A Christmas Present 44 Years in the Making

About two or three feet away from where I sit at work is the drop off site for UPS and Federal Express packages. When it absolutely, positively, has to get there overnight then feel free to cutter the area surrounding my desk.

Normally I don’t give any thought to what is being sent out, but in the mix today is something that has caught my attention. In the middle of all the card board envelopes is a rather large brown box destined for Green Bay, Wisconsin. I don’t know what’s inside, but it has to be heavy. Our Chief Engineer, Dan Ulmer, used a dolly to pull the package all the way from his office.

Dan is one of those coworkers who I really don’t know all that well. We say “hello” to each other in the hallway and exchange in polite small talk when we happen to be at the coffee machine at the same time- but otherwise we’re strangers.

 Still, all the same, it is impossible not to like Dan. He is the personification of someone born in the upper Midwest. He is good natured, kind and thorough- very thorough. Most off all you like how he sounds. He has this dialect that instantly reminds you of the movie Fargo or Sarah Palin.

It’s been my experience that the most mild mannered of people tend to have the best stories.  Dan definitely fits that category but his story does not. What he experienced, what he went through, the way he survived, is nothing short of a tragedy?  In fact it is so sad that I’d never think of telling you about it… if it wasn’t for that box sitting just a few feet away.

On a winter morning back in 1964 Dan, along with his older brother and their father, set out on a snowmobile adventure threw their home town in Eastern Wisconsin. All three were on the same machine with those in the back rapping their arms around the person in front of them.  I am not sure where Dan was positioned. He was only eight years old at the time so I have a mental picture of him being sandwich in between the other two. Maybe he was. Maybe I just made that up.

When you’re from the North it’s the winter that provides your childhood with its special moments. All of us from that part of the country can tell stories about the first igloo we built, or the screeching sound of breaks from a car just hit with a snowball. There are tales of going ice fishing, or getting all the neighborhood kids together for a toboggan run. And for some, like Dan, there was snowmobiling.

When you think about it the sport doesn’t make much sense.  It requires either a certain level of bravery or outright insanity. It doesn’t matter how many layers your mother made you wear, even if you successfully covered every inch of exposed skin, when you jump on a machine that goes 45 miles per hour, in sub zero degree weather…it’s going to be cold.

But that’s the thing about being from the North. Looking back, no matter what the temperature the memories all seem to be so warm.

Well, not all the memories.

Something went horribly wrong that day back in 1964.  It happened when the Ulmers tried to cross the frozen Fox River. They didn’t make it. The ice started to give way.

Dan was telling me the story after he dropped off the package. It was actually the second time he shared it with me. With most people I would have interrupted and reminded them politely; “yeah, I remember you telling me about this before.” With Dan I let him go on. Not only did I want to hear the story again, this time I was hoping he would go into more detail.

 Truth is I am not sure how much he remembers.  He talked about the snowmobile falling through the ice. He remembers his father saying “Save the boys I’ll be okay” and then he remembers that rope that appeared out of nowhere.

Dan was saved because a stranger happened to be at the right place at the right time.

He remembers being in the hospital and all the attention and love he got from the nurses and doctors. And of course there is no way from him to forget that painful moment, just before he was released, when his mom told him that neither Dan’s brother or father made it out alive.

That’s where the story stopped the first time Dan told me. It was back in January, back in a time when everyone at work was in a lot of pain. We had just lost our General Manager Karl Davis in a motorcycle accident. Dan was telling me how the sudden death of our boss reminded him of what happened to his family decades earlier.

Since then a lot as happened. In September this television market became the first in the nation to switch to digital broadcasting. As the Chief Engineer Dan became a leading expert in the new technology. He has been interviewed by reporters all over the country, including one from Green Bay.

“Yeah- this kid actually did a background search on my name,” this time Dan’s story had a new ending. “He discovered that I was the kid from the Fox River and even tracked down the stranger who pulled me out.”

In the last few months Dan has been in contact with the stranger’s wife. The man, now in his 70’s, is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s and is unable to talk.

Consequently the two have never spoken. In fact over the years it appears the man has never told anyone about what happened. It wasn’t until the article came out that his wife and his children even knew about the hero that lived with them. They did, however, wonder why he always kept that same rope in the truck of his car- car after car- decade after decade. Anytime they’d ask him about it he’d try to dismiss it with what they thought was a joke, “Oh, that’s just my life saving rope” he told them.

Dan story is certainly dramatic and tragic, but I bet you it’s not unlike your own. All of us- every single one of us- has someone who came into our life at exactly the right moment in time. They were there to provide a word of encouragement, to help us get our life back on course, to let us know that hope was not lost. Most of the time they figuratively (but as Dan’s life proves sometimes literally too) threw us a rope when we needed it the most.

