I trust you.  Passengers: you may climb aboard your flight with peace – my people will guide you home.