For those of you who don't know, I am part of the worship team at my church. I play bass, guitar, and occasionally sing. Interestingly enough, the strongest of these three talents -- singing -- is what I do least, and lately I've been stepping well out of my comfort zone and playing guitar most, which is my weakest area. When I say that singing is what I do best, that means that on a scale of 1 - 10, I'm a five or six. I'm an average vocalist. I enjoy playing bass and guitar, but I'm not particularly accomplished. On the same 1 - 10 scale, I'm a 4 to 5 on bass and 3 to 4 on guitar.
On the way home after performing today, I thought about my best friend who died several months ago, and his skill and aspirations as a guitar player. Greg was a much better guitar player than I've ever been, but almost nobody knew this, because he never played in public. He had a modest goal of publicly performing in a band, and having an audience appreciate his work, but it's a dream he never achieved. Somewhere along the line, I decided that his unpretentious intent was something I could do, and I adopted it for myself. Eventually, I seized an opportunity to play in my church band, and the rest is history. I've been playing for a few years, and I absolutely love it.
As I stated earlier, I am not incredibly talented, primarily because I don't practice as much as I could. Regardless, I enjoy playing music, and performing for the congregation, and I am grateful that God has provided me just enough...
... just enough drive to seize the opportunity when it appeared.
... just enough confidence to get me in front of the congregation in the first place.
... just enough tenacity to stick with it through the nervousness and awkwardness.
... just enough talent to be able to contribute to the worship team.
... and just enough self awareness to know when I'm in over my head.
Sunday, June 5, 2016
Monday, May 30, 2016
Closing Chapters
Late yesterday afternoon, I returned home from my annual Boys' Trip. I've been doing these trips for 22 or 23 years. None of us who started the trips can remember the exact year we started, but we know within two years due to other significant events that happened around that time. It's funny how life works that way. This was the shortest trip we've done in I-can't-remember-how-long, and it was really the first trip I didn't look forward to attending, because we scattered the ashes of my best friend Greg, who committed suicide on October 27, 2015. In addition to being my best friend, Greg was one of the core three on the Boys' Trips. I didn't merely attend this trip, or co-plan the trip, I planned it... every minute detail... because I couldn't do any less for my best friend, or for those who came to pay their respects.
We scattered the ashes into the Upper Iowa River near Decorah, Iowa, on a partly cloudy, warm spring Saturday morning. Even though it was still mid-morning, there were children playing, splashing and laughing in the water a short distance upstream from us. In a slightly odd twist, as we scattered the ashes, the children started moving downstream toward us. Just before they got to the point of encroaching on our space, a kid who was onshore, but downstream of us, and apparently with the kids playing in the water, hollered out for the upstream kids to back away. I'm reasonably sure he knew what we were doing. The kid deserved props for recognizing and respecting what we were doing, whether or not he knew the full extent of the symbolism.
Greg's girls were the first to grab a handful of his ashes and toss them into the river. At first they were giggling and smiling at running their hands through the ashes, and, after tossing the ashes into the water, they enjoyed watching the ashes dissipate, simultaneously floating downstream and sinking to the river bed. Somewhere along the line though, things started sinking in, and the levity departed from the scene, leaving the sorrow, and a hollow sense of loss in its place. I had hoped that I'd be able to complete the ceremony without shedding tears, but I failed spectacularly... as did virtually everyone else.
The time and place we chose to scatter Greg's ashes is the most appropriate I could possibly imagine. Greg loved the outdoors... camping and canoeing particularly. The Upper Iowa River is where our Boys' Trips started, and it's the river that we paddled most often. Additionally, Greg had a vision of being on the water when he retired. He wanted to complete his cabin cruiser and motor up and down the Mississippi. He won't have his boat, but I suspect that some of him will make it to the Mississippi, and possibly even to the Gulf of Mexico.
After scattering Greg's ashes, a smaller group of us canoed the river for a couple of hours. It was a great little trip. Virtually no paddling work required... long enough to enjoy the water, easy enough that Greg's wife and kids could safely paddle, and short enough that children weren't screaming "I'm bored."
