Growing Cold
April 13, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 27 Comments
image courtesy of photobucket.com
Mine is a family of servants, people who have decided to base their careers upon service to others—teachers and firemen and farmers.
And nurses. Four of them.
It takes a special sort of person to be a nurse. Never mind all of the things they must do each day that would engage the gag reflex in the rest of us. That makes nurses admirable, but not special. What makes them special is the inherent caring and compassionate personality that is required of them. You have to love people to be a good nurse. You have to understand pain and fear and worry, and you have to deflect them with smiles and a calm voice.
Or so I’ve been told.
My mother has been a nurse for over forty years. She’s seen, poked, prodded, and examined nearly every part of the human body in that time, and often more than once. She’s seen people die and die slowly, listened as they broke down in tears, and had to clean up urine and feces.
It’s tough being a nurse, she’s often told me. The pitfalls are many. It’s hard work and long hours and sore feet. It’s being surrounded by the sick and the wounded and the dead who have yet to realize they are. It’s the knowing that there will never be a slow season or a down time.
But those aren’t the real challenges. There is something worse than the sore feet and the long hours. Something even worse than having to clean up urine and feces.
It’s growing cold.
My mom has seen it. Has had to battle it. As have my two sisters in-law and my niece. All of them walked out of college and into the real world ready to make a difference, ready to care, only to find out that the difference they wanted to make is most times a pretty small one and that caring can bring all sorts of problems.
There is only so much suffering a person can see and be a part of before it all starts to blend together. You have to be careful, mom says. It’s easy to get attached to a patient only to have him or her take a turn for the worse. Easy to hope when no hope is possible.
It’s easy to feel so much pain that you don’t feel pain anymore. It’s a method of self-preservation. You harden yourself. You grow cold.
I don’t think that applies to nurses only.
I think we all face that battle.
I think we all start out wanting to make a difference. Wanting to care. I think we all at some point believe that this life can somehow be made better with us in it. We dream. We hope. We even think we can change the world.
But then age makes us a part of that world. Dreams are replaced by the necessities of making a living and paying bills. Hopes evaporate against the heat of reality. We find the world is bigger and we are smaller than we thought. Overcoming comes second to getting by.
And we are tempted, so tempted, to believe that rather than living all for one and one for all, it’s best to live with every man for himself.
The pain and the despair can seem so big. So endless. Beyond fixing.
Before we know it, before we can even see it coming, we can go from wanting to change the world to being satisfied with wanting the world to not change us.
And we can go from wanting to ease the hurt in others to not wanting to be hurt ourselves.
That’s when we grow cold. When brick by brick we build a wall around ourselves to keep the world away.
My mother says that’s what happens to nurses sometimes. My wife says that’s what happens to teachers. I say that’s what happens to people.
Because the simplest way to not get hurt is to stop caring. That’s how you get tough, some say.
But I say that you get tough by staying vulnerable in a world that will assault you with pains that cannot be overcome and a despair that rains down upon you.
You get tough by understanding that the only thing worse than feeling hurt is feeling nothing.
It’s a doubleheader for me today, as I’m also posting over at The Master’s Artist. If you’re so inclined, follow me over there. You’ll meet Jesse, the greatest storyteller I’ve ever known.
Sleep Walking
April 12, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 3 Comments
- image courtesy of photobucket.com
Ask most people what they’d like more than anything else in the world, and sooner or later money will be mentioned. I guess it’s always been that way. And I’ll be honest, since it’s just between you and me — it’s on my list, too. Because money might not buy happiness and it surely won’t bring you peace, but let’s face it, it would sure come in handy when the bills are due.
Carrying On
April 9, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 23 Comments
photo from washingtonpost.com
Nonetheless, I turned on the news last Monday evening just before watching Jack Bauer do his part to save the country. In the process, I found another reason why I don’t really bother with the news anymore.
Everything’s bad, isn’t it? I mean really, really bad. I asked my parents the other day if things were this bad before, back when I was my children’s age. Yes, they said. The economy was worse. Jobs were more scarce. They didn’t have terrorists to worry about, at least not that much. They had the Russians instead. They thought the Russians were worse. I think that’s true.
But still, things are bad. There are earthquakes and volcanoes and floods. Wars and rumors of wars. Violence upon violence. Bickering in Washington.
It’s easy to watch the news and decide to give up. Not on the world, maybe. But definitely on the people in it.
Despite all of that opinionating and screaming, despite all the bad, that’s still not why I’ve boycotted the news. The real reason is that I get only half the story. Every story. And it’s the bad half.
