Author Archives: Steve Jacobsen

I worked for 43 years in the nonprofit and spiritual development fields....Executive Director of Hospice of Santa Barbara, Director of La Casa de Maria Retreat Center (before it closed in 2018 following the mud and debris flow event), and as a Presbyterian pastor in a variety of states and settings. I've been active in inter-spiritual work for 20 years, particularly with the Jewish, Muslim and Buddhist communities. I've served on several nonprofit boards and published a dozen articles. I enjoy baseball, classical music, listening to peoples' personal stories, politics, history and my family.

Reflections on Grief, Gratitude, and Maturity

My dear friend Father Larry Gosselin recently posted a quote from Francis Ward Weller, a therapist and grief counselor. I want to share it and a few of my own reflections.

The work of the mature person

Is to carry grief in one hand

And gratitude in the other

And to be stretched large by them.

How much sorrow can I hold?

That’s how much gratitude I can give.

If I carry only grief, I’ll bend toward cynicism and despair.

If I have only gratitude, I’ll become saccharine

And won’t develop much compassion for other people’s suffering.

Grief keeps the heart fluid and soft,

Which makes compassion possible.

At times in my life, I’ve been asked who my “spiritual heroes” are. My response: the many older people I’ve known in my congregations. They’ve lived through hard times and personal tragedies, but somehow have become calm, thoughtful, and caring.

To this I’d add Hospice volunteers who’ve experienced the loss of people they loved, then followed a calling to simply be present with others living in times of fear and unknowing.

Of course, maturity doesn’t always come with the accumulation of age; some young people have unusual wisdom and insight. We call them “old souls.”

I’m wary of simplistic formulas for life. I distrust promises that we can be happy all the time if we just make the right effort.

I’ve known people who have lost loved ones in ways that will always haunt me, and I don’t know how they bear it.

I do not believe there is a divine pain manager who sends suffering our way to improve our character.

Eleven years ago, I participated in a retreat at Esalen with the great mystic and global spirituality scholar, Huston Smith. He was 91 and physically frail. I remember him saying, “We are born in mystery, we live in mystery, we die in mystery.” He said those words with a full smile and clear light in his eyes.

Something is here that holds us.

____

Image: Close-up of “Return of the Prodigal” by Rembrandt

Tacos, Turkeys, and Table Grace

One of my most memorable meals was experienced at a construction site on the outskirts of Tijuana. It came to mind recently as we approach Thanksgiving.

Here’s the context.

My congregation’s high school group went on a service project trip organized by Amor Ministries south of the border. Like “Habitat for Humanity,” Amor specializes in building basic housing for poor families. The owners of the house are responsible for securing title to the lot, leveling it, and sharing in the construction as they were able. Amor’s part was organizing work teams of 15 volunteers and purchasing the concrete, lumber, and other necessary building materials. They had created a simple, foolproof 40-page manual that allowed volunteers to build a basic, 2-room home with a concrete foundation, solid framing, stucco exterior, a waterproof roof, two windows and a door — all in the space of four days, and without the use of power tools.

An important aspect of the Amor experience: volunteers had to live near the site in a secured campground that did not have electricity or running water. They’d sleep in tents, cook their own food and learn how to use a 2-gallon plastic bottle for showers. For some teenagers, the prospect of going without hair dryers, electronic games, and hot showers was frightening. But that was the commitment.

Another key theme was cultural sensitivity. The orientation and oversight provided by Amor focused on the principle that the volunteers were not noble Americans displaying compassion on poor Mexican people, but members of the same human family working side-by-side for the betterment of all.

Every trip I went on was inspiring. Teenagers learned they could build something important with their hands using good teamwork, manual labor and common sense. They found living without everyday luxuries liberating. And they got to know ordinary Mexican families.

One year we had two teams working near each other. One of the owners told us she and a neighbor wanted to prepare lunch for us on the final day as an expression of gratitude. We were concerned. She did not have a kitchen and there were more than 30 of us. But she assured us it would be fine.

That morning a friend came over and they began the process. They made more than six dozen tortillas by hand. They chopped the onions, cilantro, and tomatoes she had bought. On a small hibachi, they built a fire and cooked the beef. I remember thinking, “Is it possible to feed this many people with such limited resources?” As noon approached, everything was ready. We joined hands with our hosts and shared a prayer of thanksgiving. Then we ate.

I grew up in California and have eaten tacos all my life. Those tacos were among the best tacos I’ve ever had. We were quiet as we savored them, amazed at the quality of the food, how it had been prepared and what it meant.

