The Anchor Can Drown

I had a teacher stop in to see me at least twice a week with a coffee cup in his hand and a story, usually a joke, to tell.  He did this for the six years I’ve been a principal at this school.  The laughter was good, and the company was even better.  His visits didn’t take long.  Only a minute or two, maybe three.  I looked forward to his visits.

One day, he came in with the cup of coffee, but without the story or joke, and told me he was retiring.  Sad for me.  Very sad for me.  He was looking forward to his “new chapter in life” as he phrased it.  He gets to spend more time with his grandchild.  He gets to do parish work in a ministry he enjoys.  Maybe sleep in more often.  Maybe go to bed a little later.

He observed that as a principal, there are very few people around me that I can call “a friend.”  That there are very few people around me that I can confide in.  And it isn’t me, actually, but the title I hold and the “natural reservation” and “distance” I have to have.  He said he never understood or recognized it until he had a conversation with a pastor friend who expressed the sentiment.

In a word, lonely.  Sometimes, kind of lonely.

I was reminded of this conversation by two postings I saw on Facebook.  (Yeah, I know!)

One picture was of an anchor being sucked into mud.  The caption read: “Sometimes you don’t realize you’re actually drowning when you’re trying to be everyone else’s anchor.”

Hmmm . . .

The other picture was of a lion, proud and strong looking, head titled up slightly as if gazing at the horizon.  The caption read: “The worst part about being strong is that no one asks if you’re okay.”

Hmmm . . .

Been like that.  Felt like that.  Seen it in myself.  Seen it in others.  Those who are near to me, dear to me, and in those who I casually observe from a distance.

I know at least three individuals who come to work every day, work with the kids in my school and who do incredible things with them, and yet, who are either battling their own illness or worrying about a family member’s illness.  They place themselves and their own needs behind the needs of others.  They epitomize the statement that “kids come first!”  That statement and sentiment of “others before self!”

I believe most of us suffer silently, often while we try to help those around us.  We wear a brave face.  We smile.  We ask others, “How are you doing?”  “Are you okay?”  And we do this with little thought to our own struggle, our own worry, sometimes our own pain.

And like the anchor, we risk drowning.  And like the lion, because of the strength we show, no one asks if we’re okay.

We don’t know the day to day, moment to moment struggle, the worry that is carried by those around us.  Sometimes we take for granted the laugh, the joke, the witty comment and assume that all is well.  When like the anchor, there is the risk of drowning.  And like the lion, there might be pain and sorrow and struggle behind the apparent strength. 

Maybe we need to be more aware of those around us, outside of ourselves, and wonder- even out loud- if all is well, if all is okay.  Maybe a kind word, a kind gesture, a knowing nod or smile might be enough to help lift the anchor out of the mud and keep it . . . him . . . her . . . from drowning.  Maybe just an offer of a silent presence might be enough for the lion among us.  Maybe.  Perhaps.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

The Epitaph

As someone who has always been interested in ancestry and history, every now and then I might wander around older cemeteries reading gravestones. It’s not uncommon to find inscriptions such as, “Beloved Husband and Father” or “Beloved Daughter, Taken Too Soon” or something sentimental such as, “Loved In This Life And In The Next.”  I’ve wondered how these individuals earned these inscriptions or if they were just ascribed to them by a caring survivor.

My wife, Kim, and I watched an episode of “Raymond” where Raymond and his brother, Robert, were sitting in the front seat of a car arguing about who was “going to get mom.”  And it wasn’t so much as to who was going to “get” her, but who was going to end up “taking care” of her.  Because their mother was overbearing, a meddler, and rather outspoken, neither wanted her and Raymond and Robert went to great lengths to convince the other why the other should be the one to take care of her.

Sitting around our dinner table one evening, Kim, Hannah, Emily and I were talking about the future.  Hannah wants to stay either in Virginia or on the West Coast.  Emily would just as soon head back to Wisconsin because she doesn’t mind the snow and cold and wants to be around family.  Kim and I want to be warm.  We would joke with them about marrying someone rich or getting a nice job so that they can take care of us when we get older.  They announced to us that if something should happen to Kim and if I was left, Emily would “get” me.  Wil and Hannah had already decided that.

