Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

A very merry Christmas morning to you!

While we are once again many miles apart on Christmas, may this brief note bring you a very "present" sense of my thoughts and prayers, praying that you may find calming peace and lasting joy throughout this season.

Surely the events of recent weeks have brought anxieties and fears, and shaken the security of that peace. I share with you a deep gratitude for Dad's continuing recovery, as well as for the skill and dedication of all those who have contributed to his care. I trust that his strength will continue to be restored bit by bit, and that together you will celebrate the gift of living each new day.

I want to be sure to thank you for calling me, for letting me know what was going on, for trusting me enough to lean on me a little, and for sharing with me some of the painful uncertainty of those frightening hours. It means a lot to me that you did not hide your concerns from me, and that you did not let the miles between us prevent you from reaching out, nor prevent me from offering what encouragement I could.

Christmas is always a time of deep reflection for me, even more this year than most. I am now about the age you were when you and Dad moved to California, and am perhaps beginning to grasp something of the wonder which that transition brought to your lives. It takes a lot of courage to follow new dreams at this stage of life, to risk releasing that which is familiar in order to embrace something promising and new. I hope you won't be offended if I admit I have never truly seen you as the adventurous type, but somehow, when it really matters, you have managed to find the strength and courage -- or maybe I should call it faith -- to follow your heart, and to move forward without hesitation or regret. That is an example I hope to be able to follow throughout my life, wherever God may lead.

I know that neither you nor I have finished facing uncertain futures and unforeseen transitions. You know me well enough to know that I will surely exercise my mind, trying to analyze and anticipate what may lie in the road ahead. But as age and experience contribute what they can, I am slowly learning that it is not so much the ability to anticipate change, but the ability to adapt to it, that leads to lasting peace. I am also learning that whatever uncertainties we may face, we never have to face them alone.

May you and Dad enjoy this Christmas day, and the promise of peace it brings, and may its joy bring with it bright hope for a healthy and happy new year.

Love,

Tom

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

On this Christmas morning, I wanted to greet you with words chosen slowly and phrases well-formed, in hopes that this simple epistle might somehow traverse the miles and years between us, and convey thoughts deeply held which I have long wished for you to know. Having finished fifty years of following your examples and reflecting upon your quiet influence, I now find myself both anxious and inadequate to express the admiration and appreciation I feel for the many virtues which you have both demonstrated and taught. I dare not attempt to name each one, but perhaps a few might illustrate the breadth -- if not the depth -- of the legacy which I now proudly claim.

First, without hesitation, I must note with deep respect the unwavering commitment you have shown toward mom through the years. Despite obvious differences in disposition -- and a few rare but well-remembered disagreements -- your devotion to her has never appeared in doubt. Without question, your faithfulness to your marriage has inspired my faithfulness to mine. Far below the level of conscious consideration, I am convinced that my reactions to conflict and tension have been molded and shaped by the calm and patient patterns which you established. And if I may dare extend my hope so far, I believe my children have also been blessed -- and will continue to be be blessed -- by my efforts to imitate you.

Second, and perhaps related to the first, I have been forever strengthened by the steadiness and trustworthiness of your resolve. Were I brave enough to tease (and clearly I am not), I might timidly suggest a slight tendency toward stubbornness or obstinacy, but the truth beneath the tease would be obvious to all - that your unshakable persistence has provided a firm foundation undergirding diverse endeavors. What few risks I have taken in my life, I have taken knowing that within my inherited character lies the capacity to persist and to endure. My passion to pursue impossible dreams is anchored in the confidence I have seen in your face, and which (I hope) my children now see in mine.

Lastly, only because my words near exhaustion, I must attempt to affirm your distinctive discipline of mind, that unquenchable curiosity -- combined with a cautious consideration of conflicting views -- that is neither cynical nor naive, but always eager to contemplate (and challenge) a novel thought. Although the philosophy which has formed in me is not very different from what I know of yours, it is not the content of my beliefs that I attribute to you, but rather how I have learned to think -- to formulate, question, and refine ideas -- from contrasting my thoughts with yours.

I will always think of you as a man of few words -- perhaps because my excesses in verbosity form such a stark contrast. But what I have learned and gained from you has not been contained in words, but in the consistent character of a quiet life well-lived. Thank you for the depth of character that you have shared with me, and will continue to share.

Merry Christmas.

Love,

Tom

Not Worthless

My older brother and I used to wrestle -- not competitively, or an any organized sporting sense, but more as a predictable display of his physical superiority, in the face of my frustrated attempts to break the bonds of brotherly oppression and throw off the chains of firstborn intimidation. It never worked. But the struggle itself had merit, and in the process I learned a lot about myself, about my weaknesses and vulnerabilities, and about the growing resolve within me to find strength despite weakness, courage despite fear, and pride despite humiliation. I guess I could thank my brother for those lessons in character, but I haven't. I don't think I will.

One fuzzy memory - perhaps altered a bit by four decades of reflection and interpretation - begins with my brother pinning me down on the kitchen floor, demanding that I keep my mouth shut. In childishly literal defiance, I held my mouth wide open, proving beyond doubt that although he had denied me the use of my arms or legs, he had not yet restrained my jaw. Creatively, he found a way to keep me pinned with his legs and just one hand, then with the other hand, grabbed a nearby quarter. Holding the quarter above my gaping mouth, he threatened to drop it down my throat, if I did not shut my trap. Strengthening my defiance, I decided to call his bluff. But he wasn't bluffing. The quarter found its target with surprising speed and accuracy, and before I knew what had happened, an instinctive swallow propelled the coin into my belly. My brother was left searching for a way to explain to my mother how he had not intended to do that which he clearly did "on purpose" -- with malice of forethought and impressive precision. His retort of last resort was the thing that sticks most clearly in my mind, when he pompously proclaimed, "At least now you're worth something."

It is generally not a good idea to accept an older sibling's assessment of one's worth, particularly not when uttered in the midst of childhood struggles. But the words that he threw out as insult reached my ears as evidence of potential affirmation: my big brother had a last acknowledged the possibility that I had value. I wasn't preparing to go swallow the contents of my piggy bank, but I do remember thinking that he would someday find other reasons to affirm my worth. (As the decades have passed, my brother has become a very close and affirming friend. To this day, the worth that he sees in me is a source of great encouragement to me. For that, I do often thank him.)

