In the Presence of Greatness

Love in the Time of Corona #2

After a Sunday of reading, writing, conference calls about work, and meal prep for the week, it was time for a quick run to the neighborhood market for some essentials. Dish soap. Bread. Mint chocolate chip ice cream. A short list to keep my exposure to a minimum.

Walking through the parking lot: social distancing will not be a problem here. The parking lot is practically empty. My heart goes out to the family that runs the King of Food Chinese restaurant. Their health department inspection scores are always borderline at best. I hope they can hold things together, keep things clean, and not lose their business during the coming craziness.

Entering the automatic doors, I see a hastily printed sign announcing per family limits on all the usual staples. It's a noble try, but there are an awful lot of families in this neck of the woods. I'm grateful for the run I made at the beginning of the month that filed my pantry before the shortages began.

There's one woman running a register. The rest of the staff are out in the aisles, cleaning. The cashier greets me with "Hi, Hon." That's the way we roll uptown.

I head straight for the cleaning supplies. Everything with the word "Bleach" on the label is gone, but still plenty of dish soap, both brand name Dawn and the blue generic liquid. I pick up a bottle of Dawn, but the top shelf stuff feels foreign. No sense changing now. I throw a bottle of blue Glo into my basket.

As I walk past the empty shelves where the TP used to be, there is a page over the PA. "Joe, there's a lady on the phone asking if we have any toilet paper in stock." I smile quietly to myself.

Cold cuts and cheese. Still plenty in stock. Lots of soup and sandwiches this week. Bizarrely, all the buttermilk is gone. There will be plenty of biscuits in the neighborhood this week. No eggs either. Pandemic or not, breakfast is still the most important meal of the day. 

The freezer case looks reasonably well- stocked. There are only a handful of the sausage and egg burritos I prefer. I usually grab one for each work day so I don't have to think too hard in the morning, but that would clean them out, so I get two of the good ones and three of the 99 cent ones, hoping that actual chickens were involved in their manufacture.

Hallelujah! Mint chocolate chip is still in good supply. My drug of choice. So much for losing weight during the plague.

I approach the bread racks and immediately think of the Soviet Union. There might be 12 loaves left. It's the gummy white bread that I usually try to avoid, but PB & J are featured prominently in my menu this week, so I grab a loaf, trying not to squish it as I place it on top of my basket.

A grandmother, daughter, and grandson are huddled together, picking out frozen dinners. The child can barely see into the case, so he grabs the side and rests his chin on it to peer down into it.

"Boy, if you don't stop touching things..." Mom's warning has real teeth and the child steps back away into the center of the aisle. Mother and daughter exchange a look. 

"Put your hands in your pockets and keep them there," Granny warns. That boy is going to get the scrubbing of his life when he gets home.

No line at the checkout, but it's late on Sunday and most of the damage has already been done. She is wearing multiple piercings, multi-colored hair, vinyl gloves, and look that tells the story of a work day that has taken its toll.

"Hi, Hon. Find everything?" We both laugh at the idea, but I have to admit that yes, I got everything on my list.

"You've had a hell of a day."

"Oh, yes. The whole world has gone crazy. I was afraid to come in, but ain't nobody going to feed my kids if I don't work"

I have paid sick days, personal time, and vacation at my job. I don't know what to say, so I just smile and not, hoping I appear sympathetic. She scans the bread last and lays it carefully on the top of my bag.

"Well, I sure appreciate you being here."

"Honey, I know. Everybody does. But you feel like obligation, you know? Where are all these people going to find food if we're not here?"

Now, I'm really speechless. I look again at the raggedy hair. The skin is too young to be so rough. The teeth are uneven. Her posture betrays years spent working on her feet. The accent is pure Kentucky hillbilly. I see a dozen clues that make me think I know exactly who I'm talking to before the first sentence is completed. 

I am full of shit.

This is not some back-woods cracker. This woman is a hero.

I am a know-it-all liberal in the presence of authentic greatness.

Humbled, I thank her again as she slips the receipt into my bag with a gloved hand.

"OK, Hon. You have a good day. Be careful."