What made the meal so memorable?

The tacos would have drawn raves from Anthony Bourdain and Julia Child.
The feast was prepared with joy and gratitude.
The experience of sharing it with our hosts created a human bond of affection that transcended language and culture.

I also have fond memories of interfaith potluck dinners involving Muslim, Jewish and Christian congregations. Everyone brought something special from their cultural traditions. Prayers were offered in different languages. The power of cross-cultural community was palpable – and the food was terrific.

One other setting for such feasts was the dining room at La Casa de Maria, the retreat center in Montecito where I served first as a board member and then Director. La Casa welcomed people of all backgrounds and spiritual traditions. Chef Rene was a culinary artist. He could bar-b-que hamburgers for a Catholic high school group one day and prepare a fabulous vegetarian meal for a Buddhist group the next. It was not unusual for several different groups to be going through the buffet line at the same meal – Narcotics Anonymous women, a farmworkers leadership team, a planning council of environmental activists, and participants in a mediation class. The guests came from different backgrounds and for different purposes. But they all raved about the food. They loved being at tables together. And in that room you could experience the power of diversity within a broader community.

We are approaching the Thanksgiving holiday. In America, that traditionally has meant a turkey dinner shared with family and friends. Wherever we will be, whatever we eat, and whoever we are with, may we be mindful of the varied feasts people share around the world. Some may focus on tacos and some on turkey, some with dahl and some with tabouli. But when delicious food is lovingly prepared, eaten in gratitude, and honoring all members of the human family, it’s more than a meal – it’s a table filled with grace.

Mom, Apple Pie, Technology and the Holidays

My mother had her share of hardships in life. Her first husband died only a few years after they married, leaving her with a young son and pregnant with my older sister. Not long after, her mother died suddenly. She met and married my father; I was born a few years later, my younger sister five years after that. Raising a noisy, blended family of four children while carrying within her the emotional burdens of trauma and grief made it hard for her to be “present” with us individually.

Except when she made apple pie.

I remember watching her from an early age. In time, I became old enough to participate. I learned how to peel, core, and slice the green Pippin apples with a paring knife. The peels were kept in a separate bowl and I would snack on them while we worked. She added sugar and cinnamon to the sliced apples and gave them time to absorb the flavors. She’d make the crust with Crisco, flour, and a few drops of water. She’d roll the dough and create the pie crusts she needed, pressing them into the pie plates. She’d add the apples, dot them with butter and a few drops of lemon juice, then seal them with the top crust. She taught me how to flute the edges of the crust with my fingers before the pie was put into the oven and to use a fork to poke venting holes on the top. The leftover dough was rolled out on the cutting board. She’d add sugar, cinnamon, and butter to it, then cut the dough into strips. She’d roll the strips into “pinwheels,” which would bake along with the pie. Pinwheels only took 10-12 minutes to bake. We’d take them out and let them cool, then enjoy them as the pie continued to bake. The kitchen filled with the smell of a baking apple pie.

My mom wasn’t a great cook, but she was a master at making pies. They were always a highlight of birthday and holiday dinners.

But as I got older, and especially after she died in 1993, I realized what I valued most was not the pies themselves, but the quality of time we shared during the process. Focusing on the manual labor allowed us to become calm and reflective. We listened to each other, laughed together, and simply enjoyed being together. I didn’t realize until I was older how rare and wonderful those times were. What a gift for a child to have such time with a parent!

Eventually, I found a word to describe such activities: “focal practices.” This is a term coined by Albert Borgman, a philosopher who has spent much of his career exploring the role of technology in our lives. The root of the word “focal” is focuser, a Latin word meaning hearth. In Roman families, everything was centered on the hearth. It was location of the family shrine, as it was where symbols of ancestors were carefully arranged and displayed. It’s where food was cooked, and where the family ate together. As Borgmann says, the hearth was where the family gathered to be present with each other and share what they most deeply valued. In our own times, focal practices can include preparing and sharing meals, going on walks and hikes, camping, playing games, crafts, fishing, building things, gardening, and sharing skills of all kinds. Engaging in such activities, we experience life at a deeper level. As Borgman says, focal practices both gather and radiate meaning.

Technological devices are a threat to such practices, he believes. Devices are objects that promise to give us what we want in a more effective way and with less effort. They always promise to save us time and labor. But something is lost when they displace focal practices.