As people allow me the privilege of getting to know them more deeply, I am often surprised how common it is -- how "normal" it is -- that we struggle with fundamental (dare I say, "childish") questions of our own worth. For all the talk and teaching in recent decades on the essential development of self-esteem, there seems to be something missing in the equation. The notion that my essential worth should be based upon my opinion of myself seems hopelessly circular, and ultimately narcissistic. I have a deep internal desire and passion to be useful to others, not useful to myself (whatever that may mean). I strive to find ways in which I can be of benefit to the community around me, not preoccupied in the pursuit of my own well-being. I hope to discover personal gifts that I can give to others in need, not simply to celebrate my own giftedness. In short, I do not believe that "worth" or "esteem" can in any meaningful way be granted to oneself. It must come in from the outside; it requires an external evaluation, an objective assessment. More importantly, a meaningful assessment of worth cannot come from competing siblings or coworkers, not from self-interested employers or impatient customers, nor from obsequious servants or adoring fans. Rather, it must come from one whose opinion is completely trustworthy and unimpeachable, one who will neither be patronizingly uncritical nor vindictively unforgiving. We need a judge who is both just and merciful, without allowing those two virtues to blur each other's edges. We need to be judged. We need to be assessed. We need to see our own worth, not through our own blurry eyes, but through the all-seeing and all-knowing eyes of truth.

If such a judge can be found, then surely that judge's opinion must override our own. That judge's assessment of our worth must supplant our insecurities and dispel our self-consciousness. If that judge tells us that we are loved, that we are worth dying for, such a verdict must be considered definitive and true.

If such a judge cannot be found, then we are lost, without hope.

-- Brother Tom

My Three Sons

I only need twelve letters to articulate my most profound understanding of appropriate pride and personal fulfillment:
Ryan, Alex, Seth.

Ryan is my oldest son, my firstborn. He will turn 26 this Sunday. I would willingly confess that I have not kept in touch with him in recent years as much as my heart desires, but I am reminded that he has taught me what it means to live without regrets, always facing forward, living in the present. Ryan most certainly cannot be captured by his occupation, nor has he circumscribed his existence by any particular chosen career. At present, he is building homes. Working at the Baton Rouge affiliate of Habitat for Humanity, Ryan coordinates the efforts of volunteers, matching the available human and material resources to the dynamic needs of hopeful homeowners. A graduate of Centre College with a major in philosophy, sharing my deep love for well-developed thought, Ryan has always chosen his words as carefully as he now chooses his tools; his thoughts are professionally crafted, and are not shared until they have passed the quality review of his demanding and critical mind. Rare among philosophers, who sadly tend to offer thought as surrogate for meaningful action, Ryan is more articulate in his living than in his speech. Relentlessly analytical even in his choice of food, clothing, and shelter, Ryan routinely tests and demonstrates the "categorical imperative" of Immanuel Kant: "Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law." (I find this difficult even to comprehend; much more daunting to live by.) Minimizing what he demands from this world, maximizing what he contributes to it, Ryan has multiplied the gifts he has been given, and is leaving each piece of the world that he walks through better off than he found it. In him I am well pleased.

Alex is my second son, the middle child. He is 22. An easy-going peacemaker in every environment, and never one to seek the spotlight, Alex diffuses tension and promotes tranquility simply by his attentive presence. A fifth-year senior at the University of Louisville, with a Computer Information Systems major pencilled in (pending further changes), Alex refrains from stone-chiseled decisions, preferring the flexibility of post-it notes and the versatility of electronic edits. Circumstances change unpredictably, and Alex is prepared to change with them. Plan C is just as acceptable as Plans A and B were, and if you need to switch back to A, that won't be a problem. Sharing the best attributes of my disposition (along with a couple of my less helpful traits), Alex carries with him an attitude for all seasons. I remember an illustrative backpacking trip, when my normally cheerful spirit was dampened by rain in the middle of a tiring trek up Thunderhead Mountain. Alex interpreted the same events from a different perspective: he had run out of water in his canteen, and the rain provided him opportunity to drink, as he used large leaves to pool the showers of refreshment. It was then that I began to understand his philosophy of life, suggested but not captured by his tongue-in-cheek declaration, "the world is conspiring together for my happiness." Alex works for me as an intern, on a team of brilliant professionals twenty years older with twenty times his experience. Never noticeably intimidated by either the impossible tasks or the inflated expectations, Alex applies and expands his skill with a quiet diligence that always contributes and never detracts. In every encounter, though often unnoticed and unappreciated (and sometimes at the expense of his own personal well-being), he brings a measure of that most illusive treasure: peace. Jesus said, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God." This peacemaker is my son. In him I am well pleased.

Seth is my youngest son, the "baby of the family." He will turn 20 next month. No crybaby this one; Seth has developed a toughness that surprises and impresses me. (His older brothers may rightly claim some credit, for creating an environment in which toughness was cultivated, if not always facilitated!) His interest in the physical and mental discipline of the martial arts informs his investment in the spiritual disciplines of prayer and fasting, producing a man driven to discover what is possible, but restrained by a growing understanding of what is wise. A highly imaginative child, Seth has become a creatively expressive man, with a demonstrated gift for recognizing and communicating profound truths. A junior at Campbellsville University, Seth is studying pastoral counseling. Never one to conform without a fight, Seth was a late adherent to the Christian faith, and an even later convert to the claims of academia. But late bloomers are often the most deep-rooted, and Seth has emerged as a disciplined student of all that life teaches. The son that produced the dreaded call from the emergency room (while we were on vacation 2000 miles away), and the son that dramatically put into words all of my shame and shortcomings as a father, is also the son who shares most deeply my greatest passion - the authentic articulation of the gospel of Jesus Christ to a skeptical and cynical world. He has already discovered many ways in which his gifts can be useful in the kingdom of God. He is on the verge of discovering many more. In him I am well pleased.

Just in case I haven't said it often enough, loudly enough, or clearly enough: I am very proud of my three sons.

Well Spent

Lately I've been running through my mental thesaurus, looking for fresh ways to express fatigue. I'm simply tired of saying that I'm tired, so I thought perhaps that a subtle shift in vocabulary might add creative nuance to my routine of self-expression. (After all, if the Eskimos have ten words for "snow", perhaps I should be able to describe my primary habitat with a bit more diversity.) So far I've come up with exhausted, depleted, drained, weary, worn out, burnt out, fried, empty, out of gas, and spent. (I'm sure that many of you can add to the list, from the depths of your own experience.)

Today, it's the word "spent" that captures the sensation best. While there are many ways to convey the loss of energy and resources, "spent" conveys that loss with an implicit suggestion of gain. When I spend time, money, or energy -- even when I spend all that I have -- I spend it ON something, or FOR something. There is a purpose in view, a focal object or cause, for which the resources are exchanged, with at least a belief or perception that the thing being gained has more value that the resource being spent. Surely, I must believe -- or at least perceive -- that something is being gained in exchange for all that I am spending. Otherwise I would doubtless despair. In fact, it is precisely on those days and in those hours when the purpose is least visible, or least credible, that despair threatens most. I do not want to waste my life; I want to spend it, and I want to spend it well.

In the hotel breakfast area this morning, the television was tuned to CNN, where video footage showed the American Cemetery in France, on this the 65th anniversary of D-Day, the Normandy Invasion. I've been to the beaches of Normandy, many years ago. I've seen the seemingly endless rows and columns of grave markers, mostly Christian crosses with Stars of David interspersed, which enumerate an immeasurable sacrifice. I will never forget the impression; I will never be able to express it in words.

