The Tale of Two Weekends

One weekend every month my son stays with his mother.  This should be a big occasion around my house. If, I was smart, these three days would be put to good use. They should start in some grand fashion. Maybe with a public declaration at the end of work on Friday; “Hear ye, Hear ye, Doug Time is now officially underway!”

 

Every month, as the weekend of freedom approaches, I fool myself into making some lofty plans. Well…they’re not really plans, Per se. They’re more like good intentions. Maybe this weekend I’ll go: golfing, to the beach, do some writing, have dinner at a nice restaurant, hang out with friends, take in a movie, give fishing a try or take a road trip. Haven’t I always wanted to check out the mountains?

 

It never works out that way. No matter how long my list of desires are, inevitably, the Doug Time is wasted at home. At least it was this past weekend.

 

I didn’t even shower on Saturday.  What was the point? All I was doing was sitting in front of the television. Hour after hour. Simply vegging out watching (and yes, this is embarrassing) C-SPAN. They had an entire marathon weekend of past political conventions. As a political junky I spent at least four hours watching old speaches.

 

It did eventually get old, so I turned to reading…and then I thought I’d bake a cake. I’ve never baked anything before in my life, but what else was I going to do?

 

By no means was the weekend glamorous. It was just relaxing. Even had time to take a long nap. Eventually, though, feelings of restlessness started to take over. By late evening I had grown bored. I wanted action, to be around people. So I did what any 35 year old would; I went to work.

 

The people who work the weekend shift, and this is the case in virtually any newsroom in America, all tend to be in their early 20’s. I like talking to them. I really do. It makes me feel younger. If you have friends in this demographic you know how the conversation went, “Man you should have gone out with us last night. We got so wasted! We went to this bar and then to that bar, and then we met some chicks.”

 

 When you become a Christian later on in life, it seems like you are expected, like it’s demanded by other believers,  for you to look back over all the earlier years with a certain amount of regret. I don’t have that. Maybe I should, but I really don’t.  In fact, as my friends were talking, it was easy to remember all the fun I had at their age- and now I am at home baking cheese cakes.

 

 Part of me was living vicariously through their stories. It all sounded so exciting. I really wanted to return to their age. Maybe I could use my weekend of freedom and invite myself, force myself, into whatever big adventures they had planned for after work.  I may have intruded too, but they kept talking.

 

“So after the bars closed we all met up at the new girl’s place, but she didn’t have any liquor. So we had to steal some from her neighbors.”

 

What?

 

“Yeah, you know. Karen and Connie went over there and swiped a fifth of Kettle One.

 

Listen, I am not passing judgment on my coworkers or their criminal activity. We’ve all been there. I am sure that I did much worse in my early 20’s. Somehow, though, hearing them talk about grand theft vodka changed my entire attitude. Being their age no longer seemed like such a great adventure. Truth is, as much fun as those years were, I’d never want to go back.

 

In the short history of this column I’ve exposed a lot of ugly traits. It’s never flattering but such confessions are somewhat easy. There is a certain amount of nobility that comes along with being painfully honest.  By comparison the hardest sentence I have ever written is the one you’re about to read. It’s supposed to reveal something positive, but it scares me because if misinterpreted I could come across as egotistical and conceded. Here it goes: I like being me.

 

You have to understand that wasn’t always the case. As much as my younger friends were reminding me of a fun age, they were also taking me back to a time when I really didn’t know how to fit in. When I tried to be anyone but who I really was.

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 Twenty-somethings won’t want to hear this, but there is a certain insecurity that comes along with being their age. It is a time when life is defined all by the hopes of some day being someone. A decade later, for better or worse, you are who you are.

 

I like being me.

 

Oh, you’re not supposed to say that in today’s world. It’s more accepted if we talk about our short comings and all the ways we are working on becoming a better person. “I need to lose weight and be more patient, kind, just generally nicer to others.”

 

There is a laundry list of areas where I strive for self improvement, and certainly in the future I will write about those struggles, but in the meantime; I like being me.

 

In all his wisdom God has allowed me to be Doug. He lets be a father who gets to hang out at the park with his son. He’s lets me be a journalist who has witnessed some remarkable things first hand. He lets me be a friend, who on occasion, gets to share in the triumphs and tragedies of the people he loves. God also is content, every now and again, to let me waste a weekend just sitting at home relaxing.

 

It’s not like this all happened to me at the very moment I entered into my third decade. The process only started a couple of years ago when I returned to church. One of the greatest byproducts of faith, and this is rarely talked about, is you just grow more comfortable in your own skin. It’s kind of like I went searching for God and ended up finding myself.

 

“Hey were going out again tonight,” my younger friend was finally done recapping the previous day’s adventures. “You should come out- if you’re not too old to keep up with us.”

 

It was nice to be asked, but his offer was rejected. I had better things to do. I just wanted to get home and watch a little C-SPAN.