During the float, I fulfilled a promise I made to Greg about a decade ago. You see, I've known for 20 years that suicide was a possibility for Greg. During a conversation about his depression, I told Greg that if he ever committed suicide that I'd piss on his grave. Well, he thought he'd have the last word by getting cremated, but that's not the case. I held back some of his ashes, and took them on the canoe with me. When it was time, I pulled to shore, took the ashes with me, unceremoniously dumped them on the rocks and dirt a little ways from the waterline, and I pissed all over those ashes. When I got back to my boat, I told a couple of friends what I'd done, and they added their fond farewell to those ashes.
When I made the promise, I had hoped that I'd never need to fulfill it. When I decided to follow through, I didn't know what to expect... sadness? a welling of anger? a bit of morbid humor, knowing that I had the last laugh? What I felt was flat and empty. There was no sadness, anger or humor. It felt as though I was fulfilling a promise, nothing more. I was, however, mildly amused that my friends followed in my footsteps.
Toward the end of the trip as I looked at the rock ledges lining the left side of the river, and the woods on the right, I remember thinking "Greg, you're supposed to be here, fucker!" As I continued to appreciate the panorama, I felt the sun's warmth, and a gentle breeze from behind me, and I heard... no felt... Greg's presence as he said "I am here, dumbass!"
Aside from scattering Greg's ashes, the trip didn't suck. Planning the trip was pretty miserable, but attending wasn't so bad. Others talked about doing trips like this in the future. The fact is though, that I'm not sure if these trips will continue. You see, Greg was the person that started this tradition. Many people through the years have attended, but Greg, Darin, and I... three boys that grew up together, and have known each other for 30+ years... were the core of the group. Greg is gone. Darin's health prevents him from enjoying the outdoors like we used to do. This means that I'm really the only one left who could do this... and I kind of realized over the weekend that scattering Greg's ashes not only bid farewell to Greg, but also probably means that there will be no more of these Boys' Trips... at least not in it's current form.
I honestly, genuinely, sincerely, hope that Darin and I can continue doing something over Memorial Day Weekend. And I honestly, genuinely, sincerely hope that I can occasionally coordinate weekend trips like this in the future. But I think that the Boys' Trips as I have known them in the past are probably as dead as Greg. I didn't intend to, but I think I managed to close two huge chapters in the book of my life this weekend. I'd rather have kept writing.
We scattered the ashes into the Upper Iowa River near Decorah, Iowa, on a partly cloudy, warm spring Saturday morning. Even though it was still mid-morning, there were children playing, splashing and laughing in the water a short distance upstream from us. In a slightly odd twist, as we scattered the ashes, the children started moving downstream toward us. Just before they got to the point of encroaching on our space, a kid who was onshore, but downstream of us, and apparently with the kids playing in the water, hollered out for the upstream kids to back away. I'm reasonably sure he knew what we were doing. The kid deserved props for recognizing and respecting what we were doing, whether or not he knew the full extent of the symbolism.
Greg's girls were the first to grab a handful of his ashes and toss them into the river. At first they were giggling and smiling at running their hands through the ashes, and, after tossing the ashes into the water, they enjoyed watching the ashes dissipate, simultaneously floating downstream and sinking to the river bed. Somewhere along the line though, things started sinking in, and the levity departed from the scene, leaving the sorrow, and a hollow sense of loss in its place. I had hoped that I'd be able to complete the ceremony without shedding tears, but I failed spectacularly... as did virtually everyone else.
The time and place we chose to scatter Greg's ashes is the most appropriate I could possibly imagine. Greg loved the outdoors... camping and canoeing particularly. The Upper Iowa River is where our Boys' Trips started, and it's the river that we paddled most often. Additionally, Greg had a vision of being on the water when he retired. He wanted to complete his cabin cruiser and motor up and down the Mississippi. He won't have his boat, but I suspect that some of him will make it to the Mississippi, and possibly even to the Gulf of Mexico.
After scattering Greg's ashes, a smaller group of us canoed the river for a couple of hours. It was a great little trip. Virtually no paddling work required... long enough to enjoy the water, easy enough that Greg's wife and kids could safely paddle, and short enough that children weren't screaming "I'm bored."
