F* it

Sometimes, when life decides to kick, the goddam black thing comes back and it’s colder than ever.

Just sayin

Yes, Dammit, I am a Rock

A friend asked me that, when I said something about how, when something bugs me, I just pull out my handy Simon & Garfunkel line, which is of course also the title of this blog: “A Rock Feels No Pain”…

She said, “Are you really a rock?”

I answered her, “If I need to be, I will be.”

So there.

I am a rock, and don’t try to tell me anything different, because that hurts.

2 Advent

I’ve shared here, a journey that I began a while ago, and some of my thinking about this. Sunday, I took another step along this path. I’m still not sure if this is where I’m heading, but I wanted to share with you the first sermon I ever gave.

Slight edits, for reading vs. hearing, but otherwise, here it is; I make no apologies nor promises, it’s a first-timers outing.

He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, for as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah,
“The voice of one crying out in the wilderness
“Prepare the way of the Lord”

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable to you Oh Lord.

Amen.

Good Morning.

As my son said, when he stood here to preach the first time, “I’m not Father ***”. I will add, and you may have noticed, I’m not Deacon ***, either! (For readers, our Deacon is a female, which I am decidedly not)

As some of you know, but many may not, I have been exploring different ministries here at Church for the past several years.

A few of you are also aware that I have been actively trying to determine if I am being called to the ordained ministry, and Father *** was kind enough to give me the chance to explore the preaching aspects involved.

I want to start, by repeating again part of what we heard a moment ago:
“The voice of one crying out in the wilderness- Prepare the way of the Lord”, and what that might mean to us, today.

Advent is: A beginning, such as the advent of spring.
Advent is: A time of preparation and prayer for Christmas, in the tradition of the Anglican Church.
Advent is: A time of what, to you and to me?

When I was a little boy, my dad had built a ski-chalet with one of his partners. Set in the middle of 16 acres of second-growth forest in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, to a 7 year old this was prime adventure and exploration territory.

Now, we were not woods people; my family doesn’t hunt, we didn’t do any fishing, or long hikes, nor camping. My Dad’s idea of communing with nature, as far as I knew then, was to be out on the golf course or on the ski slopes, and other relatively tame things like this.

One summer day, I was off behind this little house, making a fort or something, and wandered off down a little path through the trees. I remember the sunlight and shadows, and the sound of the birds, and crackling twigs and dead leaves underfoot.

I also remember the sheer panicked terror, when I turned around, and couldn’t see the house anymore.

As I said, we weren’t woods people, so I’d never really had any experience with finding my way around, if there weren’t sidewalks and streetlights, and handy neighborhood landmarks to guide me- so I had absolutely no clue, what to do next. I was lost, in the wilderness.

Today, we heard from Luke, who is quoting from the prophet Isaiah. We know that John heard the word of God, and began to travel the region, spreading the news that the Messiah is near, that he heard the call of the Lord and answered it, baptizing and preaching repentance.

So I have a question for you: do we hear?

As I was thinking about this, getting ready to speak to you today, I was listening to the people around me. For the past few weeks, I’ve been focused on what people talk about, where they have their attention, in my colleagues, the parents I see, the woman that gets my coffee at the little coffee shop at work, and I found fascinating what struck me as our modern, 2009 wilderness:

“soccer baseball football swimming drama dance band parade fire department mom is sick dad is dying shopping groceries gas flat tire husband out of work chimney cleaners work work work driving cleaning out of dog food out of cat food tree fell down boat prep wash the windows make the bed cross-country basketball tryouts cheer leading work work work singing crying boyfriend trouble girlfriend trouble new car new house new job out of job out of money no insurance not communicating work work work too much communicating facebook myspace text messages cellphones voicemail email train derails fires health-care parties most valuable player prison visits swine flu vaccine work work work not vaccine make dinner do the dishes do your homework friends family.”

And, in this wilderness of things calling for our attention, perhaps, maybe, as an afterthought, God.

Maybe.

What is your wilderness? I just listed some of mine, and perhaps yours, but each of us has our own. There is a wilderness of things demanding our attention, our time, our energy, each of which is important in it’s own way, perhaps. But the collective trees that pop into our way, contribute to the difficulty of navigating through this complex life.

When we get busy, when we start running around too fast and too far, how easy it is to say that we don’t have time for reflection and prayer. We don’t have time to think about what it is God is saying to us, because we don’t allow time for this.

You’ve all heard the complaints, and perhaps like me, have been among the complainers, talking about the materiality of the season, and nobody making time for God, and what is the meaning of Advent, and Christmas, in our hectic, frantic world.