 

Questions

1       What was the best age of your life? Would you go back

2       Are you happy being you?

 

I am going to write something at the end of the weekend about old friends. I am not sure what the exact focus will be, but I am coming to terms with how many people I have lost touch with over the years. And while I am on the topic  of old friends, a big congratulations to someone I have kept in touch with. Last week I talked to my friend Michelle Donaldson. She is a journalist’s journalist. After almost a decade in Albuquerque , she announced that she would be leaving to run a newsroom in Phoenix. Those of us who worked with her, and for her, know how much she deserves this break.

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Dinner Party

Turns out What’s His Face is a journalist.

A few weeks ago, in a column called Jim Died Today (https://offthewahl.wordpress.com/2008/07/28/jim-died-today/) , I wrote about my next-door neighbors. For 6 months we’ve been living in adjacent condominiums. We share a wall. On the opposite side of my bedroom is their bedroom. We park our cars next to one another, and occasionally pass each other in the driveway. We’ve got the routine of the silent nod and slight wave of the hand down to a science. It’s become our way to acknowledge each other’s existence without bothering to get to know one another.  Until recently even their identity was mystery. Her first name is Kris, but to me- he was just: “What’s His Face.” When it comes to their last name; I haven’t a clue.

We are commissioned to love they neighbor, but defining who your neighbor is can be a very selective process. In my life many people, including- as it turns out- those who live directly next-door to me, were excluded from the list. Getting to know someone new didn’t interest me. I only wanted to love those who were easy to love.

In spite of myself, I ended the essay by promising that I would soon have Kris and What’s His Face over for dinner. An invitation was also extended to another couple who lives Katy corner from me.

Learning that What’s His Face, who’s real name is Kenneth, is in the same profession as me…certainly gave the appearance that God was trying to teach me something. As a stranger it was convenient to assume that we only had an address and proximity in common. For half a year, already, we had failed to explore our common ground.  He is a print journalist who wants to do more work in the visual medium- his dream is to produce a documentary film. I am a broadcast journalist who wants to do more writing. We probably missed out on some pretty good conversations.

When my attention turned towards Kris, we quickly discovered the two of us come from the same part of the country. There is an instant, friendly, rivalry that develops anytime a Michigander and Ohioan get together. She moved down here, a few years ago, to be closer to her older sister. Kris has a degree in education and is hoping to get a job with New Hanover County Schools. She said she was about to have an interview… or maybe… she said she just had the interview- I really don’t know. It was suddenly getting hard to make out her words. Things were getting very loud on the other side of the table.

“Dude, you’re a smart guy. How can you thing like that?” The male Katy Corner neighbor was virtually yelling at What’s His Face, “I say we ought to do anything that will bring down the price of gas! Yeah, that includes off shore drilling!”

My eyes stayed glued on Kris. I think we both wanted to avoid the ruckus that was developing around us. Discussing politics never goes well at dinner parties, especially when you’re dealing with strangers. People can really lose themselves in a heated discussion. They think their debating some great issue. In reality they’re not. This argument on off shore drilling was really all about who was the most informed. The real topic was whether the Katy Corner neighbor’s talk-radio knowledge was superior or equal to the articles that What’s His Face has read. Frankly, I wasn’t interested in the outcome. Besides, I really am not all that well informed on the subject.

The thought occurred to me that the direction of the conversation could possibly change by going to the kitchen and getting the dessert.  The moment I put it on the table someone who’d glance at it and be polite enough to say, “Man that looks good. Where did it come from?” The timing seemed to be going my way. The once heated political debate now appeared to be at a lull.  Setting the cake down I stepped back and waited for the inevitable questions of its origin.

“So, let me ask you something” the eyes of the Katy Corner neighbor were moving up from the sweets back to What’s His Face, “What do you think about the war in Iraq?”

So it was going to be one of those evenings

Unlike off shore drilling, it was really hard to stay out of this conversation. The war in Iraq is perhaps the most divisive issues of our time. Everyone has an opinion. Few are shy to express it. Again, the debate quickly moved away from the topic and really became all about who was the smartest. Each one of us started to use words and clichés that seemed to ad to our creditability; “Insurgents, de baathification, Paul Bremer, the surge, the Zuni, the Shiite, General Patrious, weapons of mass destruction, looting and Donald Rumsfeld.”

The more names we dropped the more our conversation spiraled out of control and went into meaningless circles. Truth is, even in spite of the sometimes heated tones, I really think none of us really believed anything about the war- I mean really believed. It’s easy to take a stand, but if you really want to know what’s important to person don’t look at their words- look at their actions.  Our beliefs, on some level or another, must burden us, must lead us to take inconvenient measures.

I am not going to tell you my views of the war. Professional ethics forbid me from sharing those with you. Still, what would they matter? If I was against the war, I never felt passionately enough to protest or write my congressman. If I was for it, I never bothered to write a letter of support to a serviceman…or even to pray for them. If beliefs are really expressed in what we do, it’s impossible to overlook the fact that I’ve done nothing.