During the float, I fulfilled a promise I made to Greg about a decade ago. You see, I've known for 20 years that suicide was a possibility for Greg. During a conversation about his depression, I told Greg that if he ever committed suicide that I'd piss on his grave. Well, he thought he'd have the last word by getting cremated, but that's not the case. I held back some of his ashes, and took them on the canoe with me. When it was time, I pulled to shore, took the ashes with me, unceremoniously dumped them on the rocks and dirt a little ways from the waterline, and I pissed all over those ashes. When I got back to my boat, I told a couple of friends what I'd done, and they added their fond farewell to those ashes.
When I made the promise, I had hoped that I'd never need to fulfill it. When I decided to follow through, I didn't know what to expect... sadness? a welling of anger? a bit of morbid humor, knowing that I had the last laugh? What I felt was flat and empty. There was no sadness, anger or humor. It felt as though I was fulfilling a promise, nothing more. I was, however, mildly amused that my friends followed in my footsteps.
Toward the end of the trip as I looked at the rock ledges lining the left side of the river, and the woods on the right, I remember thinking "Greg, you're supposed to be here, fucker!" As I continued to appreciate the panorama, I felt the sun's warmth, and a gentle breeze from behind me, and I heard... no felt... Greg's presence as he said "I am here, dumbass!"
Aside from scattering Greg's ashes, the trip didn't suck. Planning the trip was pretty miserable, but attending wasn't so bad. Others talked about doing trips like this in the future. The fact is though, that I'm not sure if these trips will continue. You see, Greg was the person that started this tradition. Many people through the years have attended, but Greg, Darin, and I... three boys that grew up together, and have known each other for 30+ years... were the core of the group. Greg is gone. Darin's health prevents him from enjoying the outdoors like we used to do. This means that I'm really the only one left who could do this... and I kind of realized over the weekend that scattering Greg's ashes not only bid farewell to Greg, but also probably means that there will be no more of these Boys' Trips... at least not in it's current form.
I honestly, genuinely, sincerely, hope that Darin and I can continue doing something over Memorial Day Weekend. And I honestly, genuinely, sincerely hope that I can occasionally coordinate weekend trips like this in the future. But I think that the Boys' Trips as I have known them in the past are probably as dead as Greg. I didn't intend to, but I think I managed to close two huge chapters in the book of my life this weekend. I'd rather have kept writing.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
A Wonderful Visit
For those of you who don't know, I volunteer with the Cedar Valley Humane Society. As a volunteer, I go to the pound each month, select a dog, and take it to a nursing home to interact with the residents.
As I mentioned in a previous post, last month's visit was the worst. I found out that my all-time favorite resident had died. This month's visit, however, was probably my best visit ever, and it almost didn't happen. Upon arriving at the animal shelter, I quickly determined that none of the animals were suited for a visit; they were all to energetic, and I didn't want to risk the chance of a dog jumping up and hurting a resident. As I was preparing to cancel the visit, one of the employees offered to let me take her dog.
The employee, who will remain nameless to protect her anonymity, introduced me to Lola, her one year old teacup chihuahua. Lola was curious, but also very quiet and mellow... a perfect fit for the visit. When I got to the home, I realized quickly that Lola was a good fit. Virtually everyone there was delighted to meet Lola, even people who aren't usually interested in seeing the dogs I bring. They were particularly pleased to be able to hold the pooch, who was completely content to be held and adored by the residents.
I also met a new resident who was absolutely delightful, and we chatted for several minutes. I believe that I am going to greatly enjoy getting to know her. She's an incredibly humble, thankful, charming and happy soul. I was also pleased to see a couple of people who were admitted for short term rehabilitation, and found out that a woman I'd met a couple of months ago will be going home in a day or two. At my last stop, Lola fell asleep in the resident's arms, apparently exhausted from all of the attention she received.
Though not all visits are fun per se, they are all very rewarding, and today's visit will remain in my memory for a long time to come. It was a welcome contrast to last month's visit. I would like to extend my heartfelt gratitude to the anonymous employee at the Humane Society who so generously allowed me to take her baby.