Perhaps, like me, you too have been guilty of getting caught up in the worldly preparations for Christmas, to the exclusion of the truly Holy part of this season, that leads to the miraculous birth of our Lord.

This doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t enjoy our celebrations, and our family and friends, and even the office christmas party. But I would say that there is a time for those things, and a time for reflection on the wonderful, amazing miracle of the birth of Jesus, and that we can and should make sure that we allow time for that reflection too.

Now, when I was lost in my childhood wilderness, I did what any good seven year old would do. I called out “MOOOMMM”- and when I heard her calm voice answering “What?”- well, that relief and clear sense of belonging- that too, is one way to see that even in our wilderness all we have to do is listen. Of course, it didn’t hurt much that although I couldn’t see the house, She could see me- so I wasn’t all that lost, as it turned out!

Which brings me to the other half of my question: When do we stop listening, and start speaking?

Perhaps, like me, you’ve been known to forget this part of the communication equation. We need to be open to hear the word being spoken, as some heard John preaching his news, so long ago, and so far away.

But, what of the speaker? When do we do the calling? When do we step in, and begin to be that voice that is spreading this word? And, how do we do it, in our cozy village?

Maybe, we’re doing it now. Maybe, one of the things we are called to do, is to be right here. By joining together in worship and in fellowship, by taking the time from our overly busy lives, are we showing the world that God is indeed here among us?

By listening to God’s voice in our lives, do we help to further that voice in some small way? I think the answer to this, is yes indeed.

Each time you stop to help your friend, each contribution to the basket that you make, each time we pray before a meal or going to bed, you are helping to show that in some measure, the word that was spread, the news that John brought to us so long ago, is valid and alive and real, right here, right now.

Look around this place.

Look at your friends and neighbors, gathered here together, affirming that the reality of Jesus Christ is important to them. Look around and reflect on the long, long way that the word of God traveled, through so many languages and countries, to get to us here, in New York, in 2009.

Look around, and listen, and I believe that you can indeed hear the word of God here, today, now. Perhaps not as tidily laid out as we would like, perhaps it’s a tiny voice in the overly loud requests for our time and money, but it’s there, if we listen.

Advent, traditionally, is a time of preparation for Christmas, a time to make ready for the birth of Jesus.
This birth took place far from here, far from our comfortable 21st century United States style of living; far in time, as well as distance. It took place long ago, before our instant communications, our cellphones, text messages, facebook pages-

Yet, we can still hear, if we listen, the message that was told to us; you and I can hear, if we pay attention.

So, I’m inviting you to put together two meanings of the word Advent:

1. A time of beginning
2. A time of preparation.

And let’s begin, to:

Prepare ye the way of the Lord.

Amen

As I said, a first-timers attempt, but it was well received. I felt it went pretty well, and the feedback I was given afterward (by the same people that have been meeting with me regularly during this process, as well as more casual congregants), was upbeat and positive.

Hope your Advent is beginning with joy, too!

Tolerate and Thanksgiving

I was thinking of this today, on a drive to take my son to his drivers test (he passed, go Nick!). (For those of you who don’t have kids of this age yet, all I can say, is Stop laughing! YOUR turn will come, too!)

Anyway.

At some point, somewhere in this blog, I think I quoted the therapist that I saw soon after the clipping of the bridge, but I don’t feel like looking it up; suffice it to say, she told me in the fall or winter of 2006-2007, “You will tolerate, until things become intolerable. It’s automatic, then, that when things become intolerable, something will change.”

In the context of trust, and open-ness, and up-front-ness, and all of that; at what point, do I get to say, “I’m tired. I’m too tired, to do this anymore?”

Soon, I fear.

And that is frightening to me. I can lie to myself, and to whomever, as a secondary thing- but really, I’m tired of lying to myself. I’m not very good at it, anymore, and it hurts.

And I find that I just don’t care, and that too is frightening.

Oh well, nobody told me life wouldn’t be scary, even as a nominal grown-up.

Have a great Holiday, for those in the U.S. that celebrate Thanksgiving tomorrow. I hope your day is filled to overflowing with things to be thankful for. Well, I wish the same for anyone, whether you celebrate tomorrow or not, actually.

Somebody’s Knockin’… I won’t let ‘im in

Funny, how even when things are going so well, I can sometimes feel that old, cold feeling attempting to come back. There’s no rationality to depression, of course- that’s why it’s called an illness, right? If it were sane, why, then I wouldn’t be a cashew, and you wouldn’t be putting me in the category of a nut. Not, of course, that there’s anything wrong with cashews, or nuts in general- except when there is.