After all the fighting, the dinner actually ended on a pleasant note. Walking my guests to the door, I felt strangely proud of myself. Not because I won the debate or proved to be smartest at the table. I think What’s His Face earned that award. You see my good mood had nothing to do with the topic of conversation. Even though it was clear that my beliefs on the war were non existent, it was equally clear that at least I believed in something else. I publically stated that it’s important to get to know and care for the people that God puts in your path. They weren’t just words, at the end of the dinner party they had become action.

“We need to do this again” said the wife of  Katy Corner Neighbor.”

“Yes we do.” I agreed.

We were still separated by the distances of thought and world views, we still had a wall in between us, but for the first time there was something. I really think we had finally become neighbors

Questions to Consider

1.     What do you really believe?

2.      What actions have you committed to back it up?

 Every one needs a motto, some cliché or phrase that keeps them motivated. I’ve finally found one. I am ripping it right off a television show. If I use it the right way- it may just change my life. That’s the topic of the next Off The Wahl Essay. Come back on Tuesday morning  

 

 

 

Crap Shoot

The other night, while cleaning out my desk, I came across something from my past. Buried in a draw, underneath mounds of paper, was an old spiral notebook. There was no need to open the cover. The contents were instantly familiar. Inside was a homemade ledger that recorded all the profits and losses from my gambling days.

Okay, that sounds kind of dramatic. In truth my “gambling days” only lasted for about a month and a half. It never got to the point where I was forced to pawn my belongings. In fact, not to brag here, I was very good at it. So good, that my mind started to dream about quitting my job and making a living as a professional craps player.

Sure that’s sound funny, and if only you could see the ledger it would become down right hysterical. Yes, I always managed to leave the casino with more money than I started. For 37 nights in a row I showed a profit, but certainly not enough to turn this brief addiction into a life long career. The notebook was filled with small accomplishments, markings of plus 20, plus 50 or the occasional 75 or 80 dollars.

Men tend to get addicted to betting because of the excitement and the rush of adrenalin. Women, many of them seniors, often get hooked because the slot machine is a cure to their loneliness. For me it was something different. At its core, I really think I just wanted to prove that I was smarter than the casino. In that sense it didn’t matter how much I won, the slightest net gain accomplished my goal.

Like every gambler I had my own system. It was ingenious. You’d marvel at the mind that created the formula. Some of you would celebrate its simplistic way of managing the losses.  Others would be impressed by the complex strategy of where and when to place the bets.

Oh, sure I’d like to go into detail about how it worked, but to be honest that would just be a waste of time. As hard as this is to admit I now know that my system, and brain for that matter, had nothing to do with all the winnings.

Luck doesn’t get the credit either. It’s virtually mathematically impossible to beat the house night after night.

So why did it happen? The answer to the riddle was starring back at me from the ledger. The precise reason behind all the winnings was rather small, really small. In fact its size was everything. I kept coming out ahead because I willing to embrace the smaller victories.  

Life is just better, and far less complicated, when we remember to celebrate the quitter successes. It’s such a simple concept, but at times so hard to execute. I know it works in gambling… so why can’t I carry it over in other aspects of my life.

Once upon a time, not all that long ago, it seemed like I knew how to work this system.

At the start of my career it didn’t take much to fill me with pride.  As a reporter every assignment was embraced as a challenging and exciting adventure.  To pull the tapes and to look at those stories today, filled with rookie mistakes, would probably prove embarrassing. Still, back then, to me- they seemed like the best thing ever aired on television.

There was a time, as strange as this will sound, when getting a bill in the mail was actually worth celebrating. Somehow having to pay the electric company was sign of independence and freedom.

Do you remember the first kiss you shared with your spouse? Didn’t it seem magical, weren’t there fire works in the sky?

Nothing lasts forever. Even fireworks eventually fizzle. On the surface it’s not all that bad. Growth requires change. The bar needs to get higher and higher. That’s fine. I can live with that. Sometimes, though, it gets so high that what was once special now lacks all value; work becomes mundane, bills become a burden, a kiss is just something you settle for.

You want to know why my winning streak ended at the crabs table. After 37 nights I was destined to fail. It wasn’t because things went horribly wrong 24 hours later. The 38^th evening started off just like all the rest, in fact – if I wanted to- I could have left with a profit.  But what was the point? Who would want to walk off with 20 extra bucks when the previous night they made 11 hundred dollars?

 

 That one huge payoff, all the money, ruined my perspective. Suddenly a smaller amount was no longer reason to celebrate. So- I stayed at the table, and managed to turn my victory into one big loss. That was the last time I’ve been into a casino.

All of this is on my mind because a similar situation seems to be playing out in my relationship with God.

When I first returned to church my prayers became requests specifically for small favors. Perhaps I felt a little guilty, maybe even intimidated. After years of being on the outside it just seemed out of line to ask God to solve the bigger issues. So instead of probing for a winning lottery ticket, or a cure for a receding hairline, I approached him with hopes of getting a phone call (out of the blue) from a particular old friend. There was one occasion when I asked for help in getting out of a traffic ticket by filling the heart of the police officer with warmth and compassion.