Be careful. Out in eastern Kentucky, that's how they say good bye. It caught me up short the first time I traveled to Hazzard, but I've come to love it. It says, "It's a dangerous world, and I care about you. I don't want anything to happen to you." I've adopted it as my own farewell. She's showed me just how deep that caring can run. 

She taught me to care enough to look again. To see beyond my own bigotry. I'll be more careful, Hon. I promise. You be careful too. It's a better world with you in it.

When I unpacked my groceries, my white bread was perfect. Not even a dent.

Love in the Time of Corona #1

He was calling from his car. In the background, I could hear rain and traffic and engine noise. In the foreground, I heard terror gushing like a firehose.

The YMCA where I work is closing down to our members. A mass email had just announced that we were being converted to a child care center for the health care workers who are staffing our hospitals during the pandemic. My young colleague at the front desk, a handsome high school senior with chiseled features, a golden heart, and a glass jaw answered the call, then turned, wide-eyed and silently extended the phone to me.
“Hi, this is Bob. How can I help?”
“Let me just explain to you fuckers what you’ve done. You've killed me. I have a heart condition. My life depends on being able to get exercise every day. If I don’t exercise, I will die. Now I get this email telling me the family membership I’m paying almost a hundred dollars a month for... that nobody else in my family uses... that we only got so my son could play soccer which I’m sure will be cancelled anyway. You realize, right, that all these kids they are sending home, they can carry the virus for 14 days before they show symptoms? Right? Closing these schools has just guaranteed that their parents will all get it. And now you’re telling me I can’t use the membership I’m paying for? I want to cancel. This email is a fucking death sentence for me. You get that, right?”
I’ve spent hours training on process and procedure. Listening skills. Customer service. Learning the right thing to say to get and keep customers for everything from store fixture manufacturers to theatre companies. I’ve performed for crowds of thousands of people who laughed and cried with me. I’ve studied the scriptures, helped lead congregations, fallen in love with church communities, and had my heart and mind broken by them. I’ve read psychology books, sat for years on head-shrinkers couches, and given speech after speech about the wonderful history and culture of the YMCA. 
None of those things prepared me for this phone call.
Or maybe, all of them did.
“I can hear how angry and frustrated you are feeling. I want to make sure you understand that we are keeping one branch in the city open so people can work out...”
“Yeah, in the hood. So I can die by not exercising, or I can die walking in the shittiest part of town to workout in a place I’ve never been before.”

