Small cuts and deep wounds
February 28, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 16 Comments
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It was actually a job-related injury. A paper cut. I was writing, went to turn the page, and sliced my index finger.
In my defense, it did bleed. And it hurt.
I decided to take a break from writing and watch a little television while I healed. The news was on—the news is always on in my house, and I hate myself for it. There was an interview with a man who had lost his family during a demonstration in some Middle Eastern country. I’m sure they said which particular country it was, but I was busy sucking on my index finger. Paper cuts are awful.
Anyway, this man.
Went to a demonstration with his wife and child. Not a protest, mind you. No violence or shouting or burnings in effigy. He just wanted to participate in a gathering of like-minded people who were fed up with totalitarianism and fear. The ruler—king, perhaps?—had been in power for years, siphoning off money meant for his people to line his own pockets.
The name of the ruler (or king) was…something. Abdul, maybe? I remember it was a long name, four or five words, but I can’t remember exactly. I suppose that was around the time I was looking for a Band-Aid.
Back to the man. Everything was going so fine for a while. The people were excited. Hopeful, even. That in itself was a miracle, as this man’s country, these millions of people, had not known hope for generations. The protests in Tunisia and Egypt had emboldened them. If change could come to those countries, why not there? Why not then?
The police came. I remember seeing footage of that. Men with guns and sticks and tear gas, firing into this peaceful crowd, snatching that hope away. I remember a reporter’s voice, then the man again, crying and bloody and talking of his family—his wife and child. They were lost. Or dead. One of those two.
My Band-Aid was too tight. I took it off and tried putting it on again, but the ends rolled up and it wouldn’t stick to the skin. I had to go find another one. By the time I got back from the bathroom, the station had gone to a commercial about how wearing Old Spice and make the ladies love me like they do that cool black guy with the deep voice.
That’s when it hit me, how horrible I am.
I like to think I have a soft heart. People have told me such on quite a few occasions, and I’ve always taken it as a compliment. I know well this world can harden a person, leave him uncaring and apathetic. Not me. I care. I do. Any other time I would have watched that entire segment with my undivided attention. I would have mourned for and with that man. I would have prayed for him and his family.
A soft heart is a virtue, I think. No less than love or courage or honor. And I suppose such things are called virtues for the simple reason that they are so difficult to obtain. I discovered that just a little bit ago. That at our core, we are helpless, fallen creatures who forever put themselves before others.
For proof, all I need to do is look at my hand and know that the smallest cut on my finger gave me more concern than the suffering of millions of my fellow human beings.
No less precious
February 23, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 24 Comments
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It was a little over sixteen years ago when Ken Copeland’s wife woke up feeling a little queasy. It was a Sunday, he remembers. The big deal that day was the football game later that afternoon. Redskins and Cowboys.
Ken never saw that game, because his wife decided to take a pregnancy test later that morning. In the two years they’d been trying to conceive a child, she’d gone through dozens of those tests. All had produced nothing but a disappointing minus sign. On that day, however, a vertical line appeared and bisected that familiar horizontal one. It was a plus.
Ken and his wife celebrated that day with tears, fears, and a steak dinner at the Sizzlin’ in town. They told everyone (even the waitress, who discounted their steaks as congratulations). Everyone wanted to know if Ken wanted a boy or a girl. His answer was the usual one. Ken didn’t care, just so long as the baby was healthy.
Matthew Brent Copeland was born nine months later at the local hospital.
Fast forward sixteen years to the playground at the local elementary school. Father and son are at the swings, Ken pushing Matthew. It’s the younger Copeland’s favorite activity, one that somehow calms the storms that rage in his mind. Ken thinks it’s the back and forth motion that does it, that feeling of flight and peace. He takes Matthew there every evening.
There are smiles on both their faces, though that hasn’t always been the case. The Copelands went through a tough time when Matthew was diagnosed with autism at age four.
In quiet conversation, Ken will tell you that almost killed him. He’ll admit the anger he felt toward God and the despair over his son, whose life would now never be as full and as meaningful as it should have been.
And he’ll tell you that deep down in his dark places, if he and his wife would have known what would happen to Matthew, he would have preferred abortion over birth. There would be less pain that way. For everyone.
Yet now, twelve years later, he smiles.
I watch them from the privacy of a bench on the other side of the playground. See him push his grown son and yell “Woo!” as he does. I see the perfect and innocent smile on Matthew’s face as he’s launched out and up. Hear his own “Woo!” in reply.