Have you told that person “thanks” this Christmas?

No matter what’s inside, that box is really just one big thank you note. Whatever Dan gave the family- I am sure it falls far short. How do you express that level of gratitude that rightly goes to the person who’s actions let you grow up, to fall in love, to become a father and a success in your career? How do you say thank you to someone who gave you your life?

On second thought, maybe it’s not that hard. May you just do what Dan is doing and reach out to someone who once reached out to you.

I hope you have a merry Christmas and time to spend with those you love. But most off all, I pray that God will give you an opportunity to say “thanks” this year.

  If you would like to share your stories on the person who came along at the right moment in your life just click the comment button below

If you would like to read the newspaper article from Greenbay click on this link http://www.greenbaypressgazette.com/article/20081209/GPG0101/812090552/1978

Confessions of a Spirtual Snob

There’s a story I’ve been trying to tell you for quite some time now. It took place back in October and ever since then, virtually every day, I sit down at the computer and attempt to put it all together. It just never seems to come out the right way.

 It’s not so much a case of writer’s block in fact it is just the opposite. What I want to share with you was such a powerful experience that I know- if told correctly- it should be the best thing I’ve ever written. And yet, no matter how much I struggle, whatever comes out on paper just seems to be lacking the true essences of the moment. The worse thing about trying to write isn’t so much figuring out what you want to say; instead it’s always in finishing what you failed to get off to a perfect start.

That Sunday morning back in October really did seem like the perfect beginning. Not just to the day, but perhaps even to a new career and maybe even a new me.

For the first time ever I was asked be a guest speaker. A church in Leland, North Carolina invited me to address its congregation.  They were actually using my appearance, along with that of a traveling Southern Gospel singer, to drum up new members. The pastor had published thousands of flyers and paid to have them inserted in the local newspaper. This may have been a small country church, but oh, how it seemed like something so big. It was only a matter of time before I’d be playing in bigger venues.

My plan was to talk about community. After all, when you think about it, the hundreds of people who’d show up were actually shoppers.  They were really just folks searching around for the perfect spiritual home. I’d tell them that they can worship God anywhere, that they didn’t need to belong to a church to do that, and yet that there is something undeniable that you cannot get when you go it alone. How important it is to surround yourself with other believers- only then do you understand what it’s like to be held accountable.

 The speech would include a long section on my first impressions, misconceptions really, of what it meant to belong to a church. As a child it always seemed like appearance mattered most.  To us the cliché “Put on your Sunday Best” didn’t just refer to your clothes, it went far beyond that, it really had more to do with the entire image you projected. Back then being a churchgoer meant playing the role of a problem free individual who magically had it all figured out.  If there was something wrong, some type of crisis, something traumatic, you simply failed to reveal it. Instead you masked it under the smiling faces of the All American Family.

This type of church meant mom and dad never fought, that the kids always obeyed and honored their parents, that there was never a worry about how that month’s mortgage payment would be made, or how to afford braces for your daughter or Little League for your sons.  The problem-free lifestyle only lasted for that one hour.  As soon as we got in the car, and started fighting about where to go to lunch, the reality sunk in- even to a young child- we were  not exactly the Brady Bunch and no where near whom we just pretended to be.

The feeling of fakeness probably keeps a lot of people away. If you’re lucky though you get to come back. Because as an adult you discover that being part of a church, being part of a community, has nothing to do with covering up the pain but everything to do with sharing it.

Pacing outside the church in Leland my mind was rehearsing the talk. I knew what scripture I’d quote and even the humorous anecdotes I’d share. That’s when I first saw him. Just a few yards away from me was a man in his fifties doing the same thing- aimlessly walking back and forth. It was clear that he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. I watched as he sat down on the bumper of his mini-van. Just a few feet above him, on the rear windshield, was a pink cancer ribbon and the words “in loving memory of my wife.”

“I am sorry about your loss.” Even as the words were coming out of my mouth they seemed so trite.

“Thank you,” he told me. “We just buried her on Wednesday.”

The two of us didn’t talk that long. Our conversation was interrupted when we were waved inside. Things were apparently getting underway. There was only one problem, a big problem; no one- I mean no one- showed up! If you took the Pastor and his family out of the mix, if you didn’t count the traveling Gospel singer and his wife, all you had left was six people. Probably the same six who showed up week after week.

“Hey, someone is coming!”

The shriek came from a man sitting near the window. I looked out to see a gray SUV pulling into the parking lot. I recognized the vehicle right away. It belongs to my boss. He was coming out to support me. It was a nice gesture but as I watched him get out of the car I wished he had stayed home.  I felt bad for being embarrassed, but I was embarrassed all the same.