The news on that particular Monday night centered around a terrorist bombing in the Moscow subway system. Thirty dead. A bus accident in New Mexico. Sixteen dead. A suicide bombing in Afghanistan. Seven dead.
Tragedies, the news anchor said. And he was right. They were tragic and evil and senseless.
There was video of each scene. Pictures of covered bodies. Vows of impending justice from the authorities. Bad. More bad. Bad upon bad. And I began to get that sinking feeling that comes when I start to believe that the world is going to hell and dragging every good person along for the ride.
It’s tough to feel like you’re on a ride that’s going too fast to jump off, and all you can do his hang on and hope you can laugh when it’s all finally over.
But then the story switched back to Moscow. New footage had just been obtained—BREAKING NEWS said the bottom half of the screen—that showed the moments just after the blast. The wounded were being tended to by medical personnel. Police were interviewing witnesses and gathering evidence.
And there in the far corner of the screen sat a young woman in jeans and a black top. Mid-thirties, dazed and hurting. The Russian equivalent of an EMT tended to a nasty cut on her head.
Yet another victim, I thought.
But then she did something neither the EMT nor I expected. The young lady didn’t request a stretcher or a trip to the hospital.
She stood up and walked away.
It was an act of supreme defiance. She would not be a victim. It was as if those behind the bombing had asked her this question—What will you do now? and she had answered I will carry on.
That’s the half the news never shows. It’s also the half that people need to hear about.
Don’t just show me the dead, show me the living. The survivors. The ones who faced hell and survived by the grace of God, and then picked themselves up and carried on.
Because in the end, that’s all we can do—hang on tight and smile when it’s over.
Books and their covers
April 7, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 36 Comments
image courtesy of photobucket.com
A few who pass offer him quarters and dollar bills. One brings a cup of coffee. Another a candy bar. He takes them with a nod, but no words. One woman offers him both money and a sandwich from the 7-11 down the road. As she walks away, he stares at her backside and smiles.
The patch on his right sleeve is the eagle of the 101st Airborne. Army. A veteran. But then he turns and I see above his left pocket the globe and anchor of the Marine Corps.
I rub my chin. Something’s wrong here.
Another dollar from another woman, which brings another nod and another leer as she walks away. He tips his cap in salute of her appearance. As he does, he exposes the gold watch on his wrist.
I rub my chin again.
Then I begin to understand.
Such sights are more common than we would like to admit—people who pretend to be homeless, penniless, and hopeless but who in fact are none of the above. They spend their days playing to the sympathies of the public and spend their nights in their own homes mocking those good deeds.
And this, I think to myself, is one of those people.
I remain where I am and study his technique. He’s had practice, this man. He knows how to look and act his part, though the gold watch on his wrist and the conflicting patches on his jacket tell me he hasn’t been at this little charade long.
But his silence more than makes up for his lapses. Silence conveys a sense of brokenness, and he has to act broken. The leering at the women, though, is trouble. He’ll have to work on that if he wants to stay in character.
He tips his cap again to another passerby. I notice more this time. His hand is shaking in an almost violent spasm. He’s sniffing, too. Not a big deal in the winter, but this is a warm spring day.
I think I know where all the money he collects out here goes.
Right up his nose.
The cycle of addiction brings out the worst in people. It’s a reality of desperation and wasting away that is only slightly masked by a false and fleeting bliss. It cradles and chokes you at the same time.
He’s rocking back and forth now. I’m not sure if that’s part of the act of it he just needs to move. Or maybe the drugs are wearing off.
He’s decided to use the shakes to his advantage, drawing people to his decay by holding the sign in his trembling hand. It works. Five out of the next twenty people stop to donate. This time there’s much more green than silver.
What should I do with this man? Pity him? Scorn him? Call him unfortunate or lost? Call him worse? I’m not sure. But I know he’s not what he pretends to be, and I know I can’t stand here and watch him any longer.
As he stands between me and my truck, I have to walk past him. Each step brings a little more pity for the addiction choking him and a little less anger for the lie he’s living. I decide this is a test. Give to the poor, Jesus said. Do good. Whatever bad he does with what I give him is his choice, not my consequence.
I reach into my pocket. As I pass, I put the dollar in his hand.
He says, “Thanks, you stupid redneck.”
He shoves my dollar into his pocket before I could snatch it back. I stare at him, fuming.
I spend my ride home enjoying neither sights nor music. I can’t speak, can’t concentrate, can barely think. Anger consumes me.
Not because he took my gift. Not even because he called me a name.
But because he dared to judge me by appearance alone.
Letting things happen
April 6, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 36 Comments
image courtesy of photobucket.com
“Mean look,” I tell him.