Those lives were spent. Most were unthinkably brief, having barely begun the productive years of adulthood. So much more they could have given, contributed, shared, had their years been extended beyond that bloody day. And yet they gave all -- not only all they had, but all that could be given. Wasted? I think not. Purposeful? Beyond question. Exchanged for something of greater value? History testifies that it is so.

I do not wish that anyone should have to die for their cause, but I think it worse to die without one. Attempting to extend one's own life -- for no other reason than to postpone death -- seems to me the most meaningless of all endeavors. I know that my life shall someday end, as surely as I know that this day will end. When it does, I hope to think that it was not wasted, but spent. Well spent.

Spend the time that you have. Spend the money that you have. Spend the life that you have.

Spend it well, so that in the end, you may be well spent.


"Whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it." -- Luke 9:24


-- Brother Tom

Hyperextended Families

Apparently knees and elbows have a "normal range of motion". Movement outside that range is called "hyperextension." I've heard that it can hurt quite a lot, and sometimes do quite a bit of damage.

Relationships, like joints, being more or less flexible connections between more or less rigid personalities, acquire a "normal range of motion." We establish patterns of interaction with siblings, spouses, parents, and children, to which we become accustomed. Even when those patterns are unpleasant, the familiarity of the routine (or "rut") provides a certain self-perpetuating normalcy. In studying the types of marriage which endure the longest, Cuber and Harroff discovered that a significant number of long-lasting relationships fit a pattern they named "conflict-habituated", which essentially describes a couple so accustomed to fighting with each other, that they wouldn't have it any other way. (Reminds me of an old Andy Griffith episode.) Despite the well-intentioned advice of preachers, psycho-babblers, booksellers, and other busybodies, most families persist in patterns that include "unhealthy" and "unhappy" dimensions, simply because that is how their joints and tendons have been formed.

Extended families add complexity and reduce familiarity, but nevertheless fit the same paradigm. Adult children often relate to their spouses in ways that imitate their parents; cousins recognize and repeat both the affection and the mockeries of their aunts and uncles. Distant relatives whose names are not easily recalled can be recognized by the behavior patterns that are common on "that side" of the family, and dealt with accordingly. Predictable gatherings triggered by traditional events (holidays, weddings, funerals) activate memorized interactions, mitigating the risk of the unexpected emotional explosion. As long as everything moves and flows within that familiar "range of motion", anxieties abate and families function.

But when we move outside that range, whether by reckless abandon or unforeseen circumstance, hyperextension can occur, and pain and injury follow. Deep emotional vulnerabilities are exposed when those who know us best (and perhaps love us most) wander into areas where they were not invited. Critical wounds that leave lasting scars result when sharp tones and barbed remarks strike unguarded flesh and raw nerves. Nobody knows where the sore spots are quite like family; those who helped us forge and don our armor know where the gaps and chinks are.

Treatment for familial hyperextension usually involves a combination of repair, rest, and rehabilitation. Repairing damaged relational tendons is tricky business; it would be wise to consult an expert in the field. Rest is harder than it sounds, and involves modifying your behavior to avoid putting weight or stress on the injured area. Avoiding the people and circumstances that could aggravate the injury will certainly disrupt your normal routine, and may require a relational "brace" to immobile the weakened joint. Rehabilitation is all about time and effort. Slowly rebuilding strength, without doing further harm, requires discipline and determination, as well as focused self-awareness. Respect your limitations, and do not rush the recovery. Exercise the damaged relationship to the point of challenge, but not to the point of damage, and it will strengthen over time. Full range of motion can be regained, but only with patient persistence and courageous caution.

Of course, prevention is preferable to treatment, where possible. Stretching and strengthening relational "muscle" is a life-long endeavor that many emotional couch-potatoes neglect. Learning balance and boundaries is a challenge of continuing education, with trial-and-error the most common curriculum. As the old country doctor was often heard saying, "If it hurts when you do that, stop doing it!"

***

Full disclosure: My last two weekends were spent in extended family gatherings. Two weeks ago, I was with my wife's family in the celebration of her parents' fiftieth anniversary. Last weekend, I was with the family of a church member, on the occasion of her granddaughter's wedding. Both events were wonderful, memorable, enjoyable, and overflowing with the dynamic potential for risk and reward that makes such occasions both worthwhile and exhausting. Nobody got hurt, that I know of.

May all of your family gatherings, extended and otherwise, provide you with as many blessings.

-- Brother Tom

Horse Races and Rat Races

We love the surge. That eagerly anticipated, intensely orchestrated burst of energy and strength that drives horses around ten furlongs of dirt and dust in two minutes or less (if you count Secretariat) provides a contagious drama that draws spectators and speculators from around the world. Perhaps thoroughbreds embody what all of us desire: the capacity to perform at extremely high levels at critical times. LeBron James explodes past defenders in singleminded pursuit of the rim. Adrian Peterson sheds tacklers who dare stand between him and the end zone. Ryan Howard slams a fast ball 500 feet over the center field wall. Davis Love III crushes a drive 450 yards down the middle of the fairway. It's not just fun to watch, it stirs our spirits, reminding us of our own passion for excellence, instructing us in the power of drive and determination.

But that beloved burst of epinephrine (adrenaline) that fuels our peak performances is the same hormonal phenomenon that feeds our propensity to panic. Necessary when confronted with real and present dangers, essential for effective fight or flight, the heightened state of alertness and anxiety that is so helpful in small doses can be dangerous -- even devastating -- with prolonged exposure. Politicians who shrewdly capitalize on the opportunities implicit in crisis understand this well: panic produces a level of energy and attention not otherwise available, and there are certain short-term advantages to stirring up a well-timed crisis. Business leaders get it too: a good crisis helps generate the funding and resources required to implement significant change. We thrive on crisis (and the panic it provides) in nearly every aspect of living. Our lives sometimes resemble an endless series of emergencies, our homes and workplaces imitate immediate care centers, and triage becomes our standard operating procedure. But eventually, inescapably, the energy wanes, the alertness fades, burnout sets in, and further efforts to stir and awaken are met with increasingly persistent apathy and lethargy. And we wonder why.

The solution to this silly pattern is not at all complicated or complex. We all know that a marathon is run at a different pace than a sprint, that 500-mile races require pit stops, that starting pitchers need three or four days rest between starts, and that every sport has an off-season. We need breaks, naps, weekends, vacations. We need rest, relaxation, recreation, recuperation. The crazy thing is, I'm not sure how long a horse would run, if the jockey didn't tell him to stop. I'm not sure LeBron would ever take himself out of the game, if the coach didn't send in a sub. A dog bred for hunting, but not yet trained to stop when he hears the horn blow, will indeed run himself to death, if the fox is too fast and the chase too long.