Part of it was the people around me were so excited that someone had actually showed up that I was ashamed that it was someone I invited and not someone who responded to their massive advertising campaign. But it was more than that, much more. I was also embarrassed that my boss would associate me with this turnout. After all I belonged to one of these massive, modern day, mega churches. Some of our small groups had more members than this entire congregation.

The traveling gospel singer went on before me. His wife pressed a button on a lap top computer and suddenly music started to play. The vocalist belted away holding on to a microphone that I am not even sure was plugged in.  This was nothing like the 8 piece band that performs every week at my church.

 My speech was nothing like it was supposed to be either. It didn’t make sense to talk about community. What community? We didn’t even have enough people to fill a booth at a restaurant. I tried my best to sound profound, but basically just him-hawed around and got off the stage as quickly as possible.

After my performance the pastor introduced the same man who I had talked to outside.  It was a bit of a surprise because he wasn’t on the official agenda. The man had no intention of giving a speech; he just wanted to give thanks. Holding back the tears he told everyone how much he appreciated what they had done for him in the past few days. He talked about the long illness that took his wife and the courage that she showed. He said if it wasn’t for this church, this little country church that he would never have been able to get through this. And then he said; “We may be small in number but we’re big in heart.”

As he talked I started to sink further and further into my chair.  His words were convicting me. Some time along the way I had turned into a spiritual snob. How did that happen? Where and when did I start putting so much emphasis on numbers and size? It never occurred to me before, but bigger isn’t necessarily better. Certainly there are people, even in my own church, who get lost in the shuffle and never feel a connection? Something like that couldn’t happen in this country church. Here it is impossible to mask your feelings or to hide your pain.  It is simply too small for you to get away with that.

I left the church, on that autumn Sunday, with very mixed emotions.  There were feelings of failure, my speech fell far short of the mark and yet I had gained so much. In the ironies of ironies I had come with the hopes of talking about community, only to end up seeing it in action.

That was Harsh

Right now, at this moment, I have no desire to move. Well, maybe a better way to put it is: I physically cannot move. My entire body, every single muscle, is sore and worn out. My legs are in so much pain that they have actually become totally numb.  My arms are stiff and lifeless. It feels as if someone keeps punching me in the shoulder over and over again.  And then there is the neck, which  hurts  worse than any other part of my body; no longer can it rotate to the left or the right. Well, it can, but any movement comes along with an excruciating, stinging sensation which I ‘d really rather avoid.

It  feels like I was in a car wreck, but I wasn’t. I assume this is similar to what someone who got thrashed at a bar fight would experience, but that didn’t happen either.  Instead all of this pain and agony is the direct result of going to the gym. It’s not so much that I over did it- anyone who saw me working out knows that wasn’t the case. It’s more that this was my first appearance there in at least six months.  Consequently, I am totally, completely and utterly out of shape.

Many of us struggle with our weight.  I don’t know how it is for you, but for me, even when I am at my worst,it really only seems like a temporary problem. When I look years into the future, things have magically been fixed. The image that comes to mind is a man with a surfboard stomach and bulging biceps. You should see him… and one day you will. At that time you will agree that he looks good! Really good! I am so convinced that I will eventually get there that I can actually put off getting started.  Well, that used to be the case- but not anymore.

Motivation can sometimes come from the most unlikely of sources.  That’s what happened with me. Just a few weeks ago some younger colleagues of mine wanted to see a tape from my old reporter days. In television terms this is the equivalent of showing someone your high school yearbook. I knew how it would go down. They would laugh at how much my hair style (not to mention hairline) has changed. They would find it remarkably funny to see me in suits and ties. I rarely get dressed up for work these days.  They may even call me names. Oh, and I have to admit to looking like a nerd. You see, back in the day I wore horn-rimmed glasses meant to make me look smarter.

 Still, none of that would deter me. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in putting in the tape. Even with all the inevitable, good natured office teasing I  knew my younger friends would be impressed.  They would see my talent and have to admit that I was very good at what I use to do for a living.

“Wow!” One of them said just a few moments after the tape started rolling. It sounded like he was about to give me praise; instead he finished his sentence with a question; “Where’s the rest of you?”

What! Where’s the rest of you? I am not sure but that sounds like he’s calling me fat! The nerve of him! That was certainly harsh and uncalled for.

 Sure the person on the video tape, the old Doug, was much thinner. Perhaps as much as forty pounds, but that was a long time ago- at least six years have come and gone. A lot has changed since then; I’ ve entered my thirties, I am now a father, and I’m no longer am on the go as much. These days I am stuck behind a desk. This young punk kid in his early 20’s just doesn’t understand that our appearances change with age.