“Get” me.  I know it was meant as a joke, but  . . .

“Get” me.

Got me thinking . . .

I know I love our kids dearly.  Each one is unique and special in his or her way to me, to us.  I’d written in an earlier post that I would gladly give them the sun, the moon, and the stars if I could.  I really mean that.  And, I know they love me.  As a parent, sometimes there are uncomfortable conversations and sometimes uncomfortable consequences for decisions, words or actions that all parents and their kids face.  I get that.  And deep down, they get that.

But “Get” me?

I have to admit that the “joke” stung some.  Sort of like a pebble in one’s shoe as one tries to walk a great distance.  Am I a “pebble” in their shoes?  A stone?  A boulder?

Makes me look closely at what I say and do.  Makes me look closely at my intentions, my actions, my reactions, my purposes. 

“Get” me?

Makes me look at my relationship with each of them . . . with others . . . with Kim . . . with myself.  I know I’m not, nor will I ever be, perfect.  A long, long way from that.  So very far from that.  I have a better shot at winning a marathon or becoming the next Pope. 

“Get” me?

Makes me reflect on my life as a parent . . . a husband . . . a teacher . . . a coach . . . a counselor

 . . . a principal.  Not perfect by any stretch of any imagination.  A long, long way from perfect.

But . . .

I know I can . . . and will . . . do better.  Each day, I can . . . and will . . . make the effort for them, for others, for myself to improve upon what I did the day before.  Will I fall short?  Sure.  Will I come close at thinking, at doing a bit better each day?  Sure.  I’d rather not be someone . . . or something . . . to be “gotten.”  Rather, I’d like to be “wanted.”  Because whatever is written as my Epitaph, I’d like it said that “While He Wasn’t Perfect, He Cared and He Loved, and We Cared and Loved Him.”  I want that to be my Epitaph.  That’s how I’d like to be remembered.  I want a life like that.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

Mornings (edited and reposted)

Morning is my favorite time of day.  I like the peace, the solitude, the quiet.  There is no noise except a car passing on the street, the furnace turning on or off. 

I observe the Indigo of night give way to the gray of morning and then later, to the pale pastel of blue and pink.  My wife is typically out running her six miles or swimming her forty-five minutes.  My daughter is still sleeping.

Most times, I lie in bed and think, meditate.  I might read.  I might think about the book I’m writing, the characters within and what they’ll be doing the next time I turn on my computer.  Sometimes I step over to one of the windows in our bedroom and look out at the woods behind our house.  If I’m lucky, I see a deer grazing on the tall grass.  At other times, I see the rabbit that made our yard a home. 

On some mornings, snowflakes float in the air and land peacefully and softly on our deck and lawn.  Not necessarily heavy or thick or wet, but light and fluffy.  Or there is a gentle rain providing nourishment to life around us . . . to us.  Sometimes the snow or rain stops as suddenly as it starts, gray clouds giving away to blue sky and sunshine.

Aren’t mornings an opportunity for a fresh start and a new beginning?  Aren’t mornings the opportunity for the ultimate do-over?

You get to look back on what you did yesterday and improve upon it.  You get to undo the things you did, the things you said.  You get to fix the things you didn’t do or say but should have, and correct them. 

A new day brings about a new beginning, a new hope.  You’re not locked into yesterdays, or where you’ve been before, or the things you said or did the previous day.  A morning gives us a chance to course-correct, to get back on the right path.  And the really wonderful thing about mornings is that they keep coming.  There seems to be an endless supply of mornings, years of them actually.

Perhaps we need to take advantage of this gift: to change, to course-correct, to do over, and make anew.  To rectify.  It’s your choice, really.  A choice you get to make each and every morning.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

Afraid Of The Dark

Ever find yourself suddenly awake, but not too much so, and you can’t remember where you are?  On a trip somewhere and at a relative’s house or a hotel when you wake up and a brief feeling of panic sets in until you orient yourself as to where you are?

Ever Afraid Of The Dark?

Tuck your head under the covers to get away, to hide from some unknown monster, real or imagined, lurking over you, hot breath on your neck, your cheek?  Perhaps keeping the door open just a bit to keep you aware and connected to others in other parts of the house?  Perhaps a nightlight, safe and friendly, to reassure you that all is well, to help you find your way should you wake up in the dark?