Let’s imagine a device that makes perfect apple pies, like bread-makers make bread. You simply add the ingredients and push a button, and – voilà – a pie as good as mom’s appears. So effortless and convenient. But if we had that when I was a kid, I would have never learned the art of what she did, the satisfaction that came from doing it, or experienced the quality time we spent together. Pie-making was a focal practice. It did “take time”. But time is not an adversary to be conquered. Time is a gift to be received with gratitude.

As we approach the holidays, we can be grateful for memories of “focal practices” we’ve experienced in our past and seek opportunities to share such activities with family and friends this season.

As for me — I’m looking forward to the aroma of homemade pies baking in the oven.

“Taste and see that the Lord is good.”

_______

Borgman, Albert, Technology and the Character of Contemporary Life: A Philosophical Inquiry, University of Chicago Press, 1984; Crossing the Postmodern Divide, University of Chicago Press, 19

Three Insights from David Brooks

This past week I came across notes I had taken while attending two leadership conferences featuring New York Times columnist David Brooks. I’ve always respected David’s insights into culture and politics. But at these two events, David reflected on his personal journey. He said he had achieved everything he ever wanted in his professional life but felt his life had become increasingly empty. He began searching for clues as to what he was missing and shared with us some of his reflections. Here are three I want to share with you today

“Our culture treats us like brains on a stick.” As we spend more time in a digital world, enticed and tracked by Big Tech, we become disconnected and disembodied from nature and neighbors.

But, he noted, two of his friends had experiences that remind us there is another dimension of life.

One such moment happened in his friend’s kitchen. The friend had come downstairs and glanced out the kitchen window. Outside was a falcon on a branch. They looked into each other’s eyes – and kept looking –and it felt as if they were seeing into each other’s depths. Finally, the falcon flew away. The encounter changed his friend’s life.

Another friend told David a thought that surprised her. As she was holding her newborn daughter these words came to her: “I love this child more than evolution can explain.” Science and evolution explain so much about the world we live in. But there are moments, mystical moments, when we realize there is something more, something wonderful, something holy, and we are in the midst of it every day.

We are not meant to live “like brains on a stick.” Looking into the eyes of our fellow creatures and each other, we can wake up to the great mystery of life, which is tangible, unfathomable, and glorious.

Thank you, David, for sharing thoughts from your journey.

Who Are the Saints in Your Life?

November 1 is “All Saints Day” — for centuries, a day to honor the saints and martyrs of the Catholic Church. The stories and legends of the official saints are fascinating to hear and remember. But there are two categories of saints that I want to explore with you: “Superstar Saints” and “Everyday Saints.”

The town I live in is named after Saint Barbara – a perfect example of a “Superstar Saint.”

The original story concerned a young woman named Barbara, born in the third century. Her rich pagan father kept her locked up in a tower to protect her. But she secretly became a Christian, and rejected a marriage offer he had arranged. He went on a journey, and when he returned, she told him about her new faith. He drew his sword to kill her, but her powerful prayers transported her to a mountainside where two shepherds kept their flocks. One of the shepherds kept her presence a secret but the other betrayed her. She was taken before the local prefect and tortured daily, but the wounds healed miraculously by the next morning. Finally, her father beheaded her. On his way home, he was struck by lightning and consumed by flames.

Over time, her association with lightning and fire led to her becoming the patron saint of artillerymen, gunsmiths, and anyone working with explosives, including miners and geologists.

Quite a story! Quite a legacy! The fact that Saint Barbara’s story contains details that are a bit hard to believe led her to be demoted in 1969 from the “General Roman Calendar.” But she remains a memorable example of the “Superstar Saints” of the Western tradition.

There is another kind of “saint” that goes back to the early Christian communities. In Romans 12, Saint Paul identifies specific character traits of “Everyday Saints.” Here’s a sample, translated into contemporary language by Eugene Peterson:

“Let’s just go ahead and be what we were made to be, without enviously or pridefully comparing ourselves with each other, or trying to be something we aren’t.”
“If you’re put in charge, don’t manipulate.”
“If you work with the disadvantaged, don’t let yourself get irritated with them or depressed by them. Keep a smile on your face.”
“Love from the center of who you are; don’t fake it.”
“Don’t quit in hard times; pray all the harder.”
“Laugh with your happy friends when they’re happy; share tears when they’re down.”
“Make friends with nobodies; don’t be the great somebody.”

In essence, “Everyday Saints” are people who live their life with sincerity, humility, integrity, and a constant focus on serving others.