After the shock of his words settled in, my mind started to go over the proper responses.  Once upon a time I would have been tempted to engage in physical violence, or at the very least come up with a witty come back: “Oh, yeah! Well, I am rubber and you’re glue…” During a different part of my life a more passive aggressive technique would have been used; I wouldn’t have just ignored what he said, I would have completely ignored him- gone months without saying hello or acknowledging his existences in any way shape or form. That would have taught him!  

 Those options were quickly discarded as being too childish and immature. Besides, now that I am part of management, I have a better trick: I could rearrange his work schedule and give him the most dreadful of assignments. Oh, don’t put it pass me. I would have done it…if only it wasn’t for one thing. You see, as much as I hated to hear what he had to say, the truth is he was right.

The Old Testament is filled with stories of prophets. Most carried messages of doom and gloom and virtually all of them were ignored. People just don’t like to hear bad news. It’s so much easier to just kill the messenger. One of my favorite stories is that of King Zedekiah. He received a warning from the prophet Jeremiah. The prediction was one of death and destruction. Zedekiah’s response was to throw the prophet in a dungeon. “I don’t want to hear this stuff; get rid of him!” And so the problem became worse and ultimately death and destruction found the king.

Perhaps we still have prophets in today’s world. They may not see directly into the future, but like Jeremiah, they often tell us things we’d rather ignore…only to have the problem grow worse. They’re the bill collectors who’s phone calls we screen, or our parents offering up unsolicited advice> They’re the friend warning us that we are moving too quickly in a romance, or the spouse who nags that we should really get that pain checked out. And yes, sometimes they can be that punk kid at the office who phrases something rather harshly. Although it really doesn’t matter what words he used, the message is still be the same: “Doug, you better change your ways or else…”

So yeah, I am in pain today, but at least I got the message.

 

Question for comment

 When was the last time someone told you something you didn’t want to hear? What was the end result from ignoring their words?

I know what the next Off the Wahl will be about; I just don’t know when I will get over my current stage of writer’s bloc to put it together. We put too much stock into numbers.  It seems like society has come to the conclusion that bigger is always better.  Is there really a correlation between popularity and quality…after all Hannah Montana can sell out a show but at end of the day it’s still Hannah Montana.  I learned a lesson recently that puts numbers into perspective…and I’ll share that lesson with you…just as soon as I get around to writing it. It’s going to be called “Confessions of a Spiritual Snob.

Speech in Leland

The next off the Wahl Essay will be posted on Monday.

You know most people think prophets no longer exist, but I think they do. The modern day prophet makes predications without necessarily realizing it. Just like in the Old Testament sometimes their message can be one of doom and gloom- leaving it up to us to change our course to avoid the inevitable destruction. Too often we try to ignore and even block out what these visionaries have to say, but they are very persistent …they have to be… because these prophets we meet today are those friends who are closest to us. They are the type of people who tell it like it is- especially when we really don’t want to hear it.   Such a prophet spoke to me a few weeks ago. The topic was my weight. Come back on Monday for an essay called That’s Was Kind of  Harsh.

Now to the big news; For those of you who live in Brunswick County I wanted to take a moment and invite you to a speech I will be delivering on Sunday morning. Victory Free Will Baptist Church of Leland has asked me to pay a visit this weekend. I have no affiliation with this church, but met Pastor Jay Merritt (actually through this blog) a few months ago.  It’s a small congregation, but they have put up flyers through out the Leland area and are planning on having a public BBQ after the speech- so everyone is invited to see me potentially stick my foot in my mouth….well, at least there is free food. en If you’re interested here is the church’s website http://www.vfwbc.org/ Hope to see you there

Discarding Friends

Preface: The other night I reread some essays that I wrote several years ago. Going back is something very difficult for someone who likes to write. Seldom do the words hold up. Anytime I finish an essay I leave the computer convinced of its brilliance.  If I go back and look at the same piece the next day it doesn’t nearly seem so perfect- suddenly I am filled with a desire to change and tweak it. That is after just one day, so imagine what goes through my mind when I reread something that written years earlier.  One essay did capture my attention. The writing may not be as good as it once was…but I am sharing it with you today (in exactly the way it was originally written) because it spoke to something that’s been on my mind recently. I will get to those thoughts in a post script.

 

 

Discarding Friends

Last night I spent several hours last night working on a project that 
really should have been routine. It wasn’t. 

At the end I was overcome by an enormous sense of guilt and incredible feeling of sadness.

It all started with the purchase of a new phonebook. It’s something that was long overdue. My current directory was given to me as a gift after graduating college. It is more than nine years old.

Do you get sentimental about inanimate objects? I do.

Yes, it was just a phonebook, but I loved the thing. It’s made by out of softest brown leather, had a binder that allowed me to add more pages and had plenty of places to put business cards and pens.