I’ve been thinking lately about the true insanity that comes into play, when the only visible logical rational course, is to die. It’s come up a few times in the last month or so, and I need to blather about it, I guess. Some people will run into setback after setback, job loss, business closing, homes burning, whatever, with a mental shrug and a move on. Others can slide into a dark cold place, when home is going along fine, work is great, and the kids are doing wonderfully.

The first time, I was speaking to a group of people at church, and one of the guys there was struggling to understand, and commented along these lines:

What I don’t understand, is how it can get so bad that you think leaving your family, your loved ones, is at all possible. I know that all I have had to do is remember my family, and no matter what it was that I was struggling with, I knew that I had them, and that I had to persevere, just because of them.

My response to Rob, was, “That’s the insanity of it. I didn’t care, because the twisted convoluted distorted thinking, is that they would be better off without me. The complete irrationality of my mindset, then, is what is so deadly, so scary dangerous. Pointing a truck at a bridge, and scraping the abutment at 95+ MPH, is not a sane thing to do; nobody in their right mind would think that it is. The problem, of course, is that when I aimed the truck, I wasn’t in my right mind, and what to me, today, is unthinkable- well, then, that was a perfect solution.”

Later that week, I was on the phone with my oldest friend, and she was sharing some of her concerns and struggles with her husband, and what she believes is his own depression. I was trying to make clear to her that there’s nothing that she has “done”, or “not done”, that caused him to be depressed. As much as we tend to take on this role, it’s vital to remember that this is a disease that can be treated, but not a contagious virus that you gave to someone. It’s not helpful to tell someone “you have it great, look at all the good things you’ve got…”. If we were rational, that might work, but the whole illness is irrational, so all she can do is love him, and encourage him to get help, and if it comes to it, she can call for help herself, on his behalf.

Then, a couple weeks ago, I was talking to another friend who is in a world of hurt right now. She’s attempting to find meds and a therapist she can trust, struggling to survive as best she can, and she asked me “How did you keep from just giving up?”

Those words are terrifying to me.

I don’t know that *I* did keep from giving up.

I wrote here and here, about how I managed to survive, and to get the help I needed to overcome the immediate crisis, and the long-term (longish? 3 years? How long til it’s long-term?) ability to keep on breathing.

If I think back, I can so clearly feel the emptiness, the cold darkness that I lived in. I can still feel the invisibility cloak that draped over me, I can hear that insidious whisper in the background, telling me that there is peace, there is a way to not hurt, to not feel pain, all I have to do is find the blade, turn the wheel, listen and it’s all still and no more struggling…

All I could do, is share with her how I had felt, and what happened, and try to articulate the difference that I feel now; to try to express that I *know* how she’s feeling, I’ve been there too, and that yes, there is a way to feel peace, and not hurt, that doesn’t involve blades and trucks or pills or high places with sudden impacts. That there is help, and she’s already started the hard part of it, which is to know she’s “nuts”, and work to get better.

I hope I was able to articulate that to her, somewhat.

It made me feel completely unprepared and inadequate, though, so today I did a bit of research and found a resource that I’d been toying with for quite a while now. I looked and found a place to offer myself for training, to work on one of the crisis-help lines, to try to help someone that might be hurting the way I was. I’d like to see if I can be there for another as the 1800 ladies were there for me.

So, take that, Black Thing. I’ll not only beat you on my own personal battlegrounds, I’ll train to join in and fight you on someone else’s battleground too. And, I’ll say F-You, while I’m at it, with a smile and a prayer of gratitude for being given the chance.

Sometimes…

I feel like Pink-

Am I sweating
Or are these tears on my face?
Should I be hungry?
I can’t remember the last time that I ate
Call someone, I need a friend to talk me down

But one foot wrong and I’m gonna fall
Somebody gets it, somebody gets it
But one foot wrong and I’m gonna fall
Somebody gets it, somebody gets it

All the lights are on but I’m in the dark
Who’s gonna find me? Who’s gonna find me?
Just one foot wrong
You’ll have to love me when I’m gone

Does anyone see this?
Lucky me, I guess I’m the chosen one
Color and madness
First in line I put my money down
Some freedom is the tiniest cell in town

But one foot wrong and I’m gonna fall
Somebody gets it, somebody gets it
But one foot wrong and I’m gonna fall
Somebody gets it, somebody gets it

All the lights are on but I’m in the dark
Who’s gonna find me? Who’s gonna find me?
Just one foot wrong
You’ll have to love me when I’m gone

Some people find the beauty in all of this
I go straight to the dark side near this
If it’s it bad is it always my fault?
Did somebody bring me down?
Did somebody bring me down?
Did somebody bring me down?