We all need a jockey, a coach, a manager, a trainer: someone to blow the horn when its time to stop chasing. Some people picture God as the chronically dissatisfied boss who always wants more out of us: do more, love more, serve more, sacrifice more. Thankfully, the ancient wisdom of scripture preserves a different picture. Our Creator and Redeemer is the Lord of the Sabbath, the Lord of Rest, the Almighty Horn-Blower. When He tells you to stop, Stop.

My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from him. -- Psalm 62:1


Shalom.

-- Brother Tom

Anger Before Sundown

Yesterday I woke up angry.

It didn't have anything to do with taxes or tea parties, although I certainly sense deep discouragement regarding the fiscal responsibility of central governments, along with a cautiously cynical sympathy with populist protesters.

It didn't have anything to do with vocational frustration, although events of recent weeks and months have tortured (at least harshly interrogated) my tenuous grasp on occupational risk and reward.

It didn't have anything to do with church or family, although the complex and intertwined dynamics of both offer abundant cause for befuddlement and bewilderment.

Apparently, I was angry at the calendar. It took me several hours to arrive at that conclusion, but once my gaze happened upon the current date, my previously unfocused orneriness crystalized upon its target: April 17. The sixth occurrence of the julian month and date that ended the days (at least the finite ones) of my best friend's life.

People talk about living each day as if it were your last day. I remember the day that was Chuck's last day. I did not like that day. I still do not like that day. I do not desire to live another day in any way like that day. I don't even like to remember that day. But I do remember it, and I always will.

I remembered that day yesterday, with anger. When Job was blessed with the shade of a gourd, he grew angry when that gourd was taken away. I too am angered when the persons and things that bring me great joy and comfort are then taken away. I am not speaking of sadness, or longing, or even the emptiness that persists where fellowship was once felt. I speak of anger, of indignation at the specific injustice, of railing and ranting rejection of the not-rightness, of defiant denouncement of the royal decree.

The calendar, like the gourd, is but a parabolic receiver which gathers and focuses the waves of anger onto a single point, where it can be more clearly perceived, and perhaps somewhat more clearly understood. I was not really angry at the calendar, but through the calendar I was able to project my anger at Chuck. For leaving. For taking away all the goodness that we enjoyed together. To project a bit further than my heart can perceive, I was probably not angry at Chuck either. Through Chuck, I have projected anger directed at God. The Creator of time and fellowship and every other good and blessed thing is the One to be blamed when they are taken away. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

That was yesterday morning.

Yesterday afternoon, I played golf with a friend, on a beautiful golf course, on a beautiful day. The friend had called the day before, unexpectedly, on the off chance that we might both have the same day off work. By some strange coincidence, we both did. My friend reminds me a bit of Chuck, partly because of his girth (Chuck was larger than life in more ways than one), but more because of his mirth, and mostly because he is, well, a good friend. Also unexpectedly, my friend brought along another friend, who had called him out of the blue with the same purpose in mind. By another strange coincidence, that friend's name was Chuck. None of us played particularly well, but that did not matter much. It was a very good afternoon.

Yesterday evening, by another odd and expected intersection of circumstances, I learned that Chuck's widow, Carol, and their daughter, Cami, were traveling south, and stopping for dinner in Elizabethtown, about a half hour away. I learned this just as my wife got home from a day of errand running, wondering what me might do for dinner. It wasn't hard to perceive the serendipity of the moment, and we sped (my wife was driving) to a brief but wonderful time of fellowship and solace shared. It was a very good evening.

By the time the sun went down, my anger had subsided.
Not destroyed, simply diminished.
Returned to its proper place in time.

It may seem a trivial point, but somewhere on the 17th fairway it dawned on me. Chuck was not a man of great means (though he was by all means great), and what he left behind was mostly of the intangible, eternal sort. The one tangible thing I own that once belonged to him is the set of golf clubs I played with yesterday.
I will never replace those clubs.
I will never replace Chuck.
I will never need to.


The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.

-- Brother Tom

Directory Assistance

411

I'm a numbers guy, a math major. Numerical patterns catch my eye, whether buried deep in financial records or posted publicly on street signs. ( Here's my favortie highway sign, at the "big light" in Sevierville, where US 411 and US 441 conspire to confound the directionally challenged.) Today it's the calendar that carries a digital association: 4/11 is the date, and 411 is also the most frequently dialed number on my Blackberry (owing perhaps to my chronic need for verbal direction to compensate for my lack of prior planning). In a nutshell, 411 is the number you need when you need somebody's number.

In ancient cultures, knowing a person's name implied a certain amount of power over them. The modern equivalent is knowing their number. Having transitioned slowly from land line to cell phone, I have noticed that those who know me well call me on my cell, while the old "home phone" number is apparently reserved for strangers, solicitors, and those whose list-keeping deficiencies left them dependent on the obsolescent phone book. Thus conditioned and biased, I typically answer my cell, while I let "the machine" answer the home's phone.

I'm not aware of any 411 or "directory assistance" service that shares cell phone numbers, nor do I know of any "phone book" that publishes them. This may be a temporary, transitional condition. Or it may reveal something about the reconstruction of our culture. In many ways, the "phone book" has been superseded by Facebook, who announced this week their 200 millionth "face" (member). Along with it's sister social-networking sites, Facebook has engineered an interesting and revealing balance between publicity and privacy, facilitating the finding of long-lost friends and associates, while retaining an "invitation-only" restriction for more closely-held information.

Which raises an interesting question: how much do you want to be known? With specious simplicity, this inescapable question operates at three distinct levels:

First, how deep is your desire to be known? Do you long to be understood and appreciated, or are you more content with behind-the-scenes, under-the-radar anonymity?

Second, how widely do you want to be known? Do you find satisfaction in a large number of friends (and perhaps admirers), or do you prefer the sanctity of a smaller "inner circle"?

Third, how well do you want to be known? Do you seek opportunity to express the secrets of your soul in revealing and transparent authenticity, or do you lean toward concealing the private and personal aspects of your life?

I have heard it said that we can never know more about another person than we are willing to reveal about ourselves. It rings true, and delivers quite a dilemma to the closet introverts among us: either we lower our shields and allow others (at least a few) to know us as we truly are, or we effectively banish ourselves from intimacy and fellowship with those we would truly like to know. Reveal too much, and we risk rejection and ridicule for faults we have not overcome, or for uniqueness not commonly embraced. Conceal too much, and we concede isolation from society and disconnectedness from needed community. It is, if you will, a delicate dance of veils.

To paraphrase St. Francis,

May God grant you the courage to reveal what is authentic,
The grace to conceal what is intimate,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

Now we see but a poor reflection
As in a mirror;
Then we shall see face to face.
Now I know in part;
Then I shall know fully,
Even as I am fully known.
-- I Corinthians 13:12

Longing and Pursuit

Our oldest son was about three or four years old when he first made the connection between a strange discomfort in his tummy and the fact that he hadn't eaten in a while. Recognizing and naming that discomfort as "hunger" was a surprisingly significant step toward autonomy, for it focused a primal linkage between cause and effect, behavior and consequence, desire and decision. From that point on, eating had a purpose beyond compliance with parental meal schedules; it was now understood that food was required by the self, not just by the rules. The first footer had been poured for the foundation of his personal "hierarchy of needs".