As I mentioned in a previous post, last month's visit was the worst. I found out that my all-time favorite resident had died. This month's visit, however, was probably my best visit ever, and it almost didn't happen. Upon arriving at the animal shelter, I quickly determined that none of the animals were suited for a visit; they were all to energetic, and I didn't want to risk the chance of a dog jumping up and hurting a resident. As I was preparing to cancel the visit, one of the employees offered to let me take her dog.
The employee, who will remain nameless to protect her anonymity, introduced me to Lola, her one year old teacup chihuahua. Lola was curious, but also very quiet and mellow... a perfect fit for the visit. When I got to the home, I realized quickly that Lola was a good fit. Virtually everyone there was delighted to meet Lola, even people who aren't usually interested in seeing the dogs I bring. They were particularly pleased to be able to hold the pooch, who was completely content to be held and adored by the residents.
I also met a new resident who was absolutely delightful, and we chatted for several minutes. I believe that I am going to greatly enjoy getting to know her. She's an incredibly humble, thankful, charming and happy soul. I was also pleased to see a couple of people who were admitted for short term rehabilitation, and found out that a woman I'd met a couple of months ago will be going home in a day or two. At my last stop, Lola fell asleep in the resident's arms, apparently exhausted from all of the attention she received.
Though not all visits are fun per se, they are all very rewarding, and today's visit will remain in my memory for a long time to come. It was a welcome contrast to last month's visit. I would like to extend my heartfelt gratitude to the anonymous employee at the Humane Society who so generously allowed me to take her baby.
Thursday, May 12, 2016
LGBTQ Movement Seeks to Add Another Letter
Sarah Ellis, the CEO of GLAAD (Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation), has announced a campaign to add another letter from the alphabet to the LGBTQ (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer) movement's collection. Ellis was quoted as saying "Over the years, we in the LGBTQ movement have made tremendous strides in gaining acceptance in society. We are firmly convinced that a large portion of this success is our own policy of inclusiveness regarding letters of the alphabet."
Ellis went on to note that the movement stayed in relative obscurity until they added 'Q' to the mix. "With this in mind," she said "X is an early favorite to add to the collection. There seems to be a consensus that the letter X is representative of the LGBTQ community as a whole."
"Though it's 1/26th of the alphabet, it's almost never used, and it's among the last letters," one aide said during the press release. "We want to raise the profile of X and promote inclusiveness," the employee continued, "but there are a couple of dark horse entries, such as A and K because we haven't yet included a vowel, and we haven't added an average letter. Eventually, we hope to include all 26 letters, and we may even move on to the Greek alphabet."
A final decision on which letter to add is expected later this year.
Ellis went on to note that the movement stayed in relative obscurity until they added 'Q' to the mix. "With this in mind," she said "X is an early favorite to add to the collection. There seems to be a consensus that the letter X is representative of the LGBTQ community as a whole."
"Though it's 1/26th of the alphabet, it's almost never used, and it's among the last letters," one aide said during the press release. "We want to raise the profile of X and promote inclusiveness," the employee continued, "but there are a couple of dark horse entries, such as A and K because we haven't yet included a vowel, and we haven't added an average letter. Eventually, we hope to include all 26 letters, and we may even move on to the Greek alphabet."
A final decision on which letter to add is expected later this year.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
Volunteering Isn't Always Easy
For those of you who don't know, I volunteer with the local Humane Society. Each month, I choose a dog, and take it to a local care center to interact with the residents. Over the years, I've gotten to know some of the residents, and have come to look forward to my monthly visit. Today, I found out that my all-time favorite resident, Cindy, passed away.
The first time I met Cindy, she was in a motorized wheelchair, sitting quietly in her room, watching TV. When I walked into the room with the dog, her face lit up with a great, beautiful smile. She had a very difficult time talking, but managed to ask me a few questions about the dog... it's name, age, breed, gender and so forth. Her body was giving out on her, but her mind and her spirit were indomitable, and I quickly became fond of her.