After several years of loyal service, the phonebook fell apart. The binder stopped closing all the way. Some of the pages tore apart. The leather was scratched and cracked.

So my project last night was simple. All I had to do was copy the names and numbers of all my friends from the old book into the new one.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that this simple project would actually take a lot of work. My old book stores the information of more than three hundred people. Their names serve as a time capsule of my life. Those inscribed in ink are my friends; at least they were once upon a time. Now, all these years later, it just didn’t make sense to transfer some of them into the new book.

David Ambo was the first to go. I’ve known him since kindergarten but haven’t talked to him, haven’t seen him in years. The number written down next to his name is for his parents’ home. I am pretty sure they moved a few years ago. If I needed to, I wouldn’t know how to get in touch with David. However as I looked at his name, I realized I’d probably never again really need to get in touch with him. David Ambo didn’t make the cut.  

Others would soon join him in the reject pile. They were classmates in high school and college. They were colleagues from my first few jobs. They were women I had dated, even some who I use to have serious feelings for. They were in short the names of people who once played a huge role in my life, but are now basically strangers. I may have discarded them from my phone book just last night, but I actually discarded their friendships a long time ago.

You cannot come to that conclusion without feeling a little bit guilty. I know that the phone works both directions, but I feel like most of the blame goes to me. Why didn’t I keep in touch with these people? Was I really so busy that I couldn’t afford a few moments to pick up the phone? Why, after forgetting all about them, do I suddenly miss their faces?

When I came to Ken Pritchett’s space in the old phonebook I almost started to cry. The two of us worked together at one of the worst television stations in the country. The bond we built has to be something similar to what war-buddies go through; the situation around you is so bad that you need friends just to get by. It would be fun to talk to Ken, we could trade stories of “the good old days,” but sadly that is not going to happen. Ken’s number was outdated too.

The project taught me a lot about friendship. We all go through life collecting people. We choose some because we share interests or goals. We choose others because we have to…they’re family. The vast majority of the people we collect are chosen out of proximity. We like to be around them because they’re near us. Access makes maintaining a friendship so much easier.

Of the three hundred names only about a third made the transition into my new phonebook. I am grateful for those friends who are still in my life. But one day, perhaps nine years from now, it will be time to buy another directory and I cannot help but wonder how many of these individuals will move with me again.

My night started off by getting sentimental over a material possession. It saddened me to think that I would be losing something so familiar. By the end of the project, I knew that some of the most familiar parts of my life were already gone.

Post Script: One of my favorite stories in the Bible is that of Ruth. She was a young widow who chose to continue to live with her former mother in-law. Ruth made the decision even though she was given the opportunity to go on with her life, to perhaps remarry and fall love again but she told her mother-in-law “no.” She told her mother-in-law “I will go wherever you go.” When I first read it I came to the conclusion that the story was in the Bible because it was a sign of the devotion people once had for each other. I know thing it is the Bible because Ruth’s actions, even for the period she lived, were unusual. People just don’t make those types of commentiments, not now…and not back then either.

  A couple of years after writing the piece above I went through one of the most difficult periods of my life- basically the equvilant of a divorce. What’s funny is the people who helped me the most weren’t even recorded in the old phone book. I didn’t need to write down their numbers, because I already knew them by heart. The people who came through for me, when I needed them the most, were my family. That’s not to say that I don’t praise and give thanks for the friendships that have blessed my life- I do! It is instead to say that those relationships do not compare with the bond of having the same last name.  Being a part of a family that supports you in troubles is to know a richness that some wealthy people don’t understand.

 

 A week ago I was asked to talk to about 4 hundred college aged Christians If you would like to hear a copy of that speech just click on this link. http://www.portcitychurch.org/overflowseries.php

The Forehead

During his recent visit I asked my dad a question.  It was supposed to be nothing morethen small talk. All I wanted to know was how the Army family was doing.

 One of the best parts of my childhood was its stability. Things just never seemed to change, especially in the neighborhood where we grew up. Year after year the names that occupied the houses up and down my street stayed the same. The family down the road was really just an extension of your own.

 For more than a quarter of a century the Armys lived directly next door.  They had two boys around my age. One was a year older; the other was two years younger.  Some of the best memories of my youth deal with all the chaos the three of us created in the neighborhood. It’s been a while since I’ve talked to either of them and was hoping my father could provide a progress report.

 “It’s funny you should bring them up.” My dad responded.  “Mom just talked to Mrs. Army last week. Their divorce just got finalized.”

