Uncategorized – Page 23 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

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

Appreciating What You Have Been Through

Several years ago, I attended a workshop led by a gifted poet, writer, teacher, friend and mentor, Marilyn McEntyre. Among her many books is Make A List: How A Simple Practice Can Change Our Lives And Open Our Hearts. Marilyn discovered that the value of making lists goes far beyond detailing what we need at the store – making lists can uncover important aspects of our inner life and creativity that may be hidden from us.

One exercise we did at the workshop really hit home for me, and I later put it to good use when my wife and I observed our 40^th wedding anniversary. I’m sharing it in this post and encouraging you to try it.

Let’s start with what we did at the workshop.

We were asked to make two lists of ten items each.

The first was to list difficult situations we’ve faced.

When we finished, she had us review what we’d written and share impressions. It was sobering to remember what it felt like to live through those challenges.

Then she asked us to make a second list: significant blessings we’ve experienced.

When finished, we again shared reactions. It was a revelation. I thought, “I’ve faced some hardships in my life,” I thought, “But look at all the graces I’ve received!”

By doing the list of hardships first, the list of blessings became much more than pleasant memories of just positive thoughts. Instead, it became a testimony to the fact that we can find blessings in the hardest of times.

A few months later I decided to adapt the idea for our 40^th anniversary and share them with our daughters at dinner. (The original list included specific details about our personal lives known to our family, which I’m omitting here.)

First, I listed 40 challenges my wife and I have lived through. Here’s a sampling:

Getting married when we were naïve and unprepared.
At one point realizing we didn’t have $74 for a dentist visit for our five-year old.
Experiencing my own depression at age 38 when I saw all my friends “getting ahead” – buying houses, vacationing in Hawaii, and going skiing when we could not afford any of that — and feeling I was a total failure.
Raising kids and you realizing you can’t save them from potential harm. The many sleepless nights and ardent prayers. And realizing it doesn’t end when they turn 18.
The sudden death of my mother and brothers.
Caring for our aging and dying parents.
🚴‍♂️Family medical emergencies that involved ambulances and times in the ICU when we felt helpless and afraid.
Several crises and conflicts in my career.
The tragic death of people we loved over the years, including young mothers and teenagers.
Watching our bodies age and how we could no longer do activities we had taken for granted.

Then I read my list of ”40 Graces.” Here’s a sample:

The amazing discovery of God in our lives.
The way we were embraced and supported by the Point Loma, Santa Paula, Wapato, and Goleta congregations through 30 years.
Looking into the eyes of each of our daughters when they were born and seeing them grow.
The excitement of moving to New Jersey for seminary, even though all we arrived with was a rocking chair and Hoover vacuum cleaner.
Moving to the Campbell Farm in rural Washington and discovering the richness of rural life.
The abiding friendships we’ve developed every place we lived.
The positive impact of the teen “Love Of God” program on each of our daughters.
Holding each of our three grandsons in our arms and seeing them grow.
The love and support we received from friends during emergencies and crises.
The care our parents received at nursing homes from nurses and aides.

Making a list like this is easier than you might think. I encourage you to do something similar for special events, or as a simple way to review your life. You can just start with lists of ten. Like I said, it’s a profound way to appreciate what you’ve gone through and the gifts you’ve received. And when you find yourself once again facing a serious challenge, it can be a reminder that grace is already close and waiting for you.

Photo credit: “Inspiration Point, Santa Barbara,” Brianne from Everyday Runaway

“A Big Unseen Current”

Dear Reader:

I didn’t prepare a personal blog post this week and figured I’d just take a pass. But this morning I came across a column by long-time New York resident Peggy Noonan and want to share a portion of it with you. She’s reflecting on 9/11 as a “Day of Grief and Human Glory” and towards the end writes:

…There was Welles Crowther. Remember him? A young guy, 24, just starting out, worked as a junior associate at an investment bank on the 104th floor of the south tower. He always carried in his back pocket a red bandanna, and they teased him. WHAT ARE YOU, A FARMER? He’d laugh and show bravado: WITH THIS BANDANA I’M GONNA CHANGE THE WORLD. And that day as the world exploded he did. He led people to safety, carried them down to lower floors. He kept going back for more. To protect from the smoke he put the bandanna over his face. He never came home from the towers that day or the day after, his parents were anguished, hoping against hope. Then one day, three days in, his mother was at her desk at home in Nyack, N.Y. Suddenly she felt a presence behind her. She didn’t look, didn’t move. She knew it was Welles. She knew he was saying goodbye. She said: “Thank you.” She knew now he was dead. Months of mourning, no word on how he’d died. And one day, Memorial Day weekend 2002, the New York Times had a story about the last minutes in the towers, and they mentioned survivors who spoke of a man in a red bandanna who’d saved them. And Welles’s mother thought she knew who that was. She got a picture of her son to the survivors and they said yes, that was the man who saved me. Some time later they found his remains, near the command post the firemen had set up in the South Tower. When his family opened his apartment they found an unfinished application to become a New York City fireman.

Just a few days before 9/11, on Labor Day weekend, Welles, visiting his parents, was unusually subdued. He told his mother he had a feeling he was going to be part of something big, had a role to play in it or a job to do.

Isn’t it funny how the mind works, how it knows things it does not know?

“Courage comes from love,” was my summation in 2016. “There’s a big unseen current of love that hums through the world and some plug into it more than others, more deeply and surely.” It fills them with courage. It makes everything possible.”

