Just a Twig, But ...

Sometimes it's hard to remember that we're more than us. I mean, you're more than you. I'm more than me. If you were raised in a small town, you may have left at the first opportunity and you may have stayed away. But it's in you. It's with you every day. Many of your thoughts were shaped in the social gatherings you attended, the schools, and the extra-curricular activities in that town.

Your family may have been a part of that community for years. If not, certainly the families of your friends were. Despite the eager diaspora of young people in pursuit of adventure and success in a setting that doesn't look just like yesterday to them, a small town is a place of roots.

Do you ever feel disconnected? Small?

Maybe something like this: moderately flourishing, a few blemishes, some opportunities for future growth, but all in all not certain you are big enough to thrive.

Take heart. I found this pin oak stem on the ground earlier this evening. It's so easy to look at it and think, "You're not that much." But there's more to the story. That's so often true.
Everything comes from someplace. This twig was separated from a branch. The branch was part of a tree. The tree had been there a while.

There by the barn stand Dale and Jack. They are talking about the age of the tree in the foreground. It's conjecture, because neither of them is willing to cut down the tree to see who's right. They don't have the tools, they don't have the energy, and they would have to find another shady spot to stand in afterward, so the answer to the question remains a point of pleasant conversation--something too often overlooked, if you ask me. Since you didn't,  let's get back to our topic.

I show you this view of the tree for a sense of scale. Irrefutably, it began life looking much more like the first picture we looked at. Somehow it thrived. If you lived around it, you'd probably say it's old. It's slow. You can't see its growth. It's happening, but it's not something you remark on until you leave and return. Then you notice that the height is the same, but branches have gotten thicker. Heavier. the canopy has spread. And as Dale pointed out, there is a lot of wonderful shade.

Old. Slow. No growth. People talk about more than trees that way.

The trunk of the tree we've been considering is thick. The man you see in the picture below is not what you would call a tree hugger, but he appreciates them. In this case, he's extending his span to get an idea just how big around this tree is. Full disclosure: this man is my father, so you can damn skippity bet that he is the Sir in circumference.

 

We put the best minds available to work on this one. That included Mom and Dad's dog, Millie. We decided it's pretty big. Probably at least 25 feet around. Possibly 30 feet or more. Let's step back a bit and appreciate the size.

 

Just a few more steps. Who am I kidding? Let's keep walking until we're in the neighbor's yard and most of this tree fits in the frame of the picture. 

Wow. Now remember when I suggested that we are more than us? Two men stand at the base of a tree. One tree. They are dwarfed by its immensity. One man sees a piece of pointed greenery on the ground. There is absolutely no question that it came from the tree. If we had the means on the spot, we could scientifically prove it. You and I are no different.

If people just knew what to look for, they would see our community in us. Whether we've remained where we were born, returned to it, or continue to carry a bit of it with us, we are dwarfed by its scale. In those moments when we have trouble believing in ourselves, we have so many generations of people who preceded us to look to. Each did something to create a life for themselves and their families. It may not have been monumental, but it was significant. Each act of each person is threaded into the history of a place we have called home. We are part of that same stock by blood or by association.

It's not all good. What is? Even the finest tree has knots, scars, and branches that don't look just right. But step back and look at the whole. It has a beauty.

At the local museum, we're assembling stories to display on a new piece of equipment. Our storytellers are combing through objects in our collection, photographs from our archives, and family histories that people have submitted. I sometimes wish everybody could do that. The stories you learn as you're building the story you're telling are fascinating. When I left town, I had no idea of the richness of the history in my mirrors.

So, I'd like you to do one of two things.

1. Find the biggest tree you can. Get near it and look up through its branches. Sit underneath it and listen to the sounds around you. Take a picture of it and post it online.

2. Find something you especially like about your hometown. It can be people. It can be a place. It can be something just outside the town. Take a picture of whatever that special thing is and post it online. Learn about its history until you find at least three things you didn't know.

Whether you chose #1 or #2, encourage, challenge, or browbeat (depending on your area of particular giftedness) somebody to do the same thing.

The more we know of our own stories--which includes our communities--the stronger our tree will be.

 

Spring Dance

In pursuit of local culture, my wife and I attended the Spring Recital  of a local dance studio. You see, our next-door neighbor, Emma, is a budding dancer. She and quite a few of her student friends performed a variety of dance pieces. It was quite a thing to experience. Imagine you’d been there with us.

The pink double-sided program lists over thirty dance pieces. As the show begins we learn they are set to several different musical genres.

The soundtrack is not the only thing we hear. Dance slippers swish along the floor. Feet pound the stage as dancers conclude their jumps. Several pieces include percussive tap dancing routines, proof that tap is alive and well.

