vitalwholeness

In my naive days I evaluated the data of life from its outside appearance. That, I discovered, was reading the world incorrectly.

Oh, yes, much of what you see is what you get. There are people like that, circumstances like that, books like that, religions like that. But there is much much more that is not.

First impressions are tricky. Depending on person or context they may indicate the true reality or not. More than once I have misjudged a book by its cover. I have either under or over-valued a person, place or thing. I’ve repented over those occasions. But the temptation to be wooed by the externals is a strong one.

Some years ago our family had some investment rental property. The next door neighbors were a fine family – two parents and three children. The father was a bus driver for the city and a strong working guy, involved in the neighborhood. The mom worked in a school cafeteria and knew everyone. The parents spent time with the kids and the family was always doing things together.

One day dad came home from work, walked from the drive to his front door, and on the way somebody emerged from the side alley and pelted him with bullets. He died where he fell.

It was a neighborhood tragedy and I remember going to the mourning house, walking through the zombie-like children and shattered mother to express, what, some consolation. They numbly regarded my gesture. I was not surprised.

How could this happen to such a family? What monster would destroy such harmony?

Maybe two months later I saw a news piece that featured this grief-stricken wife and mother. She had been arrested and was charged with conspiracy to commit murder. It ends up that she and her lover put a contract on her husband’s head to have him snuffed. She’s now in prison.

And I remember walking into her kitchen, expressing my sympathy, and she lifting her heavy eyes toward mine. “Thank you for stopping by,” she said. And I thought to myself, “How could anyone do something like this to this family, this woman?”

We are not what we seem, to ourselves or others. People are better than we give them credit … and worse. And quick judgments based on first impressions are often … mistaken.

I once read an author who asked a simple question about bringing peace and love into the world. The question was, “How can we begin to bring about peace and reconciliation to the four quarters of Jerusalem when we can’t bring peace and reconciliation to the four quarters of our own heart?”

It’s the right question.

My daughter and I went fishing this afternoon. Lest I mislead, we are not pros. Novice would be a flattering designation. We have a our rods, reels and tackle. The lake was just fine. The fish weren’t biting. The sun beat down. And the row boat got us there.

Only row boats were available at the public facility and that was about our speed. Of course, I was the rower. As we moved from place to place, observing any form of wildlife except  fish – herons, hawks, snakes – something suddenly occurred to me: In a rowboat, if you’re the rower, the only way you get anywhere is backwards. You literally row with your back to your destination. In terms of time it takes on a different shade of meaning. In a rowboat you move into the future while looking at the past. That’s not bad, especially for Memorial Day.

Rowing into the future requires a back to the wind, not knowing what’s coming other than a general direction. The most helpful coordinates are the ones we already passed by, those sitting on some distant shore of what’s already been. That centers us somehow. It doesn’t provide all the answers because some of those live only in the future and are never provided in past tense. Rowing backwards keeps us reading the way things have been as an aid to understanding what will be. It’s not always a one-to-one correspondence, of course, but very often it’s close enough.

A couple of things help rowing backwards. Since good navigation has to do with comparing the future with the past, you can’t only look backwards.  Some people do that – only look backwards – and it generally doesn’t work.

The first way to accomplish that is to keep glancing over your shoulder. What you’re doing is comparing your destination with where you’ve been already.

But the second thing is to include an on-board companion, one who is not rowing backwards like you are, but rather facing forward. Their observations become another helpful measure of direction. The perceptions of another provide a different point of view. Together they make some magic.

Backwards into the future; not a bad way to travel, fish or no fish.

Right now I am sharing in two situations of love – one that brings tears and the other that brings laughter. Both are real because they are based in love, in caring, in desire for the best for these companions of the heart.

In the one instance my heart is torn for the anguish of the other. As they share the moment of the shattering of glass, I can’t pick up the pieces for them. The glass that dropped, that struck the hard surface, exploded on impact. But it is not the end. How can I communicate what we all know in retrospect, that it is not the end, though it seems so at the time? Holding the other in love is perhaps all we have at such moments. That is probably what is most important.

On the other hand I am blessed to share joy with loved ones, to celebrate, to lift the glass in a toast to life. How is it that such unexpected joy may come our way? What makes it doubly joyful is its unplanned appearance. To turn the old phrase around, “Why do joyful things happen to rank and file people?” We didn’t earn it. The blessing did not come because of conspicuous valor, but perhaps in its absence. I share joy with them.

All of these are experienced because of love. Love holds the heart in just such a way that it catches both radiance and shadow. It does not discriminate for when it is open love receives the entire cargo of its caring. And so we love and wait. We weep and laugh, laugh and weep.

Such is the way of love. And it is so worth it.

We’re on the way to the college graduation of a family member, my daughter and I. We’ll all be there, the extended family, sharing in this rite of passage. And suddenly out of the blue I turn to my conversation partner, this girl who thinks really odd thoughts, odder than mine, and share something equally odd:

“This graduation, you know what it’s really about?”

“What?” she asks me.

“It’s about death.”

“Come again.”

“It’s about death and how all of us a little older are rooting on those a little younger in hopes that they continue our species. It’s about hope in the face of death. In addition to loving the person who is graduating, we want the race to survive. It’s the same whether it’s birthdays, weddings, graduations …”

“That’s weird, Dad.”

Maybe so. But I don’t think so. We swing into a little town and I say I want to check on a friend. When I pull up to his business she decides to stay in the car. It won’t be long, I tell her.

When I go inside the receptionist greets me with bad news. “You haven’t heard, have you?” No I hadn’t. “He’s in chemo now. It’s bad, not responding.” I’m in shock. He was a high school buddy. But I’m fortunate because my friend stopped by for a while and he’s in his office in the back. They take me back to him.

We talk about his condition, the choices he’s having to make and why. We talk about his children. We talk about some silly times we shared together. We hug. I tell him I want to know what happens. And when I walk out the door I look him square in the eye and he does the same. We both know this may be the last time we see each other face to face.

Out in the car, time has moved on without daughter knowing why Dad is so delayed inside. I apologize. I tell her the story. She says it’s alright, she understands. We pull out of the parking lot and head down the road.

Maybe ten minutes pass in silence. The always thinking daughter says, “I know this makes you sad. I’m sorry.”

More time passes.

“It’s ironic,” she says. “I mean this just after you talking about graduation. You know, graduation and death, why we go, what we’re doing.”

“Yes, it’s ironic,” I say. And we keep driving toward the caps and gowns, the address and diplomas, the beginning and end, the long road we must all travel.