Over the next who-knows-how-many months, I got to know her more and more. In the grand scheme of things, I didn't know her as well as her long time friends, but that didn't matter. We always took some time to chat about nothing. I remember one time in particular, I noticed that she had mud all over the wheels of her wheelchair. I asked her if she'd been off-roading in the chair. She grinned, laughed and said "Yeah."
I said something along the lines of "Keep it under control, you know that thing's not a Jeep," and she laughed some more. It was wonderful, bringing some humor to her day. The next visit, I brought her a bumper sticker that said "Jeep Girl," which she had affixed to the back of her wheelchair.
In another visit, I met her husband, who was visiting with her. I introduced myself as "the guy who flirts with your wife when you're not around," and we all smiled and laughed... Cindy especially. Her husband knew that I was ever-so-slightly serious, but took things in stride. He knew who Cindy loved.
There were several months during this time that I didn't get to see Cindy, because she was out and about on field trips with her husband, or with other residents from the care center. Every time that happened, I had mixed feelings. I was a bit disappointed that I didn't get to see my favorite resident, but was also happy that she was getting out and about.
A couple of months ago, she got a computer that helped her speak, kind of like what Stephen Hawking has. Oddly enough, I was there for a visit a day or two after she got it. Cindy was definitely excited about the idea of the machine, but she still spoke to me directly. Next month was the same thing. I asked her if it had the same voice as Stephen Hawking's machine, and she told me that it had a woman's voice. I threatened to change the voice to Barry White while she wasn't paying attention, and we had another grand laugh about that.
Over the months, we developed a friendship. I always spent a little more time with her than the other residents, and somewhere along the line, she was happy to see me... I was no longer just the guy who brought the dogs. Her room was the last room in the rotation, and it was great to end the visit with her.
As today's visit came to the end, I was once again looking forward to seeing Cindy. I was quite surprised to see someone else in Cindy's room. On the way back, I asked Chris, the activities director, if Cindy had gone home. "She passed away," he replied. I almost cried. I've almost cried several times between then and now.
When I decided to do this volunteer work, I knew that I would get attached to a few residents, and I knew that I would be sad upon hearing that some of them had passed. It was, and still is, my firm belief that my sadness in these instances is insignificant compared to the happiness that I can potentially bring the residents during my monthly visits.
That doesn't make today's news suck any less.
The first time I met Cindy, she was in a motorized wheelchair, sitting quietly in her room, watching TV. When I walked into the room with the dog, her face lit up with a great, beautiful smile. She had a very difficult time talking, but managed to ask me a few questions about the dog... it's name, age, breed, gender and so forth. Her body was giving out on her, but her mind and her spirit were indomitable, and I quickly became fond of her.
Over the next who-knows-how-many months, I got to know her more and more. In the grand scheme of things, I didn't know her as well as her long time friends, but that didn't matter. We always took some time to chat about nothing. I remember one time in particular, I noticed that she had mud all over the wheels of her wheelchair. I asked her if she'd been off-roading in the chair. She grinned, laughed and said "Yeah."
I said something along the lines of "Keep it under control, you know that thing's not a Jeep," and she laughed some more. It was wonderful, bringing some humor to her day. The next visit, I brought her a bumper sticker that said "Jeep Girl," which she had affixed to the back of her wheelchair.
In another visit, I met her husband, who was visiting with her. I introduced myself as "the guy who flirts with your wife when you're not around," and we all smiled and laughed... Cindy especially. Her husband knew that I was ever-so-slightly serious, but took things in stride. He knew who Cindy loved.
There were several months during this time that I didn't get to see Cindy, because she was out and about on field trips with her husband, or with other residents from the care center. Every time that happened, I had mixed feelings. I was a bit disappointed that I didn't get to see my favorite resident, but was also happy that she was getting out and about.
A couple of months ago, she got a computer that helped her speak, kind of like what Stephen Hawking has. Oddly enough, I was there for a visit a day or two after she got it. Cindy was definitely excited about the idea of the machine, but she still spoke to me directly. Next month was the same thing. I asked her if it had the same voice as Stephen Hawking's machine, and she told me that it had a woman's voice. I threatened to change the voice to Barry White while she wasn't paying attention, and we had another grand laugh about that.