I have not personally known any “Superstar Saints.” But I’ve known quite a few “Everyday Saints”:

Dorothy, from my Santa Paula congregation. She dressed like the 1940s and may not have always sang in tune. But each year she would raise close to $10,000 for the annual walk to end world hunger – more, by far, than anyone else in town.
George, a retired handyman in Wapato, Washington. He spent his days driving around town in his old pickup with his dog Taffy, doing household repairs for people who could not afford to hire professionals.
Thelma, in my Goleta Congregation. She never wanted to be on committees or speak in public, but over the years she knit hundreds of afghans for young unmarried mothers and families in need.
Joe, a long-time volunteer at Hospice of Santa Barbara. Joe was a Navy Vet and retired Maytag repairman. He lost his wife to illness and his son to suicide. For more than 30 years, he volunteered his time to be with people facing death and grief. We called him “St. Joseph.”
The housekeepers at La Casa de Maria Retreat Center where I served as Director. They believed their job was not just making beds and washing towels but caring for people who came seeking healing and hope. Their energy blessed each room in which they worked.
An older Iranian woman from the local Islamic Society I met during a year-long interfaith project. She was grateful to have a chance to prove Muslims are decent people and showed up at every event asking what she could do to help.
And I think of the countless people I’ve seen in my 40-year career who work as aides, CNAs, LVNs and caretakers in nursing homes, hospitals, dementia care facilities and private homes. English may not be their first language, but they provide love, respect, and dignity to each person they encounter.

This “All Saints Day” I encourage us all to look around our neighborhood, workplace and community and take time to be grateful for the Everyday Saints in our midst. They may not create fireworks as they go about their lives, but they bless us all in ways that are lasting and true.

The Strange Case of Parking Lot Pete

He longed for something exciting to do in retirement. He needed a new challenge, a bold adventure, maybe even a new identity.

One Saturday he was looking for a parking spot at Costco. It was busy. Cruising by each row and scanning for the best spot available, watching as other people took spaces he thought could have been his…he was frustrated.

He finally had to settle for a spot far from the entrance. He sat in his car, fuming.

Then the vision came to him.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked it.

He decided he didn’t need anything at Costco after all and went home.

In the days that followed, he made preparations. If he was to do this well, he’d have to master every detail.

Over the next few weeks, the elements fell into place.

The car for instance. He needed one well-suited to the task.

He thought about something bold and brawny, maybe a Hummer or an old “muscle car” like a GTO. But those would attract too much attention.

He thought about something small and agile, a vehicle that could slip into choice spots with stealth and ease. He looked at Mini-Coopers. But they, too, would attract attention.

He realized what he needed was something humble, common, and bland. On Craigslist, he found a tan, 2007 Honda Accord. People would never notice it. Perfect.

What should he wear? Black leather jacket, dark shades, Oakland and Raider baseball cap? Tempting, but no…again, you don’t want people to notice you. He found what he needed after visiting thrift shops: an old white golf shirt, a pair of Levi’s, a light blue baseball cap with no logo, plain white sneakers. He’d be invisible.

He did find something empowering for his rear-view mirror — a shark’s tooth on a leather thong; he’d always wanted one in high school, and now was the time to claim it.

He’d need sustenance. He got a case of Red Bull and a generous supply of beef jerky, which he kept in the trunk.

A personal soundtrack would be important. The old Accord had a CD player. He burned two songs onto a blank disc: the theme from Jaws, which he would play as each encounter began, and the theme from “Rocky” to celebrate each victory.

The right car, a good disguise, sustenance, the shark’s tooth, and a personal soundtrack: he was ready.

His mission was simple: to become an expert at getting the best parking spot in crowded lots.

He began practicing in large open lots, like one by an old Sears store. He’d go early in the morning and put himself through drills focusing on cruising, sharp turns, and quick stops.

He then began training at more challenging battlegrounds: Trader Joe’s in the late afternoons. The Funk Zone on Friday evenings. The County Bowl just before concerts.

He created a plan. When he entered a lot, he’d circle the permitter, scanning the layout. Then he’d cruise up and down each row. He’d take note of the cars that had found good spots, then imagine what the driver of that car might look like. He became skilled at matching cars and drivers. Then he’d prepare to strike, sometimes still cruising, sometimes idling at the curb in a loading zone. When he saw the likely driver emerge from the store, he pushed the “Play” button for Jaws and inconspicuously shadow the person as they walked to their car. When the person did turn to get into their car, Pete assumed his “strike” position and snuck closer. As soon as the person pulled out, he deftly slid in and claimed his trophy.