Granted, babies are born with an instinct to eat when they are hungry and sleep when they are tired, but both instincts are experienced in discomfort and expressed in anxious crying. By the time the awareness of unmet needs and unfulfilled desires enters the conscious mind, many patterns have already been established. The world has proven to be either trustworthy or not in its attentiveness to our cries, and we have learned various effective and ineffective techniques for getting what we want, and for dealing with disappointment when we don't.

Simplistic extrapolation suggests a continuous dynamic of discerning the nature of our desires, and experimenting with various means which may or may not satisfy them. A fundamental observation worth remembering is that we do not always know what we want. The humble admission that we fail to understand fully the needs of our own bodies -- let alone our hearts and minds -- is an oft-neglected prerequisite in the shared search for fulfillment.

But that is not to say that self-understanding must be sufficiently achieved before satisfaction can be found. Quite the contrary: those who insist on first figuring out exactly what they are looking for frequently doom themselves to a perpetual editing of specifications and requirements. They become too easily quagmired in contemplation and analysis, and are prone to underestimate potential and bypass opportunities, due to chronic hesitation and resistance to commitment.

It is rather the humility of limited self-understanding that opens a window to potential fulfillment, and to the wise pursuit thereof. For it is neither by deductive reasoning nor deterministic selection that we find the sources of satisfaction. Instead, it is through an inductive adventure of approximate solutions, an iterative model of rapid and imperfect prototyping, that we gradually narrow the gap between desired and achieved, between ideal and real, between sought and found, between asked and received.

Trouble is found when this noble pursuit is side-tracked by the seductive appeal of short-cuts. Advance to GO, and collect $200 -- that's the card we want to draw, and we hope to draw it now. Dispense with the journey and transport me to the destination. Satisfy and gratify me in six easy steps, or with one small pill. Every successful advertiser understands the power of unmet needs and unsatisfied desire. Intentional deception is standard practice when tapping in to this motivational core. Convince a man that you can satisfy his deepest desire, and he will offer you his very soul.

I am not immune from this deception. "There's got to be an easier way" is a phrase frequently repeated in my frustrated mind. Energized by effort, alert with adrenaline, quickened by caffeine, I find the urgent pursuit -- of answers for questions, solutions for problems, and resources for demands -- absolutely addictive. Worst of all, the addiction grows with each perceived success. When I start to believe that every question can be answered, that every problem can be solved, and that every demand can be met -- when I believe that success and satisfaction are simply the result of effort, energy, and resolve -- then I am most deeply deceived and most desperately off track.

From the depths of this recurring addiction, I have learned of only one therapy worth recommending. But first, I'll briefly mention two that are to be avoided. First, do not attempt to suppress desire. While restraint is a virtue, and the ability to redirect passion a priceless skill, the indiscriminate attempt to eradicate appetite is a deeply misguided mistake, and simply increases the likelihood of a violent and explosive backlash. Second, do not indulge desire. Eat when you're hungry and sleep when you're tired, but do not trust your every whim and longing to guide your every action. Passions must by purified, and impulses must be checked, else you will find yourself enslaved to a most fickle and unfaithful master.

One thing I have found helpful in this haunted pursuit; one focal point yields the necessary perspective. I recommend this one truth from my heart to yours, whenever the discomfort of dissatisfaction troubles your soul:

The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
Even though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD
forever.

-- Brother Tom

49.5

Normally, I would round up; but in this case, I just don't feel like it.

Forty-nine years and six months is not equal to fifty years. Mathematically, there is no doubt about that. Physically, emotionally, and psychologically, I'm going to be hard-pressed to maintain the distinction, but I simply don't want the things that are generally true of fifty-year-olds to be true of me. Not yet. If I can delay their arrival six more months, I will. But I fear it is already too late for that.

Aging is a continuous process, despite our best efforts to measure and report it in discrete intervals and groupings. One's "age group" has become a ubiquitous involuntary identifier, to which are attached numerous calculated presumptions, from preferred investment strategies and pharmaceutical aids to frequency of bathroom breaks and of certain uncomfortable medical examinations. We age one day, one moment, at a time, but we contemplate and appropriate age in bigger chunks -- at first years, then decades. The biological observation that we have ten fingers and ten toes seems anthropologically connected to the fact that birthdays with zeroes in them hit us harder that the ones that don't.

Okay, so I'm not ready to be "in my fifties" yet, and I am indulging in a bit of anticipatory obsession over the event. Ignoring the fact that my best friend died shortly after his fiftieth birthday (i guess it's obvious that I'm not actually ignoring it), there is something about being "almost done" with my forties that leaves me feeling, well, restless. I find myself remembering the ticking urgency of a timed test, when the number of remaining questions unanswered was disproportional to the remaining minutes available. But that's not quite the same feeling. This is more like putting down a good book, half-way through a pivotal chapter, pulled away by more pressing concerns, not sure when (or even if) the next opportunity to read will come. Or its like needing to leave the much-enjoyed company of a good but distant friend, because there is a plane to catch, with no clear idea whether this meeting will be followed by a next one. I understand the inaccuracies of these metaphors, the implicit deception in such weak analogies. I know that I will not be significantly less able to answer a question or finish a book or meet with an old friend six months from now than I am today; but I also understand finite mathematics: six months from now -- six moments from now -- I will have fewer remaining opportunities to do such things than I currently have.

The realization of diminishing opportunity (and capacity) is not new, not surprising, not even depressing (unless obsessed over). What is disconcerting, however, in an ironic sort of way, is that my desire for such opportunities seems to be moving in the opposite direction. There are more questions that I want to answer now than there were when I was twenty, partly because new questions have been asked, partly because I have new answers, but mostly because there are questions that interest me now that did not interest me before. There are more books that I want to read now than there were when I was thirty, partly because new ones have been written, partly because I have discovered old ones I didn't know about before, but mostly because my curiosity has grown, and I now want to read books I did not want to read before. There are more friends I want to spend time with now that there were when I was forty, partly because I have made new friends, partly because I have reconnected with old friends, but mostly because I value friendship more now than I did before.