Over the months, we developed a friendship. I always spent a little more time with her than the other residents, and somewhere along the line, she was happy to see me... I was no longer just the guy who brought the dogs. Her room was the last room in the rotation, and it was great to end the visit with her.
As today's visit came to the end, I was once again looking forward to seeing Cindy. I was quite surprised to see someone else in Cindy's room. On the way back, I asked Chris, the activities director, if Cindy had gone home. "She passed away," he replied. I almost cried. I've almost cried several times between then and now.
When I decided to do this volunteer work, I knew that I would get attached to a few residents, and I knew that I would be sad upon hearing that some of them had passed. It was, and still is, my firm belief that my sadness in these instances is insignificant compared to the happiness that I can potentially bring the residents during my monthly visits.
That doesn't make today's news suck any less.
Friday, March 11, 2016
My Witty Daughter
My younger daughter amused me greatly today with a phone call...
"Dad?"
"Yeah, kid."
"Did you name your bike yet," she asked, referring to the Harley Ultra Classic I bought last fall?
"No, why?"
"I think you should name it Caitlyn."
"Why?"
"Well, I think your bike is female, but it's still got balls."
"Dad?"
"Yeah, kid."
"Did you name your bike yet," she asked, referring to the Harley Ultra Classic I bought last fall?
"No, why?"
"I think you should name it Caitlyn."
"Why?"
"Well, I think your bike is female, but it's still got balls."
A Personal Message to SCM
S,
I'm sorry you're hurting. What he did to you was unacceptable, and there is no excuse. You deserve better. When it comes to relationships, I can't think of anything worse than infidelity. The physical betrayal is bad enough... wondering why you aren't enough... thinking that you could or should have done something different or better. The emotional betrayal is worse. You loved and trusted, and he broke that trust. You have every right to be furious. Unfortunately for him, you're particularly spiteful when you are scorned.
For what it's worth, I think you're a good woman, and I'd like to remind you, in case nobody else has, that his actions are about him, not you. This isn't your shortcoming or failure, it's his issue. Try to keep this in mind. I also want to mention that you have the power to forgive. I know that you just cringed inside when you read those words. If you had a mouth full of coffee, you probably spit it all over your computer monitor, but hear me out. I'm not going to say exactly what you expect me to say.
Yes, it's true that you can look past his deception and attempt to work things out. I also know that doing so wouldn't be easy. You and I have had more than one conversation during our long friendship where you've caught him telling you grave lies. I know this is one more in a series of breaches of trust. My point in saying that you have the power to forgive is to make sure that you know that walking away isn't your only option.
To be clear, I suspect that you've already thought about this and have made a conscious decision that you've had enough, and decided that ending things is the least objectionable option available. Running with this assumption, please know that I support you. Please know that I'm here...
I'm sorry you're hurting. What he did to you was unacceptable, and there is no excuse. You deserve better. When it comes to relationships, I can't think of anything worse than infidelity. The physical betrayal is bad enough... wondering why you aren't enough... thinking that you could or should have done something different or better. The emotional betrayal is worse. You loved and trusted, and he broke that trust. You have every right to be furious. Unfortunately for him, you're particularly spiteful when you are scorned.
For what it's worth, I think you're a good woman, and I'd like to remind you, in case nobody else has, that his actions are about him, not you. This isn't your shortcoming or failure, it's his issue. Try to keep this in mind. I also want to mention that you have the power to forgive. I know that you just cringed inside when you read those words. If you had a mouth full of coffee, you probably spit it all over your computer monitor, but hear me out. I'm not going to say exactly what you expect me to say.
Yes, it's true that you can look past his deception and attempt to work things out. I also know that doing so wouldn't be easy. You and I have had more than one conversation during our long friendship where you've caught him telling you grave lies. I know this is one more in a series of breaches of trust. My point in saying that you have the power to forgive is to make sure that you know that walking away isn't your only option.
To be clear, I suspect that you've already thought about this and have made a conscious decision that you've had enough, and decided that ending things is the least objectionable option available. Running with this assumption, please know that I support you. Please know that I'm here...
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