Sometimes other drivers would see the spot opening, but rarely could they beat Pete. He took a particular joy in seeing their surprise and frustration. But he never gloated. He had practiced how to look completely innocent as he’d get out of his car and walk leisurely towards the store. He’d always buy something to keep his cover. When he returned to his Accord and drove away, he pushed the play button for Rocky.

He’d unwind at night with his favorite videos, alert for any tips he could pick up: Rambo. Terminator 2. James Bond movies. And any installment of The Bourne Supremacy.

Life was exciting. He felt strong, confident and proud.

Until that fateful Saturday.

The holidays were coming — peak season at Costco.

He drove out for the busy time in the early afternoon. He cruised back and forth near the entrance, Jaws on low volume, making mental notes of possibilities. He saw a well-dressed lady come out with a few items. He guessed she’d be driving the white Audi that was in a prime spot. Then he realized he had a competitor. Just turning into the far end of that row was an old, slow-moving Mercury. But Pete was ready. He was right, the Audi was hers. As the Audi pulled out, Pete slid in. The Mercury driver had not seen Pete at first, but when he saw he’d lost the spot, he abruptly hit the brakes, stunned. The Mercury slowly resumed its quest, turning and heading to the outer limits of the vast lot. Pete put his finger to his lips, touched the shark’s tooth and smiled.

He got out of his car to play the role of a genuine shopper. As he walked toward the entrance, he saw the old Mercury had finally found a spot, far beyond the Tire Department. Pete decided to walk in the direction of the Mercury, curious to see who would be driving such an old car.

He watched from a distance. The driver’s door slowly opened. An older man with a baseball cap got out. He couldn’t move very well…almost a shuffle He went to his trunk and opened it. He took out a walker and unfolded it. He then lifted a steel canister out of the trunk and put it in the walker, then fitted some kind of tube around his neck. Pete realized it was an oxygen tank. The man closed the trunk and began the long journey to the store entrance.

Pete lingered outside, pretending he was waiting for someone.

Finally, the old man with the walker came by. He looked tired. Pete could see what was on the man’s black hat: “Korea Vet” framed by gold braid. He saw the man fumble for his Costco I.D., approach the entrance and then disappear into the store.

Pete was feeling disoriented. His training taught him to always go into a store so he would look like a real shopper, but this time he had no interest in doing so.

He returned to his car. He got in, backed out, and drove. He wasn’t sure where to go. He had no desire to play “Rocky.” He decided to drive to a local beach where he could park and think.

He found a spot away from the crowds facing the ocean. He sat there in silence. He felt empty. He thought about what that vet had been through all his life. And how hard it must be to just get to the store. And Pete asked himself, “I think I’m some kind of warrior?”

A month passed. Pete didn’t go out much. A new vision was forming, and a new chapter in his life began.

When he did go to the store, he no longer had to have the best spot. He figured he needed more exercise anyway so would park far from the entrance, leaving more room for others.

He still enjoyed jerky but stopped drinking Red Bull.

He took the shark’s tooth off the rear-view mirror and put it in the glove compartment.

He didn’t play the CD anymore.

He got a part-time job as a driving instructor. He gave special discounts to teenagers, seniors, and vets.

On days when he knew certain lots in town would be congested, he’d arrive early and act as a self-appointed parking lot attendant. He found he could use his knowledge and skills to help manage parking rather well. He fearlessly would step in front of aggressive drivers, and motion to someone slower to take a good spot, then walk away. He began thinking of himself as a parking-lot Jedi.

When he did go in a store, he would see if any shopper was having a hard time reaching a product on a high shelf. He’d quietly come alongside, ask what they were seeking, reach up and hand it to them.

As he drove around town, he started noticing church buildings more. They had just been places with big parking lots before, but now it wasn’t the parking lots he noticed. He was curious about why people would go there and if he could make new friends in such places.

He spent off-duty time at the parking lot at the beach. Before, he would go there only to review his strategy for the day. Now, he sat in his car for long periods, entranced by the ocean and the sunlight shining on the surface. He watched waves quietly form and patiently break on the shore. People of all ages and backgrounds walked by, and he felt a bond with each one of them.

If you are out and about this holiday season, you may find yourself scanning parking lots, wondering if Parking Lot Pete is out there, working his magic. He may be. But he’s gotten very good at being invisible to the untrained eye.