One foot wrong, I’m gonna fall
Put one foot wrong and I’m gonna fall
Put one foot wrong and I’m gonna fall
Somebody gets it, somebody gets it
Just one foot wrong and I’m fall
Somebody gets it, somebody gets it

All the lights are on but I’m in the dark
Who’s gonna find me? Who’s gonna find me?
Just one foot wrong
You’ll love me when I’m gone

Have to love me when I’m gone
Love me when I’m gone
You’ll have to love me when I’m gone, yeah
You’ll have to love me when I’m gone

PostSecret # 3

If you have been reading this blog for long, or if you’ve gone back and read the past, you may have noticed that the PostSecret project has a rather special spot in my heart. I wrote in a couple places about this- for sure here:. For those who may not know, PostSecret is a community art project that a man named Frank Warren started. He’s invited people to send him, anonymously, postcards with a secret on them; he then posts some to the PostSecret website; puts some in traveling exhibitions; and puts still others in books.

Anyway… I had enjoyed the website, and knew of the book, and remembered on that bright(dark) hot(freezing) day in 2006, that on the website a person had written to thank Frank, for the 1-800-suicide reference that occurred in the book. On that day, I was so messed up in my head, I didn’t remember the number; but I did remember that it was there and when I made my way to a bookstore, just to look at the book, there it was.

I called that number, that day- and never really said a word. The woman that answered was pleasant, but I couldn’t speak. I do know that I babbled something about needing to go, and called Lynn; from there, I worked along the paths of trying to get my head right, which I sortof kindof maybe think I may have made a little progress toward in the last three years. (3 years, 2 months, 3 weeks, and some odd-hours, if you’re counting, but who’s counting?)

But, I never forgot the fact that Frank Warren had a friend, who committed suicide, and however many years later, he opted to include this number in his book, and on the website; perhaps so some screwed up nut would be able to make use of it?

That memory stayed with me- to the point that when I read that Frank would be visiting a college near my work, one night, I made my plans and made my way to see him. I took a moment then, to meet and thank him, directly, as best I could, for saving my life even though he didn’t know he had.

Later, Frank was speaking in New York, at a big Barnes and Noble bookstore there. I took the opportunity then, too, to head down and hear him speak. This time, Lynn came with me, and when Frank had signed my copies of the new books, she looked at him, and said something about thank you and he’d saved my life, and that she’s grateful for his project, his books, and his whatever. I didn’t hear it all, as I’d gotten a bit emotional during the presentation when people can choose to stand, and share a secret right then and there; and let me tell you, some powerful things can happen, in a roomful of strangers.

So, why is this all in my head?

Because (yes, you got it!) tonight, I went once again to a PostSecret event. This one with my eldest son, who had obtained tickets at his university, and since I was going to be picking him up to come home for the weekend- well, he knows I love PostSecret, that I have the four books currently released in a place of honor on a shelf within easy reach, that I’d been to a couple prior events, that I love perusing the secrets each Sunday on line, so he thought he should see if I wanted to go again.

I did.

We did.

Wow. Again wow. I didn’t speak to Frank this time, I didn’t feel a need to, for I’d expressed my gratitude to him and Hopeline (the 1800 number foundation) before. But, as I listened to him speak, and listened to the brave people that shared a secret or a thought with us, I think I recognized why I felt that I needed to be there once again.

It’s to remember. To remember, in gratitude and with joy and with tears and laughter, to remember that I am not alone, nor are you. We share this journey together, in our common humanity, seeking and trying and stumbling and falling, together we connect with people all over the world. Separately, yet somehow still together, we seek God, we seek Love, we seek a partner, friend, lover, family; we have different secrets, different perspectives, different lives- but, if we choose to, we can reach out in whatever way, and find that we’re not rocks; we’re not islands; and that it’s okay to feel pain, and even to cry once in a while.

So, as we left the school, my boy-that-is-now-a-senior-and-I’m-around-to-see-it, as we left and drove home, we sang at the top of our lungs, together. Badly, I’m sure, but with enthusiasm and silliness and pounding the beat on the dash and the wheel, laughing and dumb jokes, and talking about what we’d heard together, I thought of this.

This time, Frank and PostSecret and umpteen hundred university students taught me to remember this:

We are only as alone as we choose to be.