Todd was a student of mine many, many years ago.  Tough life.  A life he never spoke to others about.  Well, at least not too many others.  A ninth grader.  Oldest of three, with a younger brother and an even younger sister.  Lived in an apartment with his parents.  Didn’t have much, but didn’t complain.  Never heard him complain.  Never.

Todd always kept his door open with a nightlight on in the hallway.  Always.  All of the time he was in high school.

Todd wasn’t Afraid Of The Dark.  At least, not for himself.  Mostly, he was afraid for his younger brother and sister.  Afraid for them.

Most nights, especially on weekends, Todd’s father would come home drunk, usually late at night, and find some reason to beat up his wife, Todd’s mother.  She would distract him, while Todd would scramble to his brother’s and sister’s rooms, gather them up, and together, they would hide under one of the beds.  Todd would hold them, whisper to them, protect them. The youngest might fall asleep.  Perhaps the younger brother.  But not Todd.  Not until all was safe.  Not until Todd was sure his brother and sister were safe.  Because after his father tired of his mother, he would seek out Todd or Todd’s brother or sister.

Afraid Of The Dark.

Who knows what might linger in the dark for us . . . for others.  Who knows what monster might be out there waiting, lurking with hot breath on our neck, our cheek.  Who knows how many sleepless nights there are for those around us.  Worries of bills piling up and not enough money to pay them off.  Worries about a college-aged son or daughter and what choices . . . what chances . . . they might make, might have.  Worries about the health of a loved one . . . a husband, a wife, a son, a daughter, a parent.  Worried about their own health . . . impending death . . . and how that might impact their own loved ones.

Afraid Of The Dark.

Many reasons why there might be a nightlight in the room, in the hallway.  Many reasons why one pulls the covers over one’s head.  To hide.  To protect.  And, there are many whose lives are not as ordered, not as safe, not as protected as ours might be.  Eating lunch next to us.  Answering the phone as you call to complain.  Sitting at the desk next to you.  In the room down the hall.  Sitting at the desk in front of you.  Walking down the hallway alone, with shoulders hunched, silently waging a battle you might not ever know about, might not ever understand.  But very much Afraid Of The Dark.  Very much so.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

Storms (reposted)

I love thunderstorms.  As a kid, I’d sit on our front porch and watch the clouds open up and the rain pound the ground.  I was fascinated (still am) by the drill and flash of lightning and the force of the wind.  The sheer power of a storm was something to marvel at.  There was a particular smell that to this day, I associate with a good old fashion thunderstorm.  It is like no other smell that I can compare it to.  As I recall, my mom was not too enamored with me outside during a thunderstorm, especially when lightning was present and in retrospect, she was probably right.  I know that now as a parent, I make sure my kids are inside and safe.

I remember driving on an interstate in Wisconsin during one summer when the rain and storm was so intense, I had no visibility- none whatsoever.  I couldn’t see.  I didn’t know what, if anything, was in front of me.  I didn’t know what, if anything, was behind me.  I didn’t know where the side of the road was for me to pull off in order to stop and let the storm pass.  I was stuck.  There were three small children in the backseat, my wife in the front seat next to me, and I was behind the wheel.  I didn’t know where to turn, if I should turn and I knew that if I made one misstep, my wife and kids could be harmed.  I crept forward ever so slowly until I came to an overpass that provided brief shelter.  It was crowded because many other drivers and a few drenched motorcyclists wanted the same protection.  Somehow, we made room for one another.

Storms happen.  Sometimes they come out of nowhere.  Sometimes they are of our own creation.  Sometimes we find ourselves in the middle of a storm created by someone else.  At times, we see no apparent way out, blinded by the swirl of chaos around us.  We can’t find a way forward.  We can’t see a way out.  Other times, there is that brief respite that gives a modicum of shelter and protection until it is safe to move forward once again.  And always, there will be a time when it is safe to move forward.  Always.  It may take time.  There is panic and fear.  There is concern for yourself and for others, perhaps loved ones.  But always, there will be a time when it is safe to move forward.  Always.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!