Now, I’ve heard this sort of thing from time to time. It usually comes from people who don’t like my neighborhood, (which is actually much closer to the shittiest part of town, if I’m honest about it,) and are nervous about the fact that the branch where I work is located beside railroad tracks, down the street from a major drug rehab center, and across the road from a homeless men’s shelter, near a street that the locals still call “Crack Alley.” I’m not used to hearing people say they are furious because they aren’t allowed to come up to the ‘hood.
“All of this is such bullshit. There is only one person in Lexington with the virus. It’s all politics. They are fucking with us and killing me. I had a blood clot that almost killed me. I will die without that elliptical machine, goddamit.”
Now, I do make an effort not to play the cancer card at every opportunity. Don’t get me wrong, I’’ve milked that old cow dry more than a few times. But it’s a little game I play with myself: How long can I go without telling someone I had cancer. It’s like my secret super-hero identity. I call him “The Amazing Cancer Boy.” Something told me it was time to pull on the tights and cape.
“You know what? What you’re saying makes absolute sense to me. I am a cancer survivor. I don’t know how I would have lived this long without the Y.”
“EXACTLY! People don’t understand how important this shit is to our sanity. I almost died, man!”
“I feel you, brother. After two months of radiation treatments and chemo, I threw a clot, saddle embolism.”
“THAT’S WHAT I HAD! The fucking widow maker."
“That’s why my doc called it, right! So you know what I’m saying. I would have lost my mind if I hadn’t found the Y 10 years ago. I think the most important thing for us to do right now is to find you a place where you feel comfortable working out. Do you agree?”
“Yeah, but... Everything is closed.”
“Listen, Planet Fitness is still open. I had a membership there for a while. It’s clean. Friendly people. Good equipment. Now, look. It’s not the Y. But for 10 or 20 bucks a month, you can have a place to work out until this corona thing blows over.”
“I don’t even know where... Where are they?”
“There’s one right around the corner, right next to Krogers on New Circle Road.”
“Man, that’s all the way across town.”
OK, something isn't right about this. Kroger is emphatically not all the way across town. It is 5 minutes away at rush hour.
“Brother, which Y branch do you use?”
“I can’t drive all the way over there. I am literally 3 minutes from the Beaumont Y. That’s why I called you!”
Dude dialed the wrong number. He thought he was calling the big, beautiful Y on the south end of town. The one with three swimming pools and thousands of members and a whole studio dedicated to martial arts. The Beaumont Y is bigger than many shopping malls. He thinks he’s complaining to the president of General Motors, and he’s got a clerk from the local bike shop on the phone.
“OK, first things first. It sounds like you’re driving, right? There’s a Planet Fitness on Nicholasville Road. Get over there and get a membership. I don’t want you to cancel your Y membership. I want you to call Beaumont on Monday and have them put it on hold for four months for you. Surely to god, this will all be wrung out by July. You can reactivate your membership anytime before them, and your boy can keep playing soccer. Listen, man. It’s gonna be OK. Get in that gym. Your family needs you, OK?”
“OK, that’s a good idea. I’ll do that, then.”
“You be careful, man. We’re gonna get through this.” 
Love in the time of corona is a complicated business. Things aren’t always what they first appear. Sometimes, a package of toilet paper is really a life preserver. A doorknob can turn out to be patient zero. For me, an entitled, bigoted bully turned out to be a man so afraid of dying that he had to go out in the rain and make an angry phone call from his car so his wife and kids couldn’t see the terror in his eyes. 
I just realized. I never even asked his name. I don’t think it matters.
And I can’t help wondering... Why in hell did that guy call my branch? How did his voice wind up in my ear? Reason tells me it was just a coincidence that out of all the bright faced, part-time  staffers in the city that he could have reached on a Saturday afternoon, he managed to get on the phone with an old guy at the wrong branch who had survived exactly the same life-threatening condition that he had. It’s ridiculous to infer some kind of providence that put me right there at the desk at that moment instead of washing towels, disinfecting exercise machines, meeting personal training clients, or guarding the pool as I had been doing for 98% of my day until that moment. It is absurd to think that in the middle of a plague, God busies himself routing customer service calls.
But in my absurd, ridiculous, irrational heart, I can’t help but take comfort from the thought...
His eye really is on the sparrow. Even in the time of corona.

First a Purge, Then a Vacation

In just a few days, I'm taking a vacation. It will begin at 6:30 on Thursday night, when I'll put on some nice music, find a pleant book, and mix up a glass of the cold, lemony goodness that will prep me for a Friday morning colonoscopy. Won't be my first, so I know what to expect and am taking it as I try to take all things: with serious intent and good humor.

But this distastfully necessary purge seems like an excellent metaphor for why I am taking the week before Labor Day off. I am carrying too much. And it is making me so tired.

Tired of the people I love and work with dying all the time. As my sister reminds me, "That's the business you are in." And she is right, of course. The people I work most closely with find their way to me because they have been, or still are very, very sick. And some of them die. In the past year, lots of them have died. Too young. Too courageous. Too hopeful. Too many people who were too good to lose. Some go in a flash: "Hey, did you hear about...?" Some fade slowly: prisoners being tortured by their own minds and bodies. They leave a part of themselves with me. But they all take a little piece of me, too. I miss them. Everyone who works in a caring profession has toools to cope with the cost. And I have my own. But my toolbox is getting empty. And I am tired.

Tired of the news of the world. Tired of murdered cops and activists and junkies. Tired of cowards who use cars and vans as weapons, and cynics who use terrorism to raise campaign funds. Of officials who value short term gain over long term wisdom;  who would rather cling to their power, however trivial, than to act in the best interests of all their constituents. Of publishers of lies, and consumers who lack the initiative to research or even think before hitting the "Share" button. 

And dear God, I am tired of my friends. The ones who tell me I've been brainwashed by the Jews who run the media or blinded by my own privilege. The ones who tell me I haven't suffered enough to understand or really care. The ones who assume they know what I think based on my party affiliation rather than the way I live my life. Tired of being held responsible for things I can not change, and ridiculed for trying to change the things I can. Of friends who put me in an ideological box where I don't belong, and refuse to accept any truth that doesn't fit into the box they have chosen for themselves. 