Perhaps this points me to the ancient truth, that God "has set eternity in the hearts of men." (Ecclesiastes 3:11) It is simply true that my longing, my desire, my curiosity, and my thirst exceed the likely limitations of this mortal lifetime. Straight linear extrapolation persuades me that I shall not be fully satisfied with the opportunities and diminishing capacities of this finite life, but this is neither a concession to sadness, nor a resignation to disappointment. I fully intend to fully enjoy every opportunity that comes my way, to the limits of my capacity and beyond. My cup has been overflowing for some time now, and I fully expect that it shall continue to overflow, as my supersaturated spirit absorbs God's superabundant blessings. I also intend to seek the infinite within and among the finite. Just as there are an infinite number of real numbers between 1 and 2, so there are an infinite number of opportunities to live, love, and enjoy between this moment and the next, between today and tomorrow, between 49.5 and 50. I intend to seek them out and celebrate them, much as Katsumoto sought the perfect cherry blossom. ("A perfect blossom is a rare thing. You could spend your life looking for one. And it would not be a wasted life." -- from The Last Samurai)

But I know without doubt that my search shall always surpass my discovery, that my curiosity shall consistently dwarf my comprehension, that my reach shall inevitably exceed my grasp. For this I am thankful, for it leads me to search beyond myself, beyond the limitations of my own life expectancy, into the boundless realm of the eternal, to the infinitely present and everlasting God.

"For Thou hast formed us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee."
-- St. Augustine

Endurance

144 hours. It is, by far, the biggest number I've ever written on my time ticket. Ten straight 12-hour days, with a 20-hour marathon stuck in the middle, bracketed by two eight-hour routines just to ramp up and ramp down. Intense, competitive numerical analysis, mathematical modeling while-you-wait, long-range business and economic forecasting, all with a heavy dose of psychological inference, small-group dynamics, and political gamesmanship: these were the ingredients of the past two weeks of negotiations. Throw in the chaotic background of political and economic crisis-management currently playing at our nation's capital, just to complete the picture.

To claim exhaustion would be to obsess over the obvious. I will rest, after I write. But exhaustion is not at this moment on my mind; endurance is. I have long admired and drawn inspiration from those who excel not just for brief moments, but over protracted periods and through vacillating circumstance. The Kentucky Derby showcases an exhilarating two-minute manifestation of speed and skill, but the Tour de France exposes enduring strength and character of a different sort. March Madness generates a plethora of pressure-packed moments and "plays of the day," but the names I notice with deepest regard are those that reappear every spring, the coaches and programs that demonstrate excellence year after year, despite dramatic changes among their courted cast. Businesses seek success through mitigating risk and capitalizing opportunity, both games of chance with high coefficients of incertitude. Lucky and well-timed guesswork sometime yield fast fortunes, but those who continue to prosper, though good fortunes and ill, give evidence of fortitude and acumen worthy of examination and imitation.

My own endurance eludes evaluation; I simply lack the objectivity required. But I know what I seek, and I recognize the contrast between what I am and what I wish to be. More to the point, I am gaining understanding of what helps and what hurts, what enhances and what detracts, from my capacity and resolve to excel over time, to endure.

The greatest obstacle I know to endurance is futility. The insidious impulse that one's effort is pointless and devoid of purpose will do more to deflate determination than any other impulse I have experienced. Yet the seedlings of that debilitating thought are pervasive and persistent. The common generic reply, "Whatever!" carries in it's womb the nascent conviction that nothing you or I say or do actually matters at all, that we have overestimated our impact on the people and world around us. The cynicism embedded in "so what?" dismissiveness and "wtf?" mockery begins with the benign observation that some people take themselves much too seriously (as perhaps I do), but leads too easily to the unrestricted irresponsibility that nothing in life is serious or meaningful at all, that actions do not have direct consequences, that concentrated effort is unlikely to produce substantive results.

A second obstacle, not far behind, is the underestimation of our own capacity. "Nobody's perfect" and "I'm only human" are truisms which often mask a negative assessment of human potential. Guilt and shame are burdens we carry which constantly remind us of failures past, and relentlessly project similar failures into our future. To believe that I cannot do something, simply because I have never done it before, or worse, because I have tried before and failed, spawns a self-defeating spiral of incapacity and ever-lowering standards of aspiration.

Obstacles can be overcome. A brief but formative confrontation taught me this in a very memorable way. It was during the training I received in ROTC, at summer camp in Fort Bragg, NC. at the Obstacle Course. Having never excelled in athletics, meeting the Army standards of physical fitness by a hair's breadth at best, I was intimidated by the Obstacle Course from the beginning. About half way through, with low-ranking soldiers shouting harsh curses intended as motivation, I was actually doing okay, much to my surprise. Until I got to the Log. A simple log, supported by lashed tripods at either end, which I was required to get my body over, by whatever means available. About neck high, a foot or so in diameter, slimy and slippery, it stared at me. Not really at me, but through me, as if I wasn't even there, oblivious and unsympathetic to my efforts to overcome it. I tried many, many times. I could not do it. The experimentation was exhaustive and the analysis conclusive: I lacked the physical strength and agility to launch my body over that log. I wish I knew that name of that lowly private who shouted endlessly and relentlessly at me, "GET OVER THAT LOG, CADET!" (If I did know his name, I would probably curse him before I thanked him. But I would definitely thank him.) Somehow, his conviction carried more weight than mine did. Without a doubt in my mind, the one and only reason that I did not give up on that Log was the passionate persistence of his constant clamoring voice. I didn't quit because he wouldn't let me quit. I don't remember how long it took, or how many tries. I do remember, with tears in my eyes thirty years later just from the retelling, that I did, in fact, get over that log.

Passionate persistence and deep determination are often sited as key elements of endurance. The unfortunate inference made by many is that these keys must be found within one's own heart and soul, which if true, is at best partially true and unduly limited. The rich resource available to those with "eyes to see and ears to hear" is the persistence and determination of the people around us. Friends and family, preachers and teachers, coaches and counselors all devote themselves, with irregular but nonetheless reliable fervor, to fanning the flames of courage and strengthening the sinews of heart. Cumulus clouds of witnesses inhabit the very air we breathe, conveying to us ancient testimony of unimagined possibilities and incredible capacities. God's voice can be heard in theirs, affirming the very goodness of creation, inspiring death-defying hope and everlasting conviction.

Inspiration is not measurable. I don't know how much of it I have, nor how much I need, nor how much I have to share. I do know that it is there, that it is available in sufficient quantities to exceed all forecasted demands. I know that, like love, it grows in the sharing, and that the only thing that impedes it's growth is the illusion that it is gone. It isn't gone. It's right here. It's free. Take some. Share some.

Get over that Log.

Endure.

Storm Damage

The weathered workers at the table next to us wore matching khaki shirts with a common logo, identifying them as part of a unit, a working team. Surrounding circumstances made it easy to guess that their skill-set involved electricity and power lines, and that they were part of the massive effort to restore utilities to the victims of last week's ice storms, victims numbering in the hundreds of thousands. Little imagination or investigation was required to understand the magnitude and urgency of their task. Waitresses and fellow diners offered up understated appreciation as circumstance and civility allowed.

As the men were getting up to leave, either to return to work or to attempt overdue rest, we took the opportunity to convey our thanks as well. A brief conversation revealed that this team had come up from Florida to help out. It seems that a few years ago, after a hurricane had hit their home state, crews from Kentucky had journeyed south to lend a hand. When this crew heard about our ice storm damage, they journeyed north to return the favor.