Caring About Something Foolish

I’m emotionally drained this week. I blame it on baseball.

I’ve been a Dodger fan since I was 6 years old, which means I’ve been vulnerable for 62 years. Sometimes I wonder — why bother? It’s just a game. In such moments of doubt I turn Roger Angell.

Roger Angell turned 101 last month. His writing was first published in the New Yorker in 1944. He’s written on many topics, but a favorite has been baseball. He is the only writer elected to both the American Academy of Arts and Letters and the Baseball Hall of Fame. In 1975 he wrote in an essay called “Agincourt and After”:

“It is foolish and childish, on the face of it, to affiliate ourselves with anything so insignificant and patently contrived and commercially exploitative as a professional sports team, and the amused superiority and icy scorn that the non-fan directs at the sports nut […] is understandable and almost unanswerable. Almost. What is left out of this calculation, it seems to me, is the business of caring — caring deeply and passionately, really caring — which is a capacity or an emotion that has almost gone out of our lives. […] It no longer matters so much what the caring is about, how frail or foolish is the object of that concern, as long as the feeling itself can be saved. Naïveté — the infantile and ignoble joy that sends a grown man or woman to dancing and shouting with joy in the middle of the night over the haphazardous flight of a distant ball — seems a small price to pay for such a gift.”

Tuesday night I was with an ethnically diverser crowd 54,000 naïve and foolish people at Dodger Stadium. The Dodgers played the Giants. We all watched the “haphazardous flight of a distant ball” for almost four hours. Win or lose, rooting for the Dodgers or Giants, we were united by a collective sense of passionately caring about something.

Thank you, Roger Angell, for your reassurance that this “foolish and childish” activity has a deeper purpose. Bring on Atlanta.

Photo credit: Wall Street Journal

Two Lasting Lessons from My Rock-Climbing Career

Some years ago, I was at a wedding in the Sierras. Guests stayed at a resort for the weekend. The groom was a well-known mountain and rock-climbing guide and offered to teach any guests the basics of rock-climbing.

I remember my lesson well. I was on a safety rope, and slowly made my way up the rock face with Doug coaching from below. I was maybe 20 feet up the rock face when I looked back down. Even though I logically knew I was safe, the adrenaline began to flow, and I envisioned falling. My brain offered a vision of my head hitting the granite below like a dropped watermelon.

“Ok,” I said. “I’m experiencing some fear right now. Should I just ignore it and keep focusing on the next move?”

Doug smiled. “No, your fear has important information to give you. You want to take in the information, but not let fear control you.”

Acting brave, I continued to climb for another ten minutes or so before I slowly made my way back to the ground. I thanked him for his patience.

I learned two lasting truths that day:

I don’t like rock climbing. I’ve never tried it again.
“Your fear has important information to give you. You want to take in the information without letting fear control you.”

I’ve thought of this insight often over the years. It’s come to mind as I’m dealing with unexpected family medical situations, occasional crises at work, financial decisions and even when responding to political events.

I know there are times when fear and adrenalin may save us from danger and there’s no time for thoughtful contemplation.

And I know many people live with phobias, panic attacks, and chronic anxiety – those complex issues are not solved by remembering a simple principle. (In such situations, I’ve seen impressive results from skilled practitioners using Cognitive-Behavior Therapy.)

But I continue to value the basic insight.

It reminds me of one of the five principles taught by Frank Ostateski as he applies Zen mindfulness principles to end-of-life care: “Welcome Everything, Push Away Nothing.” If we can find a still center within, we can observe thoughts and feelings as they arise in us and deal with them calmly and wisely, rather than in a state of fear.

I’m grateful for that lesson: “…your fear has important information to give you. You want to take in the information, but not let fear control you.”

And I’m also grateful I don’t have to pretend I’m calm while I’m clinging to the side of a boulder.

Haunted By A Story About An Oar

Have you ever been listening to someone and you hear something that strikes you with a jolt of energy and you’re not sure why? The story goes on but you’re not paying attention. A word, a phrase or an idea has nested in your awareness and settles there. Your attention moves on to other things. Time passes and you almost forget about it, but every so often, you notice it is there reminding you: “When you’re ready, I’ve got a message for you.”