He said it with such a matter-of-fact tone that he clearly didn’t realize the bombshell he was dropping in my lap. It took a few seconds to figure things out. He wasn’t talking about my old friends, both of whom are now married. Instead he was referring to the parents.  Mr. and Mrs. Army had called it quiets! Until that moment I didn’t even know that the two of them were separated or that any of this was in the works.

From the outside it appeared like they were living on easy street. They had it made. They had acquired what everyone else is working towards.  They had both retired.  The Armys sold their home next door and bought another in Northern Michigan as well as a condo in Florida.  They had crossed responsibility’s finish line; the kids were grown, the bills were paid, their time was now their own. They had arrived at that magical place where they could just sit back and enjoy life….but apparently, not with each other.

He took the condo in Florida. She got the house in Michigan and her old name back. Things  had become that bitter. After decades of being Mrs. Army, she wanted nothing more to do with his identity.

 People in their 60’s, with nearly 40 years of matrimony behind them and no worries in front of them just don’t get divorced. Actually they do and it’s happening a lot these days.

By no means are the Armys alone. I just did a Google search on this topic and found an article that talks about the increased divorce rate in senior citizens. In 2006 nearly three thousand so called “long term marriages” broke up. One expert is quoted as saying that “raising children and paying off the mortgage unites a couple but once those burdens are lifted, more and more seniors are discovering that they really have nothing else in common.”

Is that what happened to the Army family? My guess is that both of them would probably tell you it was more complicated than that. Maybe they’d suggest that even though their divorce just became official that their union really ended years earlier. Perhaps they’d speak of how easy and tempting it is to fall into the trap of just sharing an address but never really sharing a life.

You don’t have to be a senior to understand that. Many of us have learned that lesson. Personally, I know it all too well.

Shortly after creating Adam, God looked around and determined that man shouldn’t be alone.  To fill the void he first created animals and birds only to determine that we required something more. So he brought women into the picture.  Eve, simply put, was introduced to fight off loneliness.

If there is one universal phobia, it is the fear of being alone. Yes, there are introverts and extroverts, but at the core we all long to share our lives. When circumstances prevent that, we look for substitutes: animals and birds, dogs and cats or maybe we just try to keep our schedules jam-packed with activities. If we’re busy we may not notice that we’re alone.

Sometimes we want another person in our lives so desperately, at least I’ll admit to this, that we settle just for the appearance of having it. Even though companionship is what we are really after we try to make due with just being part of a couple- getting involved with someone where there really is no connection. That’s when we learn one of the harshest lessons that life has to offer; you can be just as lonely inside a relationship as you can outside of one.    

 

The news of the Army’s divorce should bring out my cynical nature. I should be swearing off marriage and taking a vow never to get serious with any one else. It’s tempting, but I had another conversation last week that gives me hope.

 One of my coworkers has recently started going to my church.  He told me that his attendance has drastically changed his marriage. “The two of us now pray together.” He went on to describe their new nightly ritual.  The husband and wife kneel down across from each other, leaning slightly forward so their foreheads will touch.   

 I’ve taken part in locker room conversations. I have heard men go on and on about “she did this to me,” or “I did this to her.” And yet it is the image of these two foreheads that makes me the most jealous. I’ve never honestly known that kind of touch. I’ve never known that type of intimacy.

It’s funny, but I never thought to ask what they were praying for.  Somehow it just didn’t seem to matter. Certainly it’s likely that they were coming together to petition God’s help in certain areas of their lives.  Who knows, maybe they even had the same problems that eventually broke up the Army family. And still it didn’t matter. I wasn’t the slightest bit worried about them. These two had it figured out.

Even with the example of a retreating Army, more than ever part of me wants to get back in the game.  This time I think I know what to look for. Yeah beauty and brains are important, but this time I am going strictly for the body. I even know how to tell the guys in the locker room about my next conquest; “Man, you should check out the forehead on this woman!”

 

 Share your comments on the following Questions

1.     Are you afraid of being alone?

2.     Have you ever started a relationship knowing it lacked a connection

3.     Do your pray with your spouse?

 

 I have an invitation for all of you in the Wilmington area. On Tuesday, September 16, I will be speaking at Overflow at Port City Community Church. My friend Evan  Vetter and I will be discussing the debate that goes on between believers and nonbelievers.  I hope to see you there.

Continuum

As soon as the caller id revealed who was on the other line my heart stopped beating. Why was dad calling now? This couldn’t be good news. As a lifelong workaholic it’s against his nature to try to reach someone while they’re on the job. This had to be an emergency. Otherwise it would have waited until I got home.

The time it took to flip open the phone and accept the call was immeasurable- less than a split second. Yet it was long enough for the worse possible thoughts to develop in my mind. What was I thinking leaving my toddler son alone with a 70 year-old man? There are days I can’t even keep up with this little boy. What chance did a senior citizen who has undergone two knee replacements have?  Dad had to be calling to inform me that he lost my son at the park or foolishly left him alone in the pool.