It does something to your soul, this simple unexplained evidence of human connectedness. No, I didn't catch his name or his e-mail address. I probably wouldn't recognize him, were we to meet again a few years or weeks from now. But I will remember him, and his crew. I will remember his simple explanation of extraordinary sacrifice and service. I will store it alongside other miscellaneous scraps of evidence, gathered through the years, that teach me things of the human spirit which I may never fully grasp, much less explain.

Storms do damage. Some of the damage is thankfully short-lived; much is deep and enduring, perhaps permanent. I would never (well, rarely) wish such damage upon anyone, friend or foe. But I have seen good things emerge from storms, even from the midst of the damage they do, which I doubt would ever have appeared, had not the storm raged.

Beyond the homes and businesses without power tonight, perhaps my cynicism has lost some of it's power, too. My doubts about human compassion and service are simply not as well-grounded as they used to be, or seemed to be.

May this storm, or some storm soon to come, damage your doubts as well.

Growth

It could be that mid-winter weariness has me anticipating evidence of spring. Or it could be that mid-life has me pondering the vector of our current era of change. Perhaps recently renewed connections with college friends and childhood neighbors have me marveling at the meandering maturation of all people and all things. Whatever the reason, I find my attention drawn once again to the recurring and ubiquitous theme of growth.

Growth occurs naturally. That is not only obvious, but a virtual tautology; it is essentially true by definition. One can hardly imagine an investigation into the nature of persons and things without paying appropriate attention to the process by which they grow, develop, and change. Nature is known not so much for what it is, but for it is constantly becoming.

The contrarian may argue that decay is every bit as prevalent and significant a force as growth, and perhaps more so. Ask any person over forty how they have changed over the last ten years or so, and they will likely describe not emerging potential and expanding passion, but diminishing capacities and increasing constraints. (Or as my brother so kindly puts it, being long past the age of growing taller, I have more recently been "growing in a different direction.")

But over time, I have come to see growth and decay not as competing forces, nor as sequential events, but as parallel and complementary processes. Indeed, decay is not the enemy of growth at all, for old cells simply must die and fall away to allow space and resource for new cells to emerge. Creative destruction is frequently prerequisite for construction to be renewed. (Watching the old house being demolished is often the most entertaining part of "Extreme Home Makeover"!)

... (more to follow) ...

The idea I intended to pursue here was that something other than decay is the true enemy of growth. Themes of stagnation, petrification, barriers and blockage were bouncing around in my head. Three things have happened since yesterday that have redirected that train of thought.

First, the drive up I-65 bore graphic witness to the "creative destruction" of the ice storm that crushed Kentucky last week. The sight of large groves of mature trees reduced to splinters and spears, with ice weighing heavily on bent branches not yet broken, punctuated by passing utility trucks and relief vehicles, poked holes in my impertinent platitudes about the positive side of destruction.

Second, my young friend Tim (see comment below) brought in the timely theme of dormancy, with the equilibrium it represents and sustains. Rest is not my strong suit, and hibernation often appears to me indistinguishable from death; yet something about this notion nudges me, as if to alert and instruct me in a new way.

Third, I awoke to the remembrance that today marks the 56th anniversary of my best friend's birth, and I squirmed at the awkwardness of marking the birth of one now nearly six years deceased. A text exchange with his wife Carol (I'm still uneasy with "widow") revealed a similar symbolic struggle between her and their daughter, Cammie. Cammie continues to track and mark the age in years, while Carol has come to see Chuck as "frozen in time."

Those three images converge in one when I look out my kitchen window. There a leafless tree -- named "Chuck" because it was planted in the year of his death -- lies both bent and broken, encased in ice and overwhelmed with it's mass. I cannot yet know whether the shattered remnant of a trunk can again sustain life, whether new branches and leaves may ever again emerge and grow from that broken base.

But as the day slips past, the sun has shown itself, and the ice begins to melt. Nothing remains "frozen in time", except perhaps the still photographs in our minds. What has been concealed will be revealed; what I cannot know now I shall someday know fully. The equilibrium of dormancy distinguishes itself by being itself broken.

Even the dormancy of death.

Blasphemy

The construction of the human personality occurs without blueprints, plans, or schedules.

I doubt that the journals of Dr. Frankenstein would give much detail on the formation of disposition. Geneticists claim evidence of behavioral causation encoded in the DNA. Developmental psychologists discern deeply imbedded patterns of permanent parental conditioning. Therapists and evangelists engage strategies for programatic modification and transformational change. Accidents and activists trigger reflective interpretations and reconstructions of meaning and purpose. Indeed, Francis Galton, a pioneer in the field of behavioral science, exposed the debate of Nature vs. Nurture as "a convenient jingle of words, for it separates under two distinct heads the innumerable elements of which personality is composed."

Composed of innumerable elements, held together by more or less lasting adhesives, subject only sometimes and under the right circumstances to renovation and reform, human personality eludes our efforts to master it, yet remains malleable and vulnerable to a wide range of benevolent and malignant forces. Cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) builds on the understanding that behavioral change is mediated by cognitive events: right thinking guides right doing. We may postulate that the inverse in also true. A pseudo-scientific outgrowth of behaviorism known as Affirmation Therapy centers its methodology on the powerful role of positive and negative reinforcement from a trusted mentor -- hardly a new concept, but a new context for the ancient appreciation of blessing and cursing.

But what of the untrusted mentor, the impostor impersonating an instructor, who affirms things which are not true and denies the things which are? What do we make of the toxicity and destructive power of the caustic critic who tears at the seams and dissolves the adhesive which binds the innumerable elements of our personality? Is it enough to say that they should be ignored and avoided? Dare we presume that they are well-intentioned, that their motives are pure, that the damage they do will be counterbalanced by the kindness implicit in their "trying to help"?

Cultures vary in their means of understanding and dealing with defamation, and in the severity of legal restrictions upon it various forms (libel, slander, vilification). While there is a global movement afoot to eliminate criminal penalties for defamation (with the European Court of Human Rights, among others), civil protections against malicious speech are generally upheld. While children may myopically retort, "words will never hurt me", the history of jurisprudence recognizes the substantial harm that may come from verbal injury and attacks upon one's reputation. Defenses offered in defamation cases (beyond the simplistic "freedom of speech") mix claims of truthfulness and denials of malice with the privilege of privacy, but little leeway is granted to the intentional, malicious, public attack upon the integrity and reputation of another person.

It is evil. To damage and destroy, with malice of forethought, the infrastructure of human personality is beyond rude, beyond unethical; it is comparable to the brutal torture of the spirit, the premeditated murder of the soul. The one who commits such a crime is in danger of damnation to the fires of Gehenna.

Applied to the Divine Personality of God, it is blasphemy. From this crime there is no retreat, no potential for remorse, no opportunity for repentance. It is unforgivable.