I love this:

“Courage comes from love…There’s a big unseen current of love that hums through the world and some plug into it more than others, more deeply and surely.” It fills them with courage. It makes everything possible.

Steve

Source: https://www.wsj.com/articles/grief-glory-september-eleventh-9-11-firefighters-memories-twin-towers-terrorist-attack-11631224282

Photo Credit: New York Times

“Is Life All About How We ‘Finish?’”

On January 20, 2006, at age 78, she made history by being the first popular singer to have a solo concert at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. She was a sensation on Broadway when she was younger, winning many awards including an Emmy for her role in the original The Music Man. She had the voice, looks, and acting skill of a star. But after years of success, her career faded. She withdrew from public performances as she struggled with alcohol, obesity, and depression. In time, a close friend and collaborator convinced her she still had a great gift to share with audiences. She began performing in public again, which led to that night at the Met.

When Barbara Cook walked on stage that night, she got a standing ovation.

The second song she sang was particularly poignant given what she’d been through. It was from a 1973 Broadway musical, “Seesaw:”

It’s not where you start, it’s where you finish.

It’s not how you go, it’s how you land.

A hundred to one shot, they call him a klutz

Can out-run the favorite, all he needs is the guts.

Your final return will not diminish

And you can be the cream of the crop;

It’s not where you start, it’s where you finish,

And you’re gonna finish on top.

After reading a rave review of the concert album, I bought a copy and have grown to love this song. It has that spunky, sassy, celebratory spirit of so many Broadway songs, and she is amazing. “It’s Not Where You Start” begins playing in my head some days, and the spirit of it makes me smile and swagger.

Barbara Cook died in 2017, beloved by her colleagues and fans not only for her many gifts but also for her comeback. If life’s about “how you finish,” she finished her life “on top.”

But I’ve been reflecting on the theme of the song. I find myself thinking of all the people I’ve known over the years in my personal life, ministry, and hospice work, and ask myself: Is it always true? Is “where you finish” the most important measure of your life?

Bob was a member of the first congregation I served in Santa Paula. He was a big guy and full of life. He was a proud Marine who had been in some of the most intense battles in the Pacific and achieved the rank of captain. He’d then made a career in the fruit packing business and raised six children with his wife Jean. We rented a house just one door away from Bob and Jean, and grew to be close friends, often sharing wine, crackers and cheese on our front porches and vacationing together. He took delight in needling me. Sometimes when I’d call young people to come forward for a children’s sermon, he’d walk up with them and sit on the steps, staring at me with a deadpan gaze. After retirement he became a Hospice volunteer and told me it was the most meaningful thing he’d ever done. I loved the man.

After we left Santa Paula for Washington state in 1985, we stayed close. Moving back to Santa Barbara in 1992 meant we were only an hour away from Santa Paula, which enabled us to spend time together once again.

Bob became ill in 2005. In his last months he was in a nursing home with dementia. The dementia released some of the long-suppressed traumatic memories of the war, and Bob’s anger and confusion was a serious challenge for staff and guests. He died early in 2006.

I think of the life of my dear friend Bob, and ask: Is it always about how we “finish”?

My answer: No. Bob’s life was full of hard work, responsibilities, sacrifice, service, joy, and love. What he went through in the last few months does not define him or take away all he did.

I can think of many people I’ve known who have died in nursing homes and car accidents, from heart attacks and strokes. They did not have a chance to complete their journey as they would have liked. But their end doesn’t define their life.

We long for perfect, inspiring endings in movies, television series, musical pieces, novels, careers, and personal stories. But real life doesn’t always supply them.

I am going to keep on listening to Barbara Cook sing “It’s not how you start, it’s how you finish.” I will always be inspired by her story and legacy. I am also continually inspired by the life of my friend Bob.

I want to live with “guts” and “grit.” Yet I know I cannot be guaranteed an ideal conclusion to my life. What I do know is that I can trust the grace of God, which is far greater than my expectations.

Steve

Barbara Cook singing “It’s Not Where You Start” in Melbourne. The picture quality is grainy, but her spirit shines:

When I Fall

In 1990, I attended a ceremony installing Bishop Francis George as the new bishop of Yakima, Washington. It was a fancy event, but his personal remarks were brief.

“I would like you to know,” he said, “that when I was young, I had polio. As an adult, there are times when I lose my balance and fall. If that happens and you are near me, don’t be alarmed. Simply lend me a hand so I can get up, and we will go on.”

He paused.

“And as your bishop, there will be times when I may make a mistake performing my duties. When that happens, don’t be alarmed. Simply lend me a hand so I can get up, and we will go on. Thank you.”

I’ve thought of this often.

I don’t know what it’s like to have had polio or any other challenges people face. I do know I’ve been absent minded since I was young; I’ve often said most of my life has been an out-of-body experience. I work at it. And I’ve made it a practice to tell co-workers that I may forget things. If they see me deciding on an action and wonder if I’ve failed to take something into account, I’ve asked them to let me know. I want to do things well and I can use the help.

In our current “gotcha” culture, people are quick to make judgments about those who make mistakes. To be sure, many times people need to be held accountable for their harmful actions; various politicians, sports figures, corporate executives, and entertainers quickly come to mind. But if we make an innocent error, what a gift it is to have someone close to us not be alarmed and, instead, smile and offer us a hand. We can recover and correct it. And we can go on together.

Art work: “Hands of Emperor Maximillian I,” Albrecht Durer, 1506