Many of my prayers went unanswered, but a few of them were fulfilled. Each time it happened I was left in awe. My faith started to grow deeper and deeper. It became so much easier to belief that God existed when it appeared, that he cared   that I existed.

As he drew me in closer, my courage started to build. Now I was asking for his help in dealing with the complex. The rate of answered prayers didn’t increase, but even with these lofty desires he was willing to grant several wishes. The problem is I was no longer paying attention to the smaller things he was still doing.

All of it came to a dramatic peak this past January. He not only answered a big prayer, I mean a really big prayer, he did it in a hurry. It took him only eight hours. That should have motivated me to go to him more often, but it didn’t. In fact, while I still pray, I no longer go to him with problems.

Part of me feels like I am just storing away credit for the next big crisis, but the truth is if I went to him, I’d have better odds of avoiding that crisis in the first place.

Distances has now creped into our relationships. We’re not as close as we were just a few months ago.  On my part it’s kind of turned into one of those what have you done for me lately routines.  I think I already know his response to the question;  “A lot.” He’d tell me in an angry voice. “You just haven’t  been paying any attention.”

I debated whether to throw away the gambling ledger, but in the end decided to keep it. My month long addiction only occupied a handful of pages, the rest shouldn’t be wasted. Perhaps I can use them to start recording those other assists,  those smaller success, that are too often overlooked.

Questions to Consider.  And remember please share your thoughts with the rest of us under the comments section

1.     What are the smaller success you need to celebrate in  your own life?

2.     As overlooking these elements ever made you feel distant from God?

If you haven’t read the comment section, you should really check out what a number of people wrote about the last essay on gossiping. I want to thank everyone who is contributing their thoughts. It really adds a lot.

Later this week we will have an update on an essay called Jim Died Today ( https://offthewahl.wordpress.com/2008/07/28/jim-died-today/). My next-door neighbor came over for dinner recently and it was great, until the conversation turned to politics. I hope you’ll come back on Thursday…possibly Friday for something called the Dinner Party

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lights and Sirens

New Year’s is a long way off, but all the same it’s time to make a resolution. I am taking a vow. As of this moment I am going to reform my ways. It’s time to say good bye to an ugly blemish that’s plagued my life for far too long. You’re needed in this effort. Hold me accountable. What I am trying to accomplish cannot be done alone.

Never again will I partake in gossip.

The need for such a makeover became apparent this past Friday. It started to unfold only a few laps into my nightly swim. The exercise was rudely interrupted with the blaring sounds and flashing lights of a fire engine. When it pulled into my development I responded like a kid who just heard the melodies of an ice cream truck: “Snow cones! Rock Pops! FIRE! Something is on Fire!”

There was no need for personal alarm. The driver quickly passed the horseshoe of condominiums where I live and headed towards the back of the complex. Getting out of the pool, soaking wet, I followed to see what was going on.

Within seconds more noisy vehicles were on the scene. First there was an ambulance, then a police car, and then another one- and another one after that. Finally an unmarked suburban arrived. Rescue workers have a name for such chaos. They call it the “blue light special.”

“I wouldn’t want to live over there. That building is cursed!” Another resident had walked out of his home and was now standing beside me. Who knows when he moved here; it must have been a while ago because he certainly knew all the gruesome details of building C. “It caught fire a few years ago, and than a little baby died in its crib one night. Then right around this time last year John shot himself in the head….in fact, he lived in the same unit those paramedics are entering.”

We all inherently know that hanging around in the neighborhood rumer mill is wrong, but it’s one of those sins that we try to justify. Few of us who like to dish the dirt actually consider ourselves to be gossips. “No, not me. I am just spreading the truth, sharing information. It’s not gossip, it’s  really news.”

Even those who can readily admit they have a problem lesson their crime by comparing it to far greater flaws. “It’s not like I murdered anyone, or cheated on my wife or stole something. God’s probably not happy with me, but come on! It’s really no big deal. Besides, everybody does it.”

The crowd was quickly gathering. People were coming out of the woodwork- literally! Several residents from the complex next-door suddenly emerged from a small forested area that divides the two properties. At its peak, the commotion was captivating the attention of at least two dozen adults.

“You see that SUV?,” someone was motioning towards the unmarked vehicle, “That’s got to be from the C.I.S unit.” Knowing how to gawk is an essential element to the gossip game. Speculating on what everything means is sometimes even more fun than having all the facts.

Soon we were all reading into the finer details. “It’s taken a long time, that must mean it’s pretty bad” or “It can’t be too serious, that one officer over there has never left his car.” 

 Than came our big moment, the sign we’d been waiting for.  We could all make out the back of a paramedic emerging from the door. He was clearly trying to negotiate a stretcher through a narrow hallway. Anticipation was growing. We didn’t dare divert our eyes. We had to get this part of the story right. Whether it was a sheet covering a body, or a victim with a bloody gunshot wound, this was the crucial element we’d soon be describing to others.

And then it happened. We all saw it at the same time. The stretcher was empty. Soon the ambulance, fire truck, and two of the police cars were moving on. As they left, instantly, a big sigh of relief quickly moved over the crowd.