When they’re done, Ken takes his son’s hand in his own and together they walk across the soccer field toward home. Their steps are light, they take their time. It’s as if their world has stopped for this moment between father and son to marvel at the bond between them, proof that the hardships life sometimes thrusts upon us don’t have to break our hearts. They can swell our hearts as well and leave more room for loving.
Ken has made his peace. Peace with God, with his life, with his son’s condition. It hasn’t always been easy, but nothing that is ever worth something is easy. There are still times when he looks at Matthew and wonders what his son’s life would be like if he were normal and healthy. He’s sixteen now, that age where a boy’s world should expand in a violent and glorious eruption of girls and cars and sports. But Matthew’s world will never expand. It will always remain as small as it was when he was four, and just as simple.
Ken says that’s okay. That it has to be. He’s learned that in a world that seems full of choices, there are really only two—we can hang on, or we can let go. Ken has let go. Of his anger and his disappointment, of his despair. And he’s found that what has replaced those things are peace and fulfillment and joy, things he’d always chased after but until Matthew came along never really found.
If Ken would change anything, it would be what he said to all those people who’d asked him if he wanted a boy or a girl. His one regret is what his answer always was, that it didn’t matter as long as the baby was healthy. Because an unhealthy baby is no less precious, no less valuable, and no less life-changing.
Pujols: More than the Game
February 22, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 19 Comments
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For a long time, I never had a hero.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. I had many growing up. Ballplayers, mostly. My parents like to joke that I was born holding a baseball glove, which isn’t too far from the truth. Even now, years after I played my last game, I often dream I’m hitting a baseball. Those dreams are so convincing that my body will turn in my sleep to swing at a pitch that exists only in my mind. I always wake not knowing if I’d missed or put one in the seats.
Baseball was a part of me. It still is.
Which is why I often turn to the game for solace during those long and dark months of winter. My shelves are lined with tomes of baseball history. I recently added another.
I was lucky enough to get my hands on an advance copy of Pujols: More than the Game, by Scott Lamb and Tim Ellsworth, courtesy of a friend who thought I might enjoy it.
I did. So much so that it’s gotten me thinking.
For those of you who don’t know, Albert Pujols is a professional baseball player for the St. Louis Cardinals. A good one. So good, in fact, that at the tender age of thirty-one, he’s already considered among the best to ever play the game.
I knew that.
He is a nine-time All-star, a three-time MVP, a batting champion, a Silver Slugger, and the National League Rookie of the Year in 2001.
I knew that, too.
What I didn’t know before reading this book was the man behind the uniform, the Clark Kent to his proverbial Superman. Honestly, the prospect of that left me cynical. Remember, I’d spent years without a hero, and for good reason. When a boy grows up admiring athletes who turn out to be gamblers and drug addicts, it’s the play on the field that becomes most important. What happens off it is usually reduced to boys being boys.
But not Albert.
I didn’t know that.
I could tell you the stories I read in those pages. Of how Albert was born in a neglected neighborhood in the Dominican Republic and raised by an alcoholic father he adored nonetheless. Of how he said, “Sometimes we didn’t have anything to eat for breakfast, but if we could eat lunch and dinner, we weren’t poor.” Or how his family moved to New York when Albert was sixteen, but then left for Missouri weeks later when he witnessed a shooting.
I could tell you of his rise to the major leagues or his love for Deidre, his wife. I could tell you of Buddy Walk in the Park Day, “when children with Down syndrome went on field during pregame ceremonies, rubbing shoulders and running the bases with big leaguers.” Two boys asked Albert to hit home runs for him that day. He hit three.
I could tell you that and more. But I won’t. Because that’s not Albert Pujols.
Albert Pujols is the man who says, “Every time I go out there, it’s to glorify God.”
He is the man who considers his faith to be a verb instead of a noun. Who, along with his wife, started the Pujols Family Foundation to “benefit people with Down syndrome, disabilities and/or life threatening illnesses, and children and families living in impoverished conditions in the Dominican Republic.”
He is the man who said, “What people don’t understand is that this work is what I’ve been put on earth to do, and when baseball’s gone and I’m not famous, I’m still going to be doing this work because this is what God’s called me to do.”
Albert Pujols is the only baseball player I’ve ever heard of who thinks he’s not called to play baseball. He’s called to help people.
Sounds strange, doesn’t it? Almost impossible to believe. That a famous, multi-millionaire athlete could see his life in such a manner.
What was even more impossible was how I felt when the book was over—that Albert’s Clark Kent was even better than his Superman