What We Can
March 8, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 12 Comments
My house is a disaster. Complete and utter. And there is no escaping it. The mess is upstairs and down, inside and out. Courtesy of a perfect storm of cold weather, a Saturday afternoon, and four children who think they’re adults.
Two kids can clutter a house on their own. No assistance is required. But when those two kids are joined by two more kids, this is the result. Toys strewn across floors and furniture. Hand and even foot prints on the walls and doors. Not to mention spilled drinks, dropped food, and a mammoth pile of dirty dishes.
This is why I frown upon play dates. They have a tendency to turn my home into Lord of the Flies.
And now, with my wife gone to take my children’s friends back to where they belong, this mess is all mine.
Where to start is always the toughest question to answer when faced with this sort of situation. Everything seems so overwhelming. How am I supposed to prioritize what needs to be done first and what can wait? Am I supposed to begin with the small or the large? Should I start upstairs and work my way down, or downstairs and work my way up?
I don’t know. It all too confusing. And in my confusion I find myself asking one more question:
What can one person do to fix all of this?
“Nothing,” I mutter, trudging into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. And since I’m there, I figure I might as well start with the dishes. So I fill up the dishwasher then transfer what’s left to the sink, where I begin the process of wash/rinse/dry.
Meanwhile, the television in the living room is broadcasting the day’s news. Bailouts and unemployment. Taxes. Inflation, deflation, and stagflation. War. Even a reference to Revelation.
Such is life in this modern age. Struggling not to overcome, but to simply keep up. Trying to hang on to job and family. Trying to still believe in this world, that we can fix things and make a difference.
I hate the news.
Not because it’s so bad or usually slanted one way or the other. No, I hate the news because it never stops. There’s always something new to worry about and something more that needs fixing.
Not unlike my house, I suppose.
Both have been made a mess by children who thought they were adults, and both need a good straightening up and cleaning.
I know this. And I know that as God has seen fit to put me here, now, then He must expect me to do some of that straightening and cleaning. But again come those questions. Where do I start? Big? Small? What should I do now and what should I wait to do later?
I don’t know. It all seems so overwhelming, this mess. It’s not just the news stories of people losing their jobs and homes. It’s the feelings those stories breed. It’s the sense of despair and resignation that so many seem to be feeling now. If we are to pull ourselves out of this, we need more than governments and stimulus packages. We need hope. Hope that not only can things get better, we are the ones to make it that way.
It’s easy sometimes to think we’re powerless to alter the course of things. Easy to think we’re too small and too puny to make things better. But I don’t think we’re so powerless.
I can’t clean my whole house, but I can wash the dishes. I can’t go everywhere and do everything, but I can take care of what’s in front of me and do what I can.
The great secret? If we all do our part, however small it may be, we will find in the end that just because things are tough now doesn’t mean they have to stay that way. And just because we can’t clean up the whole mess doesn’t mean we can’t clean up a little of it.
The Grace of Remembering
March 5, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 14 Comments
It’s called propranolol. A mouthful, to be sure. The reason why so many medicines have require long, unpronounceable names has always eluded me. I once asked my doctor why such a thing was necessary. He said nothing and looked at me like I was stupid. I don’t think he knew why, either.
Propranolol is a beta blocker, used for everything from cardiac arrhythmias to high blood pressure to controlling migraines in children. A wonder drug with fantastic benefits.
A recent study by Dutch scientists has revealed another fantastic benefit, one that has led to a lot of thinking on my part.
Propranolol, it seems, also dulls memory. Dulls it to the point where these same scientists are boldly predicting a time in the very near future when we could rid our minds of bad memories all together.
Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? To get rid of all those nasty reminders of the bad moments in our lives. It certainly sounds wonderful to me. Much of my daily life is still lived in the past, whether knowingly or not. It’s fingers still grip me. Loosely perhaps, but enough that I still feel them. Feel them in my decisions and reactions and worries.
And I’m sure I’m not alone. I dare say that I’m not the only one who carries around a little excess baggage. So why not lighten that load a little? Why not forget?
I can certainly see the value in such a therapy being used to treat those suffering from some form of post traumatic stress: victims of abuse or soldiers returning from war come to mind. These people are particularly prone to the agonies of bearing what may well be an unbearable weight. Such memories can lead not only to depression and psychosis, but even death.