“Ah, Brody keeps asking me something, but I don’t understand what he’s saying.” Fortunately the motive for the call was far less tragic. Dad simply wanted me to talk to my three-year-old boy and interpret his words. The breakdown in communication had something to do with the fact that the old man had never heard of the Transformers or its lead character: a robot named Optimus Prime. Without that background information he had no clue what his grandson was asking.

One of the most amazing parts of raising a child is the discovery that so much of their development is instinctive.  As a parent you fool yourself into thinking that you are going to teach them everything they need to know. In reality they are born with a great amount of knowledge…and some of it is stuff you wished they’d never learned. Where does it come from?

Brody has only seen his grandfather on five previous occasions. Their relationship is the product of a modern America where families live further and further apart. The first two visits happened shortly after my son was born. Undoubtedly he has no memory of them. A year has passed since the last visit with only an occasional phone conversation in between. And yet this boy understands what grandparents are all about.  Deep within his being is the knowledge that these old people can be manipulated in ways his dad cannot. “Take me to the store Grandpa and buy me a transformer.”

 This week I’ve really seen a bond grow between the two. That may have something to do with the fact that one is totally spoiling the other, but I think it’s more than that. Both of them clearly see and understand that they are part of the same link. That they are in fact connected together in a human chain reaction.

For the boy it’s about the past. A sense of where he came from. Something he can really only get from his grandparents. Shortly after my father arrived Brody showed him a generation photograph of the three of us. It was taken on a previous visit. Perhaps he wanted to remind the old man that the two of them had met before. “Look that’s you and me,” he told his grandpa. He also wants to make sure that I understand the importance of this visitor. Several times this week he’s pointed to the gray haired man and whispered to me; ‘That’s your father. He’s your dad! His name is Jack. Jack Wahl!”

For the old man the bond has everything to do with the future.  It is impossible for me to fully know or understand the joys associated with becoming a grandparent. My hunch though is that it has a lot to do with being part of a continuum. The younger generation is part of my father’s legacy. It is the assurance that in some ways his own life, not to mention his name, will go on long after he has died. He’s done his job. He was a begater.

One of the most boring sections of the bible is in those areas when the history of Israel is broken down into a series of names: Judas begat Phares and Phares begat Esrom and Esrom begat Aram and so on and so forth.  There must be some scholars who find this all fascinating but most of us don’t.  We’d rather just gloss over the funny sounding names and the phonebook style of writing in the hopes of getting to something better, something- ANYTHING- that pertains to our modern day life.

Some of the names in the biblical chain are well known, but most are not. I’ve always kind of felt sorry for those stuck somewhere between Abraham and David or Solomon and Jesus. It is as if history has reduced their entire life to just a cameo…just footnotes and afterthoughts. All their accomplishments, if they had any, proved in the end to be insignificant. What kind of an epithet is just a name?

 Maybe, on second thought, maybe it’s a pretty good one.

If for the boy the Wahl family chain is all about the past and for the old man it’s all about the future…well, for me then it’s about the present. My little link is vital. I am what both of them have in common. My existence is what made their interaction possible. Without me this week would never have happened. Somehow that seems to give my life more purpose. It is the type of happiness and joy that only comes when you lose yourself…when you become a part of something so much bigger. 70 years ago my grandfather begat Jack and then Jack begat Doug and Doug begat Brody. What more do you need to know about me?

Yesterday it was time to take another generation photograph. No visit is complete without one.  The three of us, along with a friend who owns a bunch of expensive camera equipment, traveled to Greenfield Lake. The photographer arranged us with Brody sitting in between his two older relatives. Camera guys think symmetrically. Big , little, big just seems more artistic to them.  The photo turned out great, but next time I am going to insist we are positioned in chronological order. Instead of being on the end I want my rightful potion. I rather like being stuck in the middle.   

 

For those of you who care to comment this week, I am asking you to share your stories of the relationships between your children and parents.

Earlier this week I wrote about Hurricane Gustav. Right now it is Hannah and instead of going to the Gulf Coast it is coming our way…with Ike right behind her. Please keep the Carolinas in your prayers. Check back on Monday for the next Off the Wahl Column

 

 

The Storm

As I write this the television set is on. It’s tuned to CNN.  For the last several hours the network has focused its coverage on Hurricane Gustav. Once again the Louisiana coast is being threatened by a major storm.

It’s almost surreal, like we’re being haunted by the past. We’ve seen this before, not all that long ago; the video of people clutching their most precious belongings and packing them into a suitcase, the pictures of cars cluttering the highway- all traveling in the same direction, the boarded up windows, the deserted streets and the weather guy pointing to this huge cloud taking an all too familiar course.