His face contorts from a smile to a smirk to a scowl. Lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed. He will crush this pitch. He will hit it so hard and so far that we’ll have to go back to the sports store at the mall to get another one.
“Ready?” I ask.
More scowl. Ready.
I toss the ball. He begins the happy dance with his feet when the pitch is halfway there, turns his back to the plate, and, just as the ball crosses, heaves the bat forward with all his might.
The result is predictable.
He misses. And because he misses, the bat flies out of his hands and almost hits the neighbor’s dog, he nearly screws himself into the ground, and the ball trickles under the shed in our backyard.
“What happened?” he asks.
“You missed,” I say. “Grab the ball and try and find your bat. Let’s try again.”
He does. Tap/whip/scowl. He will crush this pitch.
Same result, though this time the bat flies toward me and I have to either duck or face decapitation.
“What happened?” he asks again.
“It’s baseball, Buddy,” I say. “Not batball.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
“Concentrate, okay? You don’t have to try and knock it a mile. Just hit it.”
Tap/whip/scowl.
Flying bat/grass stains/”What happened?”
“Let’s say it’s halftime,” I tell him.
“There isn’t halftime in baseball, Daddy,” he says.
“Well then let’s just say it’s a commercial.”
“Okay.”
I stroll over to him and we have a seat in the grass. Neither of us speak for a few minutes. I’m trying to work out a way to fix his swing, get his head straight, and keep his feet still in the batter’s box. And to hang on to the bat before he breaks a window. He’s thinking about the blue sky and the white clouds and whether it’s really a white sky with blue clouds.
“I’m going to fix your swing,” I tell him.
“White sky with blue clouds,” he says. “That’s better.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, so I ignore him. I tell him to take his stance and then proceed to walk him through every miniscule component of the perfect baseball swing.
Weight balanced. Hands back. Feet spread and even. Weight slightly back. Head still. Step into the ball. Turn your hips. Make an “L” with the back leg. Follow the ball. Center your mass. Extend. Follow through.
Got it?
Yes.
Flying bat/grass stains/”What happened?”
I let out an exasperated sigh for an answer and toss my glove into the white sky with the blue clouds.
And then my son says the two words that crush me and make me realize I have much more to learn when it comes to fatherhood—
“Sorry, Dad.”
I pick my glove up from the ground and walk towards him again. Time for another commercial.
We sit in the grass. I’m now pondering the sky because it gets my mind off acting like an idiot. My son is beside me pondering how he’d let me down.
“You know what?” I ask. “Sometimes I get a little frustrated. Not at you, at me. And I try to hard to do something. I try to force it. I try to make it happen instead of letting it happen. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m gonna toss you a ball, and I don’t want you to think about anything except hitting it. Don’t worry about how far it goes or how hard you swing or where you put your feet or your head. Just relax. Be gentle. Don’t make it happen, let it happen. And then swing. Okay?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
I take my place and he takes his.
Tap/back easy/smile.
I toss the ball. My son eases back, relaxing into himself. He swings when the pitch reaches the edge of the garbage can lid.
And connects.
The ball zings past my head before I can react and lands with a splash in the creek. We both run after it before it can float away, screaming and laughing.
My son has learned to hit. And in the process, I have learned how to better raise him.
I will relax. Be gentle.
I will let him happen rather than make him happen.
This post was part of the One Word blog carnival, Gentleness host by my friend Bridget Chumbley at One Word at a Time.
7 Reasons to root for the Red Sox over the Yankees (by Bryan Allain)
April 5, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 17 Comments
In honor of Opening Day of the 2010 MLB Season, my friend Bryan Allain and I exchanged guest posts regarding our respective love for the Yankees and Red Sox.
Bryan writes daily about the humorous side of life, sports, faith, pop culture, and living among the Amish at his blog, BryanAllain.com. He also mini-blogs on this secret contraption he calls “Twitter” at twitter.com/bryanallain.
Billy Coffey is a Yankees fan and I am a Red Sox fan. We might agree on a lot of the important things in life, but when it comes to baseball, make no mistake about it, he is my enemy.
If you’re reading this post and you too are a fan of the Red Sox or Yankees, I know you can’t be swayed. I’ve got a better shot at changing your gender than changing your mind about which team to root for. But for those of you who don’t have an allegiance either way, let me offer up a few points to help you make an informed decision.
7 Reasons to root for the Red Sox over the Yankees
1. Every good story involves conflict, and few stories in sports were as tragic as the 86-year drought the Red Sox were in before winning the World Series in 2004 (and again in 2007). Ooooh, the Yankees have won 27 World Series titles? Yawn.