I had an experience like this five years ago. We were on a road trip listening to a book by Mark Nepo. I don’t remember the name of the book or the topic. But at some point, he referred to an incident in Homer’s Odyssey, the great epic about Odysseus’ ten-year journey at sea returning from victory in the Trojan War. A prophet tells Odysseus that there is a task he must do as he reaches the end of his life – a journey he must make with his oar. I had no idea why that fragment of a story attracted my attention. But it did.

Recently I decided to discover why that story had caught my attention. I pulled out my copy of the Odyssey and did a little research. It soon became clear to me why this ancient tale of a heroic wanderer is an important one for me to hear. It’s given me a fruitful way to think about the stage of life I am in now as someone recently retired.

I hope it becomes useful for others who are at a similar point in their journey.

Here’s the story.

After twenty years at war and at sea, Odysseus is home. He reunites with his beloved wife Penelope and restores his authority over his household. As Odysseus and Penelope prepare to turn in for their first night together in a long time, they exchange stories of all that has happened. Towards the end, he tells her about the prophet he had visited in the land of the dead midway through his journey. The prophet gave him a task he needs to complete:

Then you must go off again, carrying a broad-bladed oar,

Until you come to men who know nothing of the sea,

Who eat their food unsalted, and have never seen

Red-prowed ships or oars that wing them along.

And I will tell you a sure sign that you have found them,

One you cannot miss. When you meet another traveler

Who thinks you are carrying a winnowing fan,

Then you must fix your oar in the earth

And offer sacrifice to Lord Poseidon,

A ram, a bull, and a boar in its prime. (Bk. 11, 119-128, Lombardo)

After he recounts the story, his long-suffering and ever-supportive wife says hopes she this will be the last trial they have to face.

It didn’t take long for me to see the significance the story has for me, 2700 years after it was told.

Odysseus is a sailor. The oar represents his identity. His life as a warrior at Troy and as a seafarer have earned him respect and honor. But the prophet is telling him that after he returns home, the heroic stage of his life will be over, and he needs to let it go. If he wants to find peace, he must take his oar and go to a distant place where his reputation is not known. The residents of that land live far from the sea and won’t even know it’s an oar he is carrying – they will mistake it for a winnowing fan used harvesting grain. There – where he no longer has his reputation to define him — he must make an offering to the god Poseidon whom he had unintentionally offended in his journey. Only then can he find peace.

For me this challenge is about identity in retirement.

I’d been planning to retire in 2018 when I would turn 66. I had attended seminars to prepare myself for the transition. I was looking forward to having fewer responsibilities and more time to explore my interests. I’d accomplished two heroic feats – working long enough to qualify for social security and a pension and figuring out how Medicare supplemental insurance works. I had grandchildren to spend time with, trips I’d dreamed of making, and skills I wanted to develop but had never had the time to pursue.

I did retire in 2018. But at times, I have found it hard to let go of my “oar.” I empathize with the athletes and performers who knew it was time to retire but miss the excitement of being in the game or on stage.

I volunteered to raise money for our local clinic and accepted an interim pastoral job, which were opportunities to perform tasks I’ve always enjoyed. I was grateful to not to go to too many meetings. But I also realized I was becoming less important.

At one point, we considered moving to a new place in Northern California. At first, I thought, “But I will lose all the relationships in town that I’ve enjoyed for 30 years. That’s what’s given me meaning.” Going to a place where I had no identity – a place where my oar would not be recognized – would be hard. But at a later point, the story of the oar came to mind, and I was ready to move and see who I would become. (Ironically, the COVID real estate boom nixed our plans.)

How hard it can be for some of us – especially for guys, perhaps? – to go to that “far-off land,” leaving the work and environment that’s defined us for years.

I know some will never give up the oar, and proudly say they want to die at their desk. My father kept his business license long after the phone had stopped ringing.

A recently retired college professor was coming to terms with what he had lost, commenting that he used to have roomfuls of students listening to him. “Now I’m just another guy with opinions.” Many of my friends have had to find new ways to contribute, not wanting to disappear gently into that good night.

Of course, there’s always golf! Out on that deep-green grassy sea I find companionship with other retired adventurers who now boldly face the perils of sand traps and misplayed shots. My oar has become a 7-iron, and I’m grateful for the chance to play. Still, it’s hard to imagine Odysseus playing golf.

As they turn in that night, Odysseus tells his wife he intends to go and plant that oar. But we’re not told if he ever does. As one writer notes, it’s easy to imagine Odysseus lying in bed at night hearing the sea, longing for the life he knew so well.