Dancers flash and sparkle as spangles and sequins bounce light around the room. The costumes range from frilly ballet tutus to sheer flowing dresses and bright hip-hop regalia ­--- with several styles in between.

Part of the excitement is the anticipation. Unlike most stage shows, the backstage is lit between pieces. For us, that means we sit in a darkened room illuminated by a thin band of light between the curtain and the stage floor. You look carefully at that light and see feet. Often lots of small feet. The instructors are making sure all the dancers are on their marks and poised for the curtain to open.

You can’t help but appreciate the wide range of talent on display. The youngest group is the largest and arguably the cutest --- showing up is success. They quickly win our hearts and our grace. If they happen to do things in unison, we are impressed. If they are not all dancing it is likely because they are looking for loved ones in the audience.

The next acts include budding troupers—those who are moving beyond cuteness to more cohesive routines, and groups of successively older dancers. As the program unfolds we see a natural progression from initial exposure to the arts to embracing dance. The group sizes dwindle. Those who stay with dance are developing proficiency, grace and confidence. It shows in their natural smiles while they dance.

There is opportunity here. Emma’s father told me that several of the dancers in the more advanced routines were dancing beyond their age group. While two dancers can perform a captivating routine, six or more make more intricate choreography possible.

The program is enjoyable. Clearly, a lot of work has gone into costumes, choreography, and practice. Then we get a glimpse behind the scenes. In the wings, you notice an advanced dancer in a green dress.

When the onstage dancers reach a part in their routine where they are lost or even uncertain, their eyes snap to this dancing mentor, who calmly does the movements just offstage, modeling for them, reassuring them, and encouraging them to relax.

You notice this again and again. Misstep, fumble, glance to the side, recover. With experience, lapses in timing shorten. Confidence grows. Dancers self-correct and carry on, accepting the flaws and focusing on the performance as a whole. 

So often I go someplace with few expectations and encounter something that gives me hope, evokes my admiration, or stirs me. The day of the recital that something was somebody who didn’t expect to be seen. But she was there for the younger dancers.

Who is in the wings encouraging you? When things don’t go according to plan, who are you watching? Who do you feel best models success?

Thanks to Steps in Style Dance Studio for an afternoon of entertainment, for your work in our community, and for a glimpse behind the curtain that gave us even more to think about.

Brought to you by "Ceviche"

You can be educated and still be limited. This is particularly true if you are self-educated. Much of my learning is based on personal reading. I hear things in my head when I read, but I’m no better than my imagination.

My imagination is pretty darn good. It’s really my supposition of pronunciation that’s at fault. That and autocorrect.

 You know about autocorrect, right? It’s the programmed thoughtfulness of machines to anticipate our needs when we’re typing. It’s a piece of artificial intelligence. Autocorrect suggests words so we can communicate faster. It corrects our spelling, to help us save face. In the right hands, it’s a tool for good. Mine are not the right hands.

 Just today, I received a text from my wife telling me we were having Tostada Giveche for dinner. I’m not incredibly well versed in fine dining. That’s to say that I accept my ignorance. I have blank spots in my knowledge. Giveche looked good to me. Here’s what I didn’t know.

 Giveche does not exist. Google it.

Before you even look at the possibilities, Google asks, “Did you mean: Givenchy”? Nope. No I didn’t.

“Next up, GIVE – ChE” followed by “I give Che Whyte a big hug”, an animated YouTube offering. We’re still no closer to an answer.

So, not only does Giveche not exist, it’s not pronounced “Giv – esh’”. To my chagrin.

 As soon as I saw my wife’s post, my inner child reacted. You should meet my inner child. He’s a smart-aleck, a punster, and endearingly annoying. He’s also spoiled. Far too often, he gets to operate with little or no supervision. Giveche was a golden opportunity.

 He –-- I was standing nearby, but this was all him --– responded to my wife that he’d intended to take her out to dinner, but “… let’s Tostada Giveche it. Too many people don’t Giveche it.”

Not long afterward, I showed the exchange to my co-worker and she said, “Oh. Ceviche.” Well, shoot. Bubble burst. Not only had autocorrect helped misspell it, it didn’t even sound the same.

 “Se – Vee’ – Che” Runny yellow yolk was dripping from my face. I’m supposed to be “the word guy” and I completely botched this one. My bumbling wordplay was ruined. Folks who knew their fish were scratching their heads wondering what I was going on about. Frankly, I’m with them. This is what happens when you let your inner kid run amok and you fail to do your research.

 And you know what? I guaran-darn-tee you it’s going to happen again. I’m kind of looking forward to it.