Go visit Frank and PostSecret sometime. I know you’re as welcome there as I am, and the 270,607,242 others that are sharing on our way.

I like this line:

Thou shalt not use poetry, art or music to get into girls’ pants.
Use it to get into their heads.

I came across a link to this song, and loved this particular line.

To Proud To Be Healthy

To proud to be healthy.

I said that in passing, last night- I was hanging out in a support chat room, for people with mood disorders. We get all kinds there, depressed people, bi-polar people, schizophrenic people- and, I think, a few who aren’t any of these, but perhaps come by out of love, just to try to be a caring presence for those of us that need it.

We were talking about how hard it is, sometimes, for people to ask for help. One of the people there commented that they “can’t do it alone, anymore”… and I reminded them (forgive my vagueness, but we don’t always know from the nicknames whether the person is male or female, and real names are not required) that there is all kinds of help available, if they would but reach out.

And it hit me, how silly stupid I’d been, for so many years. Help was available to me, too, with a phone call, a stop by the church, any number of ways.

But not me. As much as I know intellectually that depression is an illness, that mental illness is an illness like a cold or a squashed disc, or strep throat, the emotional tough-guy response still came to the fore. I can rationalize, or did rationalize, that “it will just go away, it always has” all I want. But the bottom line is that my silly pride was in the way. I can try to put better spins on it, I can try to explain in convoluted thinking that it was this, that or the other- but really, when I look deep in my heart it does come down to that.

Pride.

“Real men don’t need help with … heck, real men don’t even have emotions, right?

So proud, I let my mind and guts get twisted into almost dying.

So proud, I let myself close off from everything I hold dear, from my wife and my kids, from any friends I could claim (not many, but I’m getting better in that area). From my God, completely. From any real life that was at all worth living. From things that I love, from things that challenge and excite- I closed myself off, because of a silly belief that I could do it myself.

Huh.

I wonder sometimes, about myself. I’m not really a stupid person- I’m a college educated, reasonably intelligent person, able to do my job and succeed in things that I try to. I can fly an airplane, sail a boat, program a computer, design a network, listen to friends that need me, all kinds of things. I’ve built a cabin out of logs, and another out of lumber, and wired and plumbed and roofed and all that goes into those things. I’ve maintained houses and repaired cars (back when I couldn’t afford to pay Achmed to do it, thank God for Achmed, because I hate working on cars). Heck, if I really really put my mind to it, I can even take a fairly decent photograph, once in a while.

But, I can’t- or rather, couldn’t- reach out when I needed a hand. Knowing better, deep down, I still was unable to do the simple little things that I could have done to avoid so much pain.

Pride… Too proud to be healthy, I said last night.

Well, ta heck with that.

Misplaced pride nearly destroyed my family; nearly destroyed me, twice. Nearly cost me my marriage, my kids, my hopes and dreams and my life. I think of the things that would have been, had I not felt God’s hands that day, and I shudder.

Hopefully, I’ve learned something. Hopefully, I’ve learned that there is no shame in admitting that I can’t do something alone. I pray daily, that I can put aside pride in self, and be open to what I need to do, however hard that may be. I’ve decided that I also need to add to that: Please give me the strength to be open to ask, should I have too, should I need to accept a helping hand.

Even the title of this blog, I chose in a fit of angry hurt pride. One of Lynn’s boytoys had come across it via some interlinking somehow, and had read a bit of the old blog; and so I moved to this address, a while back. At the time, I had to come up with a name, and I was feeling a bunch of mixed emotions, some of which I didn’t feel all that comfortable with, so I was shoving them down, savagely, viciously. Not a great idea, to try to shove them down, and pretend they don’t exist, but I don’t need anyone, right? I’m an Island, a Rock, and therefore, it won’t cause me any pain. Hence the new address.

Now, today, just over three years, since I mostly missed the bridge… almost three years, since the first time I knew of just how fractured my marriage was… year and a half, since I spent a week in the nut-hut… mixed in all that time, the ups and downs and tears with Lynn, the pride (good kind) in the kids’, the worry about Rob and the joy he brings, I just try to remember, that I can’t afford that kind of pride, not that bad kind.

After all, I had my fall, so doesn’t that mean that the pride went before it, and now I don’t need it? Not that kind of pride anyway.

So now, I guess I can hope that I have enough pride in living my life- to reach out when I need to, and ask for a bit of help when it’s appropriate.

I wonder if he managed it…

Do you think so? I came across this quote, and thought, “If only I could…”

Have a heart that never hardens, a temper that never tires, a touch that never hurts.
~Charles Dickens