Okay, that last sentence is a total lie.

I mean, that’s what should have happened. It would have said a lot more about our collective character if we were all grateful that the events were not all that serious.  And yet, as the crowd broke up, people seemed to be generally disappointed. “I guess it’s no big deal,” some one was heard muttering in a dejected voice.  It was like we felt cheated, like our time had been wasted. Some of us even walked away with shoulders slumped and spirit broken.

The revelation was still a couple of days away, but looking back- I wish it would have been that moment when I realized the truth about gossiping. It is a horrible sin. There’s no point even trying to justify it.  It is every bit as bad as murder, adultery or theft. You see, too often, in order for the gossip to be worth spreading around, it has to be about another person in pain.

So that’s how my weekend started, and it would end on a similar note. As I was walking to my car on Sunday, a neighbor of mine, the same one who knew all the gruesome details of the past, wanted to share the latest one on his list. “Hey, I found out what happened,” Somehow, in the exact same moment, his tone was both remorseful and excited; “John’s wife killed herself. Sleeping pills! Yeah, I guess the ambulance left because there was no sense taking her to the hospital.”

The news hit me like a ton of bricks. Every ounce of my body was being convicted. I was ashamed for taking part in the spectacle of Friday night, embarrassed that I didn’t just stay in the pool, troubled that in all the frenzy I lacked the presence of mind to pray for whoever was in need.

 Something else was bothering me. It was something so ugly it would leave me with the desire to change my ways, to get rid of this blemish. You see, part of me was also a little bit jealous that someone else had the scoop.

All my life I’ve aspired to be the first-to-know. In a strange way that desire is probably a longing for power. Turns out it’s an addiction, but it’s rather easy to break. It’s just a matter of hearing information that’s so ugly it reveals more about yourself than someone else.

Few people will admit they are gossips, but it is time to come clean. I am challenging, double-dog-daring you to share your own experiences. Just click the word comment below. Here are some questions to get you started.

1.      Have you ever tried to justify gossiping?

2.      Have you ever hurt someone by revealing information about their life?

3.      When was the last time someone gossiped about you?

Many avid readers of this Column live in New Mexico. They are old friends who will remember a time when I went to the casino every night.  I had a system- and it worked. I mean it really worked.  It worked so well, that for a while I was actually considering making my living by shooting dice.  Now if only I could take that system and apply it to the rest of my life everything would be so much better. That’s the topic of the next Off  The Wahl Essay. Come back on Monday for something called “Crap Shoot”

The 5th Step

My friend has given me permission to tell this story, provided I keep his identity hidden. The other names used here are made up.

 

The 5^th Step

 

When you become a supervisor or go into management the first thing they teach you is that each individual needs to be motivated differently. Some respond to the hand holding of a micro manager. Others strive when given more freedom; they only require the vaguest of instructions. Wouldn’t it be nice if the tender approach always worked, if there wasn’t so many people who can only “get going” when a fire is lit underneath them. Figuring out what works on who is the most complicated part of any manager’s job.

 

God, however, has the process down to a science. He is constantly pushing the right buttons to get us to do what he wants. He probably alters his approach, making really specific and fine tuned changes for each and everyone of us.  In my case God sometimes uses the tactic known as the practical joke.

 

He put this strategy into play just last month. I wrote an essay called  What Friends are For  It’s about a buddy of mine who is going through a lot right now.  One night he chose to confide in me, opening up and putting all his garbage on the table. There was just one problem; how could I understand what he was going through, when I had never gone through it myself. Not to worry, by the end of the column, I had come to terms with our differences and publicly declared that I’d be there for him.

 

Feelings of accomplishment swept over me after posting the new article. Another one was in the bag, besides I’d come out of the essay looking like the “good guy.” It’s always nice when I can feel better about myself.

 

Those emotions ended just a few hours later. The phone was ringing; it was my friend- the same one I had just written about. I knew he hadn’t read the essay, so he wasn’t calling to complain. There was no reason to avoid him, but I soon regretted taking the call.

 

“Hey man, I got a favor” he wasted no time getting into his pitch. “We’re having an open N.A. meeting tonight and I’d like you to go with me.”

 

“N.A.? What does that stand for?” I already knew the answer to my question but was hoping there was some other organization that used the same initials.”

 

“Narcotics anonymous! The meeting starts at 7:00, I’ll pick you up?”

 

Make no mistake.  God has a sense of humor.  In this case, he wasn’t laughing with me, he was laughing at me.  There was clearly a misunderstanding. My intent was to support my friend with the occasional pat on the back. Now- an N.A. meeting, people were going to think I was addict! If only there was enough time I could go to a novelty store and buy a t-shirt with a big, black arrow pointing in my friends’ direction.

 

The reason and logic was wasted on God. He was far too busy laughing.  His chuckle had turned into an all out guffaw. I’m not completely sure, but at one point I think I heard him say: “Oh my sides! My sides. Stop it! You’re killing me!