2. Jorge Posada pees on his bare hands during spring training to toughen them up. (I’ve also heard unconfirmed reports that Joba Chamberlain wipes without toilet paper in the spring for the same reason.) If you respect good hygiene, the Yankees are not your team.
3. Everyone loves to lump in the Red Sox with the Yankees in terms of team salary, but it’s not even close. The Yankees paid over $201 million for their 2009 World Series win. The next team? The Mets at $135 million. Then the Red Sox? Nope. Then the Cubs at $135 million and THEN the Red Sox at $122 million. Are you incensed that baseball players make way too much money? Me too, let’s move on.
4. The Red Sox let Johnny Damon grow out his hair and beard when he played for them. The Yankees made Damon cut both to conform to their archaic monarchy. Do you really want to support a franchise that tries to suppress individual expression? It’s like rooting for the communists.
5. The Red Sox kept their old stadium and continue to improve it year after year, showing respect for history and tradition. The Yankees just blew up their old stadium, and now play in a place where seats behind home plate run for a measly $2500.
6. In 2004 the Red Sox completed the best comeback in all of sports history, erasing a 3 games to none deficit by winning 4 straight games in 5 days, including the final two in Yankee Stadium, to advance to the World Series (and eventually win it). No matter what happens from here on out, even if it comes out that every Red Sox player was guzzling HGH and snorting steroids, that week can never be taken away from me. And if you build a time machine and go back to 2004 as a Red Sox fan, you can relive it too.
7. The more the Yankees lose, the more tortured every Yankees fan get. So if you like your writers nice and angst-ridden, keep rooting for the Yankees to lose.
You think Billy is a good writer now? Wait until the Yankees have missed the playoffs for 5 straight years. He’ll be churning out stuff that makes Steinbeck look like high school English student.
So there you have it. If you love Billy’s writing and want more of it, you MUST root for the Red Sox.
Deep down, that’s probably what Billy wants to.
To read Billy’s side of the story, check out his guest post over on my blog today, bryanallain.com
From the sixth hour
April 2, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 16 Comments
The Easter story is one of those parts of the New Testament you hear every year. It’s also one of those parts you can hear over and over again and be struck with a sense of wonder and sadness and awe.
It may well be the greatest part of the greatest story ever told. There is betrayal and remorse. Courtroom drama. Good versus evil. Unfathomable love and unquenchable hate. Things look bleak and then wonderful, all in the space of a few pages.
There are questions, of course. My own. This doesn’t seem to be the best way for God to save the world to me. I’ve watched the shows on the History Channel about crucifixions. Nasty stuff. Horrible.
And then there’s the whole notion about Judas. No doubt he was a bad guy who did what we all seem to do on a pretty consistent basis—he gave up what meant everything for what meant less. He felt awful about it too, once it was all said and done. Hanged himself in a tree. I wonder about Judas. Christian legend says Christ appeared to him as Judas hung from that tree, moments away from death, and forgave him. I like to think that’s true.
But it’s this one verse from Matthew that’s always captured me more than anything else about the Easter story:
Now from the sixth hour darkness fell upon all the land until the ninth hour.
I can see that happening. Can see the sun blotted out and the people gathered at Golgotha look around and begin to shiver.
But what I want to know is this—
Why?
Why did darkness cover the land?
Theologians, pastors, and other people much smarter than little old me have their theories. A cosmic alignment. An eclipse. The fulfillment of a prophecy.
I don’t buy that. Not to say it wasn’t all of those things, of course. I wasn’t there. It might have been.
But I like to think the darkness fell upon all the land for a simpler reason.
Christians are taught to believe that the world in which we live was once pristine and beautiful. Paradise. No pain, no want, no suffering.
No darkness.
But with Adam and Eve came the first choice ever given to humanity, of whether they would love God or themselves. Add a serpent and a fruit, and you have the same choice Judas made—they gave up what meant everything for what meant less.
Darkness crept in. Sin entered the world through the human heart and became the ultimate virus, spread not just by touch, but by sight and sound and taste and smell.
Of course God knew what that first choice would become. He knew about the darkness and the sin. Knew about the virus.
I think that’s why the night gathered that day.
Because God did as only He could do—He used the darkness to help fulfill his plan. He let the shadows come so the light could be plainly seen.
Why did the darkness fall on that Friday long ago?
So the Son could shine.
The Letter
April 1, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 5 Comments
That last bit wouldn’t happen. Not to Helen Long’s family. She had spent too much time and given too much effort in keeping her family together to have them fall apart once she was gone. It was her mission in life, her purpose, and she could think of no better goal to devote her life to fulfilling.
To read the rest of Helen’s story, follow me over to Kevin Martineau’s blog Shooting the Breeze.
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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