I’m not turning back. I truly enjoy the freedom I have and my new pursuits. But I appreciate Odysseus’ dilemma – and the fact that this ancient story can still open me up to the mystery of what remains.

Image: Conrad Shawcross, *Winnowing Oar*

A Gift To Give the People You Love

There’s a precious gift for your loved ones that’s easy to give and doesn’t cost a nickel.

I’ll start with two personal stories.

We always thought my dad would die before my mom, as he had ongoing health issues. But on a Saturday morning in 1993, my mom had a massive cerebral hemorrhage. She lingered for ten days, and, as far as we could tell, may not have been able to understand anything we were saying to her. Suddenly she was gone. We were left with the decision many families face: what do we do for a memorial service? Luckily, we all remembered something she said many times: “When I die, I want to go out to ‘When The Saints Go Marching In.'”

We focused on creating a service that would honor mom’s spirit. We were all willing to speak and, working with the pastor, chose some hymns and readings. We gladly accepted an offer from a family friend to play a medley of Gershwin songs that mom loved. But the most important act was to honor her request for “All the Saints.”

The church organist found a trumpeter in town who could play “When the Saints” Dixieland style. The pastor gave the closing blessing. From the back of the church the trumpeter began playing very quietly and slowly as Dixieland musicians do. Then he picked up the tempo. The organist joined in. Soon the sanctuary was rocking. We walked down the aisle with smiles and tears. This is what mom wanted.

Mom told us one thing she wanted to have at her memorial service. That one thing was an anchor in a confusing time. It didn’t take away our shock or grief. But the memory of it still brings us joy.

Here’s the second story.

When I was a pastor in Goleta, a woman named Lela came to my office. She wanted to transfer her membership to my congregation and have me lead her memorial service. Two years later, she died of cancer. When I met with her family, they gave me a complete script Lela had created. She’d been a musician herself and knew exactly what she wanted at each point in the service, including readings and specific recordings of favorite classical pieces. Knowing “this is what Lela wanted” allowed us to honor her wishes to the letter.

In my 40 years as a pastor, I’ve been involved in a great variety of memorial services. Some were in overflowing sanctuaries. Some were with two or three people at a graveside. Every time, I did my best to create an experience reflecting the unique spirit and life of that person. The variety is endless:

In my rural parish, I did a service for a ranch hand that ended with his favorite song, “Streets of Laredo.”
Several services ended with a bagpiper playing “Amazing Grace” and escorting us out – there’s something about those “pipes” that stirs the soul.
I led a service for a much-loved Hispanic man in Santa Paula who had been a Korean War vet. When we got to the cemetery, a military honor guard carried his casket to the gravesite – followed by a mariachi band.
I attended a service at the Santa Barbara Mission for Richard Aberle, a long-time Hospice board member. Richard loved life and music and had specified what he wanted in his service. As I walked into the sanctuary, instead of hearing a dreary organ, a string ensemble was in the balcony playing “The Blue Danube Waltz” by Strauss. It was joyous, life-affirming music that expressed the way Richard lived his life.

The common thread in these services was following the wishes of the person who had died in a way that expressed their unique character and spirit.

Have you told anyone what you would want?

I’m just now updating notes for my service. It includes readings (the 23^rd Psalm, King James version), favorite hymns, Joe Cocker singing “A Little Help From My Friends” at Woodstock (a favorite memory from my youth) and the final scene in “The Natural,” when the aging Roy Hobbs (Robert Redford) hits his last home run and knocks out the lights.

My dear friend Father Larry once said there’s a date on the calendar that will be the date of our death. Every year we pass that day not realizing the significance it will have. We don’t know the day, but we do know there are simple things we can do to support those who will be faced with the task of honoring us with a service when that day comes.

It can be as simple as telling someone one or two things you would like. Do that today or in the next few days, in person or in writing. My mom had one wish, and we are forever grateful we knew what it was.

Or you can take some time and make a list of suggestions, like Lela did. Below is the checklist I’m using this week to update my plans. When I complete it, I’ll put a copy where we keep other important documents.

I’ve been doing memorial services for more than 40 years – I guarantee you anything that you do will be a gift to those you love.

I encourage you to do it now.

Steve

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Suggestions for My Memorial Service

Dear Family: These are suggestions for my service…use them if they seem fitting and practical at the time:

The place:

Readings:

Music:

Speakers:

Images/video clips:

Food at the reception:

Where my body can be buried/ashes scattered:

Still Life with Twelve Sunflowers, Van Gogh