 

My worst fears were realized.  I really did look like an addict…or maybe they looked like me.  You go to an NA meeting with the expectations of being surrounded by desperate people…strung out, gaunt faces, those just looking for their next fix.  The truth is what you find are the same faces you see throughout the course of a day. 

 

The topic at tonight’s meeting was the 5^th step.  Later I would learn that it requires an addict to admit to God, to themselves, and to another human being the exact nature of their wrong. 

 

“Does anyone want to share their experience?”  The moderator spoke very loud with an authoritative voice, but for a moment,  it appeared that no one heard him.  An awkward pause filled the cafeteria.  Looking back everyone was probably just trying to sum up the courage to vocalize their pain.  At least 30 seconds went by before a man who looked to be his forties finally broke the silence. 

 

“My name is Joe.  I am an addict.”

 

“Hi Joe.” The group collectively greeted him.

 

 

Joe began to talk about his struggle to pick the right person.  He wondered if he should go with his sponsor or a member of his family. 

 

Emily reluctantly stood next.  She was two years into recovery, had completed all 12 steps, but admitted that number 5 was a big hurdle.  “It didn’t make sense to me.  In the 4^th step I had to make the list, do an inventory of all my crimes and past deeds.  So what was the point of the 5th step?  I had already been there and done that” 

 

After each speaker finished, the group collectively thanked them “for sharing”.   The gratitude was followed by more painful silence.  But it was becoming shorter and shorter.  No longer was it 30 seconds.  Now only 15…or 10 seconds would pass before someone proved brave enough to stand. 

 

A man in his 20’s spoke of all the pain he caused–the stolen pills, the bounced checks, the lifetime of lies.  Another man of similar age focused on the word, “nature”.  To him it wasn’t just enough to compile a list of past mistakes.  “To truly understand the nature of one’s wrong,” he suggested, “a person has to figure out the reason behind the offenses.”

 

I had skipped the first four stages, but somehow it seemed that I needed to be making my own confession.  If not for the guilt of trying to help out a friend, I would have spent a lifetime trying to avoid the people who were now surrounding me.  In my self-centered world, the individuals who came in contact with me were either seen as assets or written off as liabilities.  The strategy seemed to make sense.  In fact, it was almost Biblical. 

 

In his writings, King Solomon warns to avoid the wicked and wrong doers.  To follow in their path is to run the risk of stumbling.  His advice reminds me of the words of my mother, “You’re hanging out with the wrong crowd.” 

 

There was no longer time to wait.  The hour was almost up.  It was speak now or forever hold your peace.  Who knows what took Jennifer so long to tell her story.  She could have had a fear of public speaking or maybe she was afraid of embarrassing herself.  Somehow, by waiting ‘til the end of the night, her words put a period on the entire discussion.  “This is about freedom.  It really is.  Don’t think of it as a confession.   It’s really about taking something off your shoulders, and putting it on someone elses,” there was a glimmer of tears in her eyes; it was obvious that it took her a while to learn this lesson “You need those other people. If you try to do it on your own, you’ll just go back to the drugs.” 

 

I think Solomon got it wrong…or more likely, I misunderstood what he was trying to say.  It’s not the mistakes—or the way that people once lived.  It’s how they’re living now that really counts.  The measure of those at the NA meeting was not the size of the hole they found themselves in but the depths they were going to dig themselves out. 

 

When it was time to leave, my friend made it a point to introduce me to his sponsor.  We exchanged polite greetings and were about to go our separate ways.  As I turned to walk to the car, the sponsor yelled out at me, “Hey Doug, we’re having another meeting on Saturday.  I hope you can make it.” 

 

He really did think I was an addict.  Amazingly, the allegation didn’t bother me.  Truth is, I am not sure I deserved to be in such good company.

 

 

Questions for Comment

1 Has it ever felt like you were the victim of a practical joke played by God?

2. Have you ever looked down, or tried to avoid someone who was struggling?

3. What’s the biggest hole you’ve ever found yourself in?

 

If you’d like to read the What are Friends For Essay just click here  https://offthewahl.wordpress.com/2008/07/17/what-friends-are-for/

 

Does your job ever interfere with your home life? How do you know when to take off one hat and put the other one on? This is something I struggle with all the time. When I get it wrong, the newsman actually turns into nothing short of a gossip. It happened this past weekend. I’ll you all about in the next Off the Wahl Essay called Lights and Sirens 

 

 

Tiffany

 

 

It was inevitable. There was no way around it. Circumstances, far beyond my  control,are requiring me to write about Tiffany.

She’s a very special person in my life, one of my oldest friends. We met in junior high, were debate partners in high school, partied together a lot (too much, really) in college and have been confidants ever since. Plus, if that isn’t enough, she holds a very impressive title. Twenty years ago, twenty years ago this October, Tiffany became the first girl I kissed.