Tired of myself. My struggles with growing older and weaker and fatter. My compulsion with online words that turn into debates that turn into meaningless schoolyard brawls. My impatience with the needs of others and my frustration with the seeming indifference of a God whom I love and study and pray with every day. Of my eagerness to complain rather than to act, and with the infuriating need to relearn life's most important lessons again and again. God help me, but I wear myself out more than anything else. 

So I'm taking a vacation. First I'm going to sit that uncomfortable vigil and let a man stick a camera inside me. Then I'm going to take a week to do some long delayed spring cleaning in my house. I'm going to read more books than posts, write more poems than workouts, play more music than online games, and walk in the woods and the streets instead of pacing the floor. Maybe I'll get drunk. Maybe I'll kiss a girl. Certainly, God and I will have some long talks about how we got here, and how to proceed together. But mostly I'm going to let the sun and the wind and the rain finish the job that my Thursday night tonic begins. I'm going to clean out the crap from my life, take a good look inside, and make some good choices about the next chapter of my life and ministry. 

So you're on notice, world. You have four business days, then I've got some work to do. Please schedule your emergencies accordingly.

And please, somehow... give it a rest, by whatever means necessary...

Take yourself a vacation.

"Hope and Change, Part Deux": The Other Story of Trump

Since the election, I’ve been trying to understand. How did good people choose a man I think so little of to be President? That's the question I’ve been asking. 

Yes, I’ve gotten plenty of snark and condescension in response.  I’ve been called “Libtard” and “Snowflake.” And yes, I’ve been told to get over it, be a better loser, get a positive attitude. Those words just affirmed my story about the man and his supporters. But I have also heard other stories about a man I don’t recognize: another story very different from the one I believe. 

As far as I know, none of my friends is personally acquainted with the President, only their own beliefs about him. But ultimately, these stories, the things we tell ourselves about the world are what guide our actions.

I don't think either side has Trump exactly right. So, I asked this question on Facebook.

 If you support our new President, will you send me a private message telling me something positive about him that gives you hope? 

Here is what I learned.

“I think the man is genuine.  He's tacky and tasteless and mean-ish and all the bad stuff. But he's genuine and doesn't let awkward situations or guffaws stop him.  I think having no effs to give could be a useful characteristic.”

“He has several times put others before himself....
1. Twice had his own pilot and plane flew soldiers home when the US government wouldn't do so.
2. Gave someone cash when they pulled over to assist him on the side of the road when he needed no assistance.”

“I think he has a great sense of humor and a tremendous amount of appreciation for our military in a time when we are threatened from Radical Islam inside and out of this country.  I think he recognizes when America is strong we all prosper and truly wants to see America succeed better than it has for the last 4 years.  I believe he actually cares about America and Americans of all colors and creeds. And I am so excited to feel like finally there is a President of the People in the White House.”

“Trump supports the military, veterans and Americans of all races.”

“I didn't see him or his wife take a drink of the wine they were toasting with.”

"He believes in God.  He can't be bought. He loves America. He supports our military and our police."

“Politicians who paint with broad strokes and speak in largesse terms to appeal to those who will fund their efforts, and who SAY they want to "better society" by ENABLING, speak in generalities that sound impressive, but their plans and programs serve to DISable those they claim to promote and support. That is a soul-sucking, societal sabotage that I NEVER want to be a part of.”

“Do I like Trump as a person? No, not very much. But could I carry on a conversation with him and not feel as if he's looking THROUGH me to his own agenda? Yes.”

“Hope and change part deux”

“He does care about our country and our people. He is honest and straight forward. He listens to those who do not agree with him and has surrounded himself with very well qualified people.”

I’m not going to try to read between the lines here. I know and love each of the people who trusted me with these words. This isn't just the story they believe. These are the things that they want for our country. These are the promises that they accepted from their candidate.

As the President said in his innagural address:

The time for empty talk is over. Now arrives the hour of action.