But what about the rest of us? The ones who are plagued not by horrendous moments, but horrendous decisions? Are our bad memories made less so because they are not as powerful? Because they foster more guilt and regret than terror and numbness?
I’m not so sure.
We are largely the product of our experience, the end result of the countless choices and innumerable decisions. Many of those choices and decisions were good. Many were bad. But both worked together in an intricate and holy dance that has culminated in bringing us to both here and now.
But what if that dance were interrupted? Would we truly be made whole if those bad memories were taken from us, or would we somehow become less than we should?
Would the lessons we’ve learned from our mistakes be dulled along with the memories? And so would we then be doomed to repeat them?
Is there value in the things that haunt us?
That’s the question. One worth pondering, too.
We don’t mind accepting that the good in our lives was ordained by God. I’ve never doubted that my wife, my children, and my job are gifts from heaven. They provide my life with a healthy dose of meaning. They have purpose.
But if the good God has given us is endowed with meaning and purpose, then shouldn’t also the bad? And can we, with our limited vision and understanding, really label something as “good” or “bad” in the first place? How can we know for sure until the end result of our lives is played out and our story is done?
The blessings of my wife and children and job were born of horrible memories of the person I once was. It is because of those bad memories that I realize, finally, how blessed I am now. I love these things not because of the goodness I enjoy now, but because of the bad I suffered through then. Because the bad taught me what mattered. Would I give those memories back? No. Because I think the grace that has been given to me would be lessened in the forgetting. Because forgetting the pain of who I was then would dull the joy in Whose I am now.
We are all scarred by life. No one leaves this world as perfect as we entered it. But it is those very scars that shame us that make us all the more beautiful in God’s eyes. Rather than hide them, He beckons us to give them to Him.
Better than forgetting our memories is surrendering them. Better than pushing them down is lifting them up.
To Stand and Sing
March 3, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 15 Comments
We had a cowboy at church last Sunday. Four rows up and two rows over from me. Tall and slender, wearing faded blue jeans and a crisp, striped shirt. His mustache resembled the sort that one would grow while stranded on a desert island, and his weathered Stetson sat in the chair next to him.
I’d never seen him before, though that didn’t necessarily mean he was a visitor. Our church is a pretty big one, and our congregation is generally in the hundreds. Good in a way, not so good in others.
The service began with the obligatory hymn and prayer, after which the choir took its place and the minister of music took the microphone.
“I know there are a lot of people here who are struggling financially in these times,” she said. “It’s easy to feel as though God has somehow abandoned you, and it’s hard to reach out to someone for help. So as we sing these next few songs, I’d like to ask that anyone who is being burdened by life take a seat and pray. If you’re around someone who sits, take a moment to place a hand upon them. Pray with them and for them. Let them know they’re not alone.”
A few sat. Many more wanted to, I think, but didn’t. Pride can be a stubborn thing, even in church.
The cowboy, I noticed, sat halfway through the first verse. It was a sudden motion, one not done with much reservation, as if the hidden weight of his life refused to let him stand any longer. He was still for a moment, bent over as if something on the back of the chair in front of him demanded his attention.
Then he buried his face in his hands and wept.
Cowboys didn’t cry. I had known that since childhood. There was a poster thumbtacked to my bedroom wall that had the Cowboy Code on it. Cowboys never cry was number four, right after cowboys always eat their supper.
Yet there he was, using his calloused hands to wipe his fragile tears. His mouth moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, as he uttered his prayer. The concerned hands of his neighbors were gently placed on his back one by one as the choir continued to sing.
As the second verse began, the cowboy did something quite unexpected. He stood. Not slowly as if beaten, but purposefully with intent. He straightened his shirt, wiped his tears one more time, and took a deep breath.
And then he sang.
Not merely with lungs and voice, but with faith and hope. He sang words of God’s love and provision, of His undying devotion and saving grace. It was an act of protest against the decaying affect of his circumstances and the doubt they caused.
He sang. And there was prayer in his melody.
We think of courage as a virtue reserved for only a select few. Soldiers who defend us. Policemen who protect us. Firemen who rescue us. And while their actions are indeed courageous, I’d dare say they are no more so than the courage displayed by a cowboy in a church pew.