It only happened on that one occasion, but that’s still an important anniversary. It should be reason enough to celebrate. The milestone deserves a phone call where two old friends reminisce over this sweet, and yes- somewhat embarrassing adolescent moment. I’d call her too….if only I wasn’t so afraid that her fiancé would pick up the phone

Just two days from now Tiffany is getting married. The wedding is taking place in the French Riviera. She moved to Europe a few a years ago and fell in love with a tall, dark and handsome Italian man named Franck.

Oh, what’s expected of me is clear. I’m supposed to say something like: “Congratulations. No one I know deserves a lifetime of happiness more.” Well, that’s simply not true. There is someone more deserving; Me! You know it. I know it. Tiffany knows it. Did she ever stop to think of how her wedding would affect my happiness? Didn’t she realize that even though we never dated each other, that the news of her engagement would instantly make her “the one that got away.”

I don’t need that kind of regret in my life.

How is it possible to feel like you’re losing something that you never really had? What is it about this woman that the very thought of her spending the rest of her life with somebody else- let alone some guy named Franck- can bring out this horrible streak of jealousy? There are the usual suspects. She’s beautiful. She’s one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. She’s worldly. She was born with a natural zest for life. Every day is an adventure to her. She is, in short, the type of person you’d want to grow old with, because she’d always manage to make you feel young. All of those are great qualities, the type of things you’d want in a life partner, and yet…none of them are reasons behind my feelings.

The Truth is what makes Tiffany so special has little to do with her and everything to do with Doug.

Over the years, as I’ve bounced around the country, most of my friendships have just vanished. Disappeared into thin air. They were victimized by the distance of space and time. Long forgotten are the neighborhood kids, the teammates from Little League, the classmates from elementary through high school. Occasionally I’ll hear from my old college roommate or get a Christmas card from a colleague in the early part of my career. Otherwise they are all gone.

 Tiffany has been the one constant- other than family. She knows where I came from, because she came from there, too. She understands my roots. She remembers the awkward kid in junior high, the obnoxious high schooler, the college kid who was destined for great things, the young adult who set out to conquer the world, and the man- who on more than one occasion- fell flat on his face. She cheered through great successes and offered support during the horrible heartaches. In every way, shape, and form she has been a very good friend.

I should have noticed, but my attention was elsewhere. So much time and effort was spent trying to impress strangers. If I could just get this person, who was only introduced to me moments ago, to like me….than I’d feel so much better about myself. Oh, how I hope they find me funny, or charming, or intelligent, or handsome- and then I will have it made.

What about the people who know me, really know me? Shouldn’t their opinions count a whole lot more? My pastor is fond of a saying: “Success is when the people who love you the most are those who know you the best.”

You should check out the happy couple’s website, Franck and Tiffany dot com.  It’s very European. You can read it in either English or Italian. There are links to all kinds of information on the French Riviera, subtle music starts playing in the background while you browse. At first it resembles a Caribbean beat, but then it quickly changes into something more artsy and cultural. Suddenly your mind is on a journey and you feel like your sipping a cappuccino on some sidewalk bistro. It’s so surreal that for a moment you totally overlook that the fact that in the middle of the page is this stranger! What is Franck doing with his hands around my first kiss? Who is this guy? Where did he come from? What gives him the right?

Now that he’s come along, now that Tiffany has become “the one that got away,” I’m forced to start all over from scratch. I’ll have to get back in the game, keeping up my guard, carefully selecting what is revealed, slowly releasing the skeletons from my closet one date at a time: “Gosh, I hope this doesn’t scare her away.”

With a little luck, one day a woman may come along who shares my interests. The two of us will like the same hobbies, same kind of music and even have similar life experiences, but for as much as we’ll have in common, my future wife will fall in love, for better or worse, with the man that I am today. She will never completely know or understand the “me” that made me “Me.” 

It took the arrival of a wedding invitation for me to arrive at a huge realization. All of us want to be loved, but deep down we are really longing for something else. More than love, we all want to be understood. Maybe that is too much to expect from any human being. Perhaps such awareness can only come from God. Still, when a person comes along and sees you for who you are, when they’re aware of your flaws and embrace you with their friendship-in spite of all your shortcomings-when there is no need to act or try to impress…you have found yourself a Tiffany.

So, Tiff, congratulations. Sincerely, no one else I know is more deserving of a lifetime of happiness. Oh, okay…if I have to… congratulations to you too Franck.

Question to consider

What do you value more; the respect from strangers or those who know you well?

Who is the Tiffany in your life?

From the update file, last week in an essay called Jim Died Today, I promised to invite my next door neighbor over for dinner. Well, they are coming over this Saturday- and I will let you know how that goes.

 Another Update; in an essay called What Friends are For, I publically stated that I’d be there for a friend who was going through a crisis. You’ll never believe what happened just a few hours after posting that column. It is such an incredible story that it is the topic of our next Off  The Wahl essay. Check back Monday for something called “The 5^th Step”  

Soiled Underwear

The operator of my son’s daycare greeted me with a sad look. Her eyebrows were arched, worry lines were puncturing through the skin of her forehead, and the tips of her mouth were slightly turned down. She looked liked a person who reluctantly was about to break some bad news. She didn’t need to say a word; I already knew what was coming.