Ceviche, y’all!

A Hard Task Could Tip the Balance

This morning I got to share a moment with the kids in our church congregation. It was a good experience, but I think I’m more nervous about speaking to children than I am adults.

Children will take quite a bit at face value. Adults will call you on your b.s. I don’t want to screw up some kid’s faith walk. By and large, we adults are already screwed up at some level, so it’s more a brief diversion in an adult’s journey.

I believe what you are about to read flies in the face of human nature, or our natural response to conflict and antagonism. Doing it may be one of the hardest challenges we face in our life. I also think it transcends faith. See if you agree.

The core text for the message today was Matthew 5:44. It goes like this:

"But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you,"

And here it is in context:

"You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your own people, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect."

If I was a guessing man ... oh. Hey, look. I am! I guess that most faiths have a version of Matthew 5:44. If you’re reading this and you’re not Christian, drop me a line at david dot l dot Colbert at gmail dot com. That’s an “L” in the middle bit. Tell me what your holy texts say on the matter.

While the kids and I were meeting, we decided that persecute means to hurt. People could hurt you by not being nice. Maybe even very mean. They might even hurt you physically. So, pray for the people who hurt you.

 

Who are those enemies?

What is an enemy? Kids are pretty smart. They can also be pretty harsh. This morning, they told me an enemy is somebody you don’t like.

Ouch. Think of these reasons we may not like somebody:

• They look different than we look. Isn’t this silly? I don’t know of anybody who looks just like me. That makes for a lot of potential targets to dislike. I don’t think I have the energy for that.
• They act differently than we act. Unless we were raised in the same way, people probably will act differently than we do. Sometimes, they’re family members who shared our environment and still are very different from us.
• They don't believe what we believe. Our faiths, our politics, and the basis of our moral codes are just a few examples of divergent beliefs. Social media is a poor place for lessons on living life. The newsfeeds and tweets I receive are chock full of messages created in anonymity and put before the world with little critical thought. We should talk more. Once we get beyond labels, we really have more in common than we realize or expect.
• They treat us badly. This reason makes the most sense to me, but it doesn’t give us a pass.

 

Tough choices

You know what? Not liking somebody is a choice.

So is loving somebody. In the verses quoted above, Jesus wants us to choose to love people. And also to pray for them.

Not about them. FOR them.

 

For, not About

Note that we are not encouraged to pray “about” people who persecute you. That could end with us trying to convince God to apply our sense of justice. That’s not our gig.

Instead, we should pray “for” them. Apply the Golden Rule here (Refresher: Treat people the way you want to be treated). If you were praying for yourself, what would you pray for? I expect it would be good things. Very good things. Pray for very good things for your enemies.

If you’re little freaked out by the word enemies, pray for good things for people you’re mad at. For people who voted for the person you didn’t like. For the person who yelled at your child. For the person who ignored you or cut you off in traffic. These aren’t hardcore enemies, but they may not be high on your “love” list right now.

I told you this would be hard. If you have a regular prayer life, it may have just gotten longer. But there is an immediate benefit. As Pastor Bruce pointed out today, it’s really hard to hate somebody and pray for them at the same time. Imagine each of us tipping the hate/love balance toward love.

And a brief detour. My dad shared a sign he’d seen recently. It said something to the effect that “The hardest neighbor to love may be our own wounded self.” Good stuff in there.

That’s a little longer than I went this morning with the kids, but that’s the message. Choose to love. Start in the mirror if you need to. And pray for very good things for one another, especially the ones you’d least like to.

God bless.

Encouragement as Entertainment

Small-town life includes getting excited about things that larger towns might take a pass on. For example, last week a young man found a oversized bit of fungus. Admittedly, it was impressive. And it was picked up and shared widely on the Internet. But it was a mushroom. Please understand that morels are a seasonal excuse for excitability here. 

Naturally, basketball is a topic—for some, a religion—of abiding interest. Tonight, the faithful gathered in the Hatchet House for another reason. Filling three or more sections, we were witnesses to a rite of passage among youth. Prom Night. 

The scene of picks and rolls, layups, and sweetly swishing three-pointers was repurposed, masked in black plastic with silhouettes of a city skyline outlined in white lights. PVC arches painted Hatchet Gold marked the entry point, the diagonal walkway of presentation. A DJ booth filled the opposite corner. fronted by a black-and-white checkerboard dance floor. 

To either side of the walkway, round tables filled the gymnasium floor. Black fabric swept overhead, hung from the scoreboard to railings in front of the bleachers. The most anachronistic touch was a chandelier of cut glass suspended beneath the scoreboard. Somehow, it tied the scene together.

Normally, you wouldn’t get a large group of adults to come gawk at these interior decorating changes, but there we were. Many of us were thinking back to our own prom years and the annual transformation of the gymnasium. It wasn’t always fancy, but when the lights dimmed and music swelled it was adolescent magic.

Still, most of us were there for the kids. Our kids. Even if they were no direct relation. They didn’t disappoint. And they won’t be kids much longer. This was a coming-out party for young men and young women. Perhaps the last time or two we’d see them looking this good before they left for school or work and adventures we couldn’t share with them.

The young men looked crisp in suits and tuxedos, with ties and cummerbunds claiming allegiance with their dates. For one couple, a young lady’s bright red clutch was the accessory that complimented her date’s bright red tuxedo. His suit wasn’t subtle, but she won’t lose him in the crowd tonight. One young man wore no suit at all, but he was present and at home in his own skin. Another wore no jacket, not yet having learned that a jacket is as much a tool of chivalry as a fashion statement.

Each person was announced in turn, adding a flair of formality and recognition. Short of graduation day, we were seeing and hearing some names that weren't so familiar to us. This was a true cross-section of the student body. We admired their clothing, remarked on how nice they looked, and we applauded. We saw grace. We saw the discomfort of young men spending time in unfamiliar “party clothes. Young women balanced at uncomfortable heights and walked in abnormal volumes of fabric. We saw that ... and we saw people realizing how beautiful they could be.

The guests of honor reacted in several ways. Some were comfortable, some cocky. Some were gawky and bashful. Some couples paused for their moment, waiting for cameras to click and flash. Others awkwardly but determinedly shuffled non-stop through the arches and toward where they hoped their seats were. It may be a long time or never before they are at ease being on display.

Some were not couples, but solo, or two friends who decided that date or no, this was too good to miss. They may have the most fun of all this evening.

We saw the Prom Court and the crowning of a Prom King and Prom Queen. When it was done, we were politely invited to leave the premises. The rest of the evening was not for us. It was time. Their time. 

Whether you’re in a small town or a city, do yourself a favor and attend a Prom Night. Applaud and encourage tomorrow’s adults in what may be their first big night out. It will be meaningful to them, and maybe to you, too.

Do You Have Game?

Several years ago I got immersed in a first-person shooter video game. Sucked in. I gave it my time. My energy. My thoughts. When I wasn’t playing, I was waiting to play. When I sat in front of the computer, two hours would pass incredibly quickly. It was a rush.

Video games are fun. There are some things that you can’t do, though. If you turn where a wall is, you can’t go through the wall. You know the room you want is on the other side of the wall, but you have to go all the way around. Do you know why? It’s not your game.

You may play the game. You may have bought it, but it’s not your game. You can’t turn and enter that room because the code the game is written in won’t let you. As long as you play that game you’ll be limited by another person’s imagination or their purpose.

Do you want to play somebody else’s game? Here’s a better question. What would your game look like? Where would you set the limits?

Feel free to apply these questions to the rest of your life.

Keep an Eye on the Neighbor

Went to see D’s family this evening. I wish I’d known him better. I learned he was very bright (knowing his family, I figured as much). He was skilled mechanically, worked several jobs where he used his hands, including keeping a carnival running. He was funny. And he was loved as a son and a brother. His family amassed a sizable tribute in framed photographs, showing a number of activities they’d done together. From the smiles, you could tell they were good times.  
I can’t imagine — nor do I care to — what it feels like to lose a sibling. Just today I reached out to my older sister. It felt so good to hear her voice, to make her laugh, and to make plans. To have that taken away is inevitable, but sad. I’m sure the feeling will be much stronger for whomever remains when one of us moves on.  
I think Death looks different as we spend more time with it. At first, it hardly exists. We are in awe and something like horror or terror when it visits us. 
Later, we pretend it does not exist. We are immortal. Wise. On the early side of twenty. Then, death. “Look away. That is not for us. It happens to other people.”  
We learn to abstract it. It’s simply a harvest of the old, the feeble, the incurably ill. And it’s not fair. It comes other ways, but we’ll not think of those.  
Next, Death becomes like a bright, white Volkswagen Beetle. You don’t see either until you look for it, then you realize it is more common than you expected.  
Soon, Death becomes the obnoxious neighbor who crashes all your cookouts and you wish you didn’t grill out every week. But you can’t stop.  
Eventually, I suppose each of us makes friends with that neighbor and learns he or she can take us to places we’ve never imagined. Or weren’t ready to visit. Today, I just want to be aware enough to slip out the front door as the neighbor is coming through the back gate. We can strike up our friendship later.