 Who could look at these images without thinking of Katrina?

In the background right now is a story being broadcast on the future of New Orleans? They’ve interviewed so called experts, a psychologist and socialist, both are predicting that this storm could be the end of the city. “If it’s powerful enough,” one of them tells the reporter, “than New Orleans will become Atlantis, or at the very least America’s first metropolitan ghost town.

That is what many of us thought three years ago.

It’s not my favorite topic of conversation, but when Hurricane Katrina struck the Gulf Coast I was living in Louisiana. Whenever someone finds out where I use to live and when I was there they inevitably ask me about the storm. It’s human nature. People like hearing first hand accounts. They want to know if the devastation was as bad as it looked on television.

For me it’s always an embarrassing subject. At times I feel a little like a veteran of a war who avoids speaking of the past. He suffers from the realization that he was lucky when others weren’t. To even talk about his experience seems like he is dishonoring their memory.

 Yeah, in Katrina my family had it bad, but comparatively speaking; it wasn’t all that bad

Living roughly 90 miles from the Gulf the storm lost much of its strength by the time it hit our home. Oh, the winds were still powerful enough to knock down power lines. We went without electricity for close to a week. Hundreds of dollars of food was thrown away, but others didn’t know where their next meal was coming from.

In the backyard a pretty good size tree was blown over, pulling up from its roots. Had it toppled on the house there would have been big problems. Instead it fell in the other direction. To me the branches, the leaves, the kicked up soil was just one big nuisances, meanwhile others were anxiously sifting through the debris in front of their own homes looking for something- anything- to salvage.

Inside it was impossible to walk in the living room without stepping on one my in laws. In the first few days seven distant relatives were staying with us. Two of them, including my mother-in-law, set up camp for more than month. She is a challenging personality who knows how to push my buttons. It’s one of her favorite past times. Looking back she added to the stress of that period, but others didn’t even known where their relatives were or if they were living or dead.

A resident of the 9^th ward is on the screen now. He’s telling reporters that regardless of what happens he is going to come back. “I returned three years ago, and I’ll return again. This is my home.”

I think that man understands something that is lost on many others. It is certainly lost on the psychologist and socialist…it was lost on me too.  Shortly after Katrina I started a massive job hunt. I wanted to get away from the destruction, from the air of depression that was gripping the state. I also wanted to make sure never to go through anything like that again.

When the job in Wilmington came open, I almost didn’t apply. Who’d want to move to another coastal community? Who’d want to run the risk of having it happen again?

That’s the attitude many of us take after a storm has disrupted our lives. It really doesn’t matter what kind of storm it is either. Our main goal is avoidance. Get away! Have you ever sworn off love after a painful breakup? Never again will this happen to me. Never again will I put myself in a position to be hurt.

Life can easily turn into one big game of dodge ball. “Got to keep moving! Stay on your tows! Be alert!”  And maybe you get lucky and survive, but the strategy does nothing to slow down the onslaught of the balls

For me it came to a point came where I just looked at a map and realized it doesn’t matter where I moved…there’s always going to be a storm on the horizon. Other than Wilmington, the options were job offers from Tornado Alley, snow covered Vermont and earthquake prone California. Each direction had the possibility of doom.

 The book of Mathew tells us instead of trying to runaway; put your focus on the ground you’re standing in. Stop dodging and brace yourself for the hit. You can, you really can,  survive any storm, even a hurricane, when you  place your feet on something solid rock and stay away from the sand.

That man in the 9^th ward knows this. A CNN camera got a shot of him finally evacuating. As he walked out his front door, towards his car, he passed a boarded up window that he turned into a work of art. Written in green spray paint were the words: “Bring it on Gustav. We’re ready!”

Anyone who saw him drive away into an uncertain future had to come to the same conclusion. Who could doubt that he will honor his promise and return? For this man, and many others like him, the storm is really not all that powerful. Oh, it may do a lot of damage, but in the end it lacks the strength to rattle their foundation

The rains will come down. The stream will raise and overflow. The wind will blow and beat against us, but as Mathew wrote that doesn’t mean we have to fall.

   Questions

1.     Is there a big storm in your life right now

2.     Have you ever tried to avoid a storm? How did that work?

3.     What foundation are your feet planted in right now.

Hope you enjoy the holiday. My dad is in town right for the week.  I am enjoying the visit, but it’s pretty clear that it’s more about seeing his grandson than me. That’s okay. I’ll cope.  It has been fascinating seeing the two of them interact. In fact I think it’s taught me a lot about family. I explore that on Wednesday in a Colum called the Continuumin.

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.

\

 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