 

“Don’t tell me,” I tried to take the burden from her shoulders “It’s happened again.”

 

“Yeah,” she said, somewhat relieved that it was out in the open, “He did it on recess. We noticed it when he got back inside.”

 

For the second day in a row my son made a mess in his pants. There’d be no reason for concern if he was just starting potty training- but the truth was he had been diaper free for at least eight or nine months. If it was just one day it could be dismissed with a simple: “Hey, accidents happen.” But now- two days in a row- there seemed to be an unexplainable pattern forming.

 

“Have there been any major changes at home?” The sad look of the daycare provider was now a distant memory. Suddenly she was playing the role of a prosecutor going in for the kill- determined to put my parenting skills on the witness stand “Has he had a normal diet? Wet his bed at all? Complained of any pain?”

 

The problem actually started sometime last week at my ex’s house. When I picked up our son a few days ago his mom warned that this could be an issue.

 

“Has he been crying more than usual,” the third degree was still in session, “Has he seemed depressed? You know, it really could be depression.”

 

Depression? He’s three-years-old! Are there really depressed toddlers?  “No,” I cut Perry Mason off in mid sentence, “I am sure that’s not it.”

 

Truth is, I was anything but sure. Feelings of helplessness started to take over. Was there a larger problem? Searching for answers, a Google search that is, I prepared myself for the worse. Could it be emotional? Psychological? Physical?

 

Each website had its own take, but one word kept popping up over and over again. No, it wasn’t Prozac or even Ritalin. The word was far more troubling than that. The common denominator was “control.”

 

According to the research, if I understand this correctly, the theory goes along these lines; my son feels like he has very little influence in his own life. His parents make all the key decisions. We decide when he goes to bed, what he gets to watch on television, if he’ll get that plastic toy he spotted in the check out aisle. He controls nothing- well, not exactly nothing. There is one area where he has complete autonomy; his underwear. This is where he gets to call the shots. Recently he’s decided that instead of losing this power too, he’s much more content to just make a mess of things.

 

It certainly plays out in a different manner, but there are a lot of adults who are just like my son. The desire to constantly be in charge is the most common and self destructive personality flaw on the planet. We could get rid of so much unwanted stress, depression and anxiety if only we knew how to just let go.

 

Isn’t it true, ironically enough, that the more we try to hold on to control, the more out-of-control things tend get? The more decisions we insist on making, the less freedom we actually have. Oh, I can speak on this issue with complete authority. I am a certified, card carrying control freak.

 

Name the topic and at one point or another I’ve tried in that area, unsuccessfully of course, to exert my will and to get my way. It’s happened   in romantic relationships, in fiscal maters, in trying to force the next career move, in refusing to put down the toilet seat, in failing to relinquish the remote, in allowing my right foot to reach for an imaginary break all in hopes of preventing a friend’s car from running that quickly approaching stop sign….and, to be honest I’ve even tried to control God.

 

It seems irrational to try to control the creator of the universe, but in my world it happens all the time. My prayers are more of a counseling session where I dish out unsolicited advice. Oh, I pepper them with the right clichés: “I want your will to be done,” but mostly what I am really saying is, “Let me tell you what you need to be doing down here. Take some notes because you’re going to want to get this right.”

 

He probably responds a lot like a father at the supermarket. “No, I am not getting you that plastic toy in the check out aisle. You’re not going to win the lottery, or be offered a magical new job. Just have faith in me. I’ve got it under control. In time it will all make sense.”

 

“Oh, yeah!” I respond to often with a harsh tone and hasty action,” I’ll show you! I’m taking over. Where going to do it my way ..,even if it means making a mess.”

 

At its core wanting to control everything is a complete lack of acceptance. It seems strange to say, but the greatest potential of growth probably happens when we discover our own limitations. At some point we simply have to acknowledge that this is as far as we can take it-and to surrender.

 

When we got home from the daycare center, I sat my son down on my lap. The two of us needed to talk. “You know how to use the potty,” I tried to encourage him; “You’re smart. You can do this. Okay, you’re not going to have any accidents tomorrow.”

 

I think he got the message. He clearly read between the lines. He knows that what I was really telling him is: “You just got to trust your father.” It’s strange; because that’s a lesson his dad still needs to learn, too.

 

Question to Consider

What’s the one area where it’s hardest for you to let go?

 

This Marks Off the Wahl’s one month anniversary. In the last 30 days we’ve had just under 13 hundred hits.  Thank you all for reading what I have to say.

 

I need a personal favor. Is there anyone out there who’d be willing to go to France with me? You don’t have much time to think it over. We have to leave in the next couple of days. We have to get there by Saturday morning to break up a wedding.  I want to be there to yell “NO!!!” at the precise moment when the reverend asks; “do you take this man.” Oh, I am being completely serious here. You’d understand why if you knew the bride…or maybe I should say, you’d understand if the bride knew you. That’s the topic of our next Off the Wahl essay simply called “Tiffany”