Too Much

According to Pascal, translated loosely:
too much light is just as blinding as too little;
too much noise is just as deafening as too little;
too much information is just as baffling as too little.

Is it possible that a superabundance of life's blessings can prove just a problematic as a shortage of serendipity?
Can it be that overwhelming opportunity paralyzes just as surely as a single barricaded door?
Does it make any sense that good and noble deeds lose their value when overdone?

Mother Teresa is often quoted complaining (tongue only partly in cheek):
"I know God will not give me anything I can't handle. I just wish that He didn't trust me so much."

Without daring to compare either my endurance or the heaviness of my burdens to those of Mother Teresa, I must honestly report that I have arrived at a similar sentiment, but with a different conclusion.

Whether by the gift of God or by poorly managed ambition, I have somehow arrived at more than I can handle. I do not report this as a passing feeling nor as a persistent fear, but as a plain fact. Syllogistic proofs I have none, but of this much I am persuaded: I simply do not possess the strength, the emotional stability, the mental clarity, or the intestinal fortitude to continue to perform the tasks and duties which I have been performing, at least not at a level which I would find acceptable or satisfactory. I cannot keep up this pace. The race is too long, and my legs are too tired.

Strangely, perhaps stupidly, I have not yet arrived at the point of resignation. I'm not ready to quit; not yet; not today. While every effort at personal inventory leads me to the unmistakable conclusion that I do not have the strength I will need for tomorrow, I nevertheless sense that I still have enough gas in the tank to get through the rest of today. And this has been the pattern every day, for many days. So consistently has this phenomenon been repeated that I have lost all confidence in my own ability to predict my future state. (One could argue that a repeating pattern of sufficiency should provide ample evidence for an inductive proof of satisfactory provision, but the deductive voices are not so easily quieted, and they insistently obsess on the very present shortages and shortfalls.)

Hypothetically, if sufficient food were provided for me each day, but never enough for the morrow, how long would I persist in being concerned about the clearly inadequate supply? Would 40 years of conditioning change my disposition? Would it help if, once a week, a two-day supply were offered, simply as a predictable demonstration that a regular "day off" would not disrupt either the dependable distribution nor my dependence upon it?

What if, by simple measurement of inventories, it was clear that the supply of oil was insufficient to keep the lights on through the dark night? How many nights would I continue to light the wick, knowing -- beyond reasonable doubt -- that the resources could not last? By the eighth night, would my convictions have changed? Would my doubts disappear?

If it is true that I simply have too much on my plate, that life and choice have provided me more than I can handle, then it must follow that my "too much" is matched by a corresponding "too little." "Too much" to do implies "too little" energy to do it. "Too much" to process suggests "too little" processing capacity. "Too much" of a burden translates into "too little" strength to bear it.

As a designer of mathematical models, I have learned that when reality consistently disproves the predictions of your model, you need to review your methodology and revisit your assumptions. When it comes to comprehending my own limitations, I should know by now that there is something wrong with my model. Either I am continually overestimating the demands placed upon me, or underestimating the availability of strength to meet those demands. Either I have too much awareness of my own weakness, or too little faith in God's provision of strength.

Or both.

Solitary Connectedness

If we can feel alone in a crowd (as I often do), would it be any less sensible to feel connected in isolation?

There is a phenomenon of focus that affects our ability to perceive in counter-intuitive ways.  The light emanated from a star is just as bright and just as present at noon as it is at midnight, but the greater light of the sun alters the behavior of our eyes, and thus inhibits our ability to discern the lesser light of the star.  The streetlights of the city have the same effect, although that light is not so much "greater" as it is closer, more brilliant by proximity alone (which may also be true of the sun and the star).  The light of the star does not change; our capacity to perceive it does.

So it is with friendship.  A dear and trusted friend walking up your driveway twenty yards away will be easily spotted and warmly greeted, while that same friend seated twenty yards away in a crowed arena may not be noticed at all.  The friend is just as present (and just as much a friend) in either case, but the sense of crowdedness alters our capacity to perceive -- not just by obstructing our view, but even more by diluting our focus, altering our capacity to perceive what is there.

Intimacy decreases as crowdedness increases.  Perhaps it is more true for introverts than for extroverts, but even in a broader sociological sense, interpersonal connectedness seems inversely proportional to population density.  Country living, from my own experience confirmed by many others, indeed offers greater opportunity for friendship and strong social networks than "cramped up city life."  Not just the capacity but also the desire to form relationships is inversely altered by the number of people in proximity.

By logical extension, the trajectory of this thinking leads me to posit that one may find the greatest desire and capacity for connectedness with others (as well as the greatest ability to perceive the connectedness already there) when one is most solitary, most alone.  Sitting alone in my living room this Saturday morning, experiencing my connectedness to others only through my thoughts and the posting of this blog (which may or may not ever be read by anyone, and thus may represent no connectedness at all), I sense a resonating truth to this proposition, for which my words will doubtless prove inadequate.

At the same time, I am aware of an contrary current, a fearful force warning me of the dangers of excessive isolation.  Lacking the clarity to pinpoint the source of this fear, I can only describe it, and that only in imprecise impressions.  It is as if I were being threatened by the possibility that the aloneness I enjoy might become permanent and irreversible, that somehow by choosing to cherish my solitude, I might also be choosing to destroy my relationships -- and not just those relationships I currently hold dear, but all others as well -- past, present, and future.  More than that, the fear of disconnectedness extends inward, portending the fragmentation of my personality -- of my soul -- into dissimilar and disintegrated parts and functions, lacking organization or coordination of any kind.  As Snoopy's head converses with his feet while jogging, my head grows anxious that my feet will no longer respond to -- nor care -- what my head desires.  Loss of social connectedness empties into loss of identity, loss of meaning, and loss of self, as a mountain stream empties into a river, a lake, an ocean.

I do not consider that fear to be decisive, nor that anxiety authoritative.  As a statement of faith more than a demonstrated conclusion, I do not believe that I shall fall apart.  But that conviction is conditioned on a significant presupposition: I believe that the physical and social world that I live in, as well as the integrated mind-body-spirit which I refer to as myself, is held together by something other than the force of my own will.  I believe that the organizational integrity of persons and things is rooted in a much more powerful and enduring being than the duct tape which is my own capacity to "keep it together".  I believe in God, the Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer, and Strength of all that is.  Almighty Adhesive.

When I trust my own faith (a twisted phrase perhaps worthy of independent consideration), I find that I can enjoy the benefits of solitude (increased space and clarity, heightened perception and appreciation of others) without the anxiety of dissolution.  Indeed, a firm and faithful awareness of the constant Presence of God transforms my solitude into a singular and supremely focused connection with the One -- The One Who Is.  Emptied of all competing and diluting other connections, the One Solitary Connection becomes the creative, redemptive, sustaining, and strengthening Communion which fills the deepest emptiness of my heart.

It is good to be alone, when the One becomes the All.

E Pluribus Unum.