Because there are times when the simple act of facing the day takes courage. When trials and disappointments pin us down and dare us to resist and we are faced with this choice: submit or overcome.
What will we do when confronted by loss, whether of dreams or jobs or loved ones? When the winters of our lives blow and howl, will we surrender to its rages or seek shelter in warmth of God?
Will we cover our own wounds and let them fester, or will we let Christ bind them?
Will we sit and mourn, or will we stand and sing?
A Good Day…
March 1, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 8 Comments
The tuck-in is a crucial part of every parent’s nightly routine, a delicate process by which clingy and energetic children must be persuaded that the absolute best thing in the world to do is go to sleep by themselves. If you get it just right, a night’s peace just may be in order. Screw up even the tiniest detail, however, and you can forget sleep. For the both of you.
The rituals differ for my two children in detail, though the overall process is pretty much the same: prayers, story, small talk, covers, kiss, goodnight. Not much to it on the surface maybe, but still harder than it looks. Repetition is key.
My son likes to recount his day just before bed. It’s as if he needs some sort of confirmation that everything he did and said and thought was worthy of my attention and comment (which is, by the way). A few nights ago, the normal exploits of eating breakfast, exploring his grandparents’ yard, going to preschool, and taking a nap seemed particularly stimulating, told to me with much body language and laughter.
“Sounds like you had a good day then,” I told him.
“I did?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. Then, “Didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.” He wrinkled his forehead and thought about it. “Maybe. I’m not sure. What makes a good day?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but only a breath came out. What makes a good day? What kind of a question was that?
“I’ll have to get back with you on that one, Buddy,” I finally said.
“Okay, Daddy. Night and love you.”
“Night and love you, too,” I said.
Though my son’s night was flawless and complete, mine wasn’t. I couldn’t get his question out of my head because it seemed the perfect sort of question to ponder upon for a while—simple, broad, and meaningful.
What’s a good day? As much as I thought about it, I couldn’t come up with an answer. Which was a little troubling. I prayed every morning for God to give me a good day, I’d tell my family after work that I had a good day, and I’d thank God every night for giving me a good day.
But I was beginning to realize that I didn’t really know what I was praying for, what sort of answer I was giving to my family, and what exactly I was thanking God for giving me.
Strange, huh?
So I thought I’d conduct a little experiment. I’d take the next couple of days and write down everything that happened. Then, at the end of the night, I’d take a look at my list, ask myself if it was a good day or not, and try to figure out why.
Day one was a Sunday. My list: Church, lunch (cheeseburgers!), a visit to my parents, a walk around the neighborhood, coloring with the kids, ballgame, bed. Not bad.
But good? Surprisingly, no. My day, I found, wasn’t really good or bad. Just…okay.
Then, day two. Monday. My list: get up at oh-dark-thirty, go to work, find a missing package for a student, listen to someone talk about her mother’s failing health, rush across town on an important errand for someone else, come home, collapse on the couch, hold my daughter because she’s sick, tuck the kids in, go to bed.
It sounded like a long, hard, stressful day. And maybe it was. But it was also a good day no matter how it sounded, and I didn’t know why.
How could a busy Monday be better than a lazy Sunday?
But maybe not. Sunday was a Me day, really. I did what I wanted and when. Monday? Monday seemed more about helping people, whether that help be as big as driving across town for someone else or as small as listening to a troubled friend. Maybe that was all the difference.
What makes a good day? I know the answer now. And when my son gets up in the morning, I’ll tell him.
Because what makes a good day isn’t what happens to you, but because of you.
p.s.- I’ve had the pleasure of having more than a few good days lately, though the reasons perhaps had little to do with me. I’ve received a lot of emails about the missing comments, and all were humbly appreciated.
One in particular came from a reader who confessed to being on the fence when it comes to God. My blog, she said, has helped to strengthen her fragile faith. Not necessarily my posts, though. It was the comments that you all so kindly contribute. I never paused to consider the fact that people enjoyed the comments just as much as the content, and in many cases even more so. After reading that, I felt pretty selfish. Yet another reminder that it ain’t all about me.
So to her and to you all: please, comment away…
Author of Snow Day and Paper Angels (November 2011), both by FaithWords. But don't let that fool you. I'm just as confused as anyone.
And that is fine with me, because the great thing about wandering around in the fog is that you never know what you might run into.
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