I have never liked Donald Trump's public persona. I didn't like his book, his image, or his TV show. I loathed like the way he ran his campaign and the things he said he wants to do to hurt the most vulnerable among us. And I think many of the words he used to get elected were just slim-flam:  empty slogans that he never meant. His words will not change the world. 

His actions will.

This is his moment. This is his chance to show my friends that I am wrong about him. And with every beat of my politically-correct, bleeding Liberal heart, so help me God, I hope that is what happens.

Because if my story is correct and theirs is wrong…  God help us all.

#BuildThatBridge: ... And I'm Talking, Too

This essay is a companion to my previous one entitled I’m Listening... I hope you’ll read that one first. That’s how I developed them and that’s how my thinking is moving.  

I want to listen first. I want to understand. I want to find the common ground that we can both share and protect and develop. I want to be your neighbor and your brother and your friend. But there are limits. There are principles I’m not willing to give up just so we can get along. Some we might share, some not. I want to respect you, even when we disagree. Especially then. Here’s what you are going to need to respect about me. 

I believe in a Creator who values love over fear, sacrifice over selfishness, compassion over pride, choice over coercion, dignity over shame, forgiveness over punishment, and giving over taking. I believe in a Redeemer who modeled a way of life that could bring about a more perfect world if we had the courage to imitate him. I believe in the counseling presence of a Spirit whose guidance and continuing revelation never abandons anyone, no matter how hopelessly lost they might feel or appear to be.

I believe in Human Rights that no government has the authority to take away. That people have the right to lives that are as rich and healthy as it is possible for anyone to be. That they ought to be free to choose their religion, their ideas, their profession, and their home without interference from anyone. That insofar as they do not harm to their neighbors, people are entitled to the opportunity to be happy. To choose who they love. Where they find entertainment and recreation. How they express themselves. Who their friends are. How they treat their own bodies. And I believe that when these rights are threatened by governments, corporations, public groups, or private individuals, people are entitled to defense and protection.

I believe we are stewards of this planet and everything on it. That the earth and its resources are not ours to destroy, but are our inheritance and our legacy. That every living thing has a role and a dignity that deserve our respect and if necessary, our protection. That abuse of the environment is an offense against our creator, our neighbors, and ourselves. 

I believe that everyone gets it wrong sometimes. That you life ought to reflect what you believe, but what you believe may not determine how I live my life. That everyone has something to teach us. That Truth is revealed in many ways to many different people. That we can always do better. 

We can disagree. We can split hairs. We can show off, hurt each other’s feelings, cut one another slack, and find ways to settle for less than we wish we could get. But these are the boundaries I’m not going to cross. 

Now let’s start building bridges.

#BuildThatBridge: I'm Listening...

“I like to listen. I have learned a great deal from listening carefully. Most people never listen.” ~ Ernest Hemingway

Losing hurts when the stakes are so high. Godwin’s law had been validated and surpassed months before. Evil people had elected a combination of Hitler, Mussolini, and Napoleon in a wave of hatred and bigotry than marked the end of the United States as a beacon of hope for the world. I ached when Ohio fell. I wept when Pennsylvania joined. I vented and raged on Facebook, grieving for crushed hopes of a better future.

What to do when your Republic has lost its mind? Move to the mountains, build a tiny shack, and become a hermit? Start sending resumes to YMCA’s in Canada? Buy a gun and prepare for blood in the streets? Stop going to work, empty my bank account, and drink till my liver exploded? 

Please don't think I’m being funny. I considered them all. Ultimately, I turned to my faith for help. In the excitement of anticipated victory I had forgotten my devotions for Tuesday. Psalm 121 popped up on my phone.

I lift up my eyes to the hills—   from where will my help come? 

My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. 

He will not let your foot be moved;   he who keeps you will not slumber. 

He who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. 

The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade at your right hand. The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night. 

The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life. 

The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time on and for evermore.

I started to pray. “OK God. So I’m supposed to trust you and not be afraid. Now what? What the hell am I supposed to do? The Tribulation is here. The Anti-christ has taken charge. Apocalypse.” Exhausted by emotion, I lay in the dark, staring up. waiting to hear  Four Horsemen thundering down North Broadway. Instead, in the silence, I got my answer.

“Listen.”

And that’s what I’ve been doing this week. I have been listening to the people who chose Donald Trump, and to their reasons. Here’s what I’m hearing. They felt disrespected. They felt ignored. Their childhood heroes were vilified. Their religion ridiculed. Their concerns dismissed. Instead of enlarging the tent, Liberals had made room for the disadvantaged by evicting the people whose ancestors built it. Did their numbers include radicals and bigots? Yes. Were some of then influenced by lies and propaganda? Absolutely. But the vast majority of people I’m listening to believe that their voice was not being heard and they do not want to be left behind. They believed the bus was headed for the ditch.

So they pulled the emergency stop cord. They hit the brakes.

So far, that’s what I’m hearing. The good people who voted for Trump, they aren't radicals. They aren’t extremists. They don’t want to own the bus. They don’t even necessarily want to drive. They just don’t want to be left on the side of the road while the bus rolls on without them.

This post is the first of two. I hope you'll follow up by reading ... and I'm Talking, Too.

Meditation for Labor Day

The wisdom of the scribe depends on the opportunity of leisure; 
only the one who has little business can become wise. 

How can one become wise who handles the plough,
   and who glories in the shaft of a goad,
who drives oxen and is occupied with their work,
   and whose talk is about bulls? 
He sets his heart on ploughing furrows,
   and he is careful about fodder for the heifers. 
So it is with every artisan and master artisan
   who labours by night as well as by day;
those who cut the signets of seals,
   each is diligent in making a great variety;
they set their heart on painting a lifelike image,
   and they are careful to finish their work. 
So it is with the smith, sitting by the anvil,
   intent on his ironwork;
the breath of the fire melts his flesh,
   and he struggles with the heat of the furnace;
the sound of the hammer deafens his ears,
   and his eyes are on the pattern of the object.
He sets his heart on finishing his handiwork,
   and he is careful to complete its decoration. 
So it is with is the potter sitting at his work
   and turning the wheel with his feet;
he is always deeply concerned over his products,
   and he produces them in quantity. 
He moulds the clay with his arm
   and makes it pliable with his feet;
he sets his heart on finishing the glazing,
   and he takes care in firing the kiln. 

All these rely on their hands,
   and all are skilful in their own work. 
Without them no city can be inhabited,
   and wherever they live, they will not go hungry.
Yet they are not sought out for the council of the people, 
   nor do they attain eminence in the public assembly.
They do not sit in the judge’s seat,
   nor do they understand the decisions of the courts;
they cannot expound discipline or judgement,
   and they are not found among the rulers. 
But they maintain the fabric of the world,
   and their concern is for the exercise of their trade

~ Ecclesiasticus 38:24-34

Though he was a craftsman and not an academic, my father was still a scholar. He was always reading. His example is the one I immitate by keeping a stack of books by my chair, picking up one, then another, their subjects ranging from history, to fiction, to health and wellness, to nature. He was a printer and proud of his trade, and he was also widely respected  in our community for his wisdom, his kindness, and his dedication to serving our neighbors. Had the wise preacher of Ecclesiasticus ever met my dad, he would have had a very different opinion of people who work with their hands and their backs.

While the writer may not have known much about working people, the message of this passage is clear. Artisans and craftspeople, the ones who make and build and produce; they are the threads that hold the "fabric of the world" together. Today, our country whose history of labor relations has far too often been an inglorious one, takes a moment to give thanks for the sacrifices and to honor the labor of everyone who helps to carry the burden of civilization.

As we honor the workers of our own age, we also remember those who came before. The ones who struggled and bled and died to win the dignity and respect of powerful people who were eager for profit, but reluctant to reward the laborers who made their profits possible.

On this Labor Day, may we remember that when we work, we honor ourselves and one another. Work connects us to our neighbors and to creation. Everyone deserves the chance to know that connection. And everyone who works deserves to be rewarded and respected.

Almighty God, you have so linked our lives one with another that all we do affects, for good or ill, all other lives: So guide us in the work we do, that we may do it not for self alone, but for the common good; and, as we seek a proper return for our own labor, make us mindful of the rightful aspirations of other workers, and arouse our concern for those who are out of work; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen ~ Collect for Labor Day, the Book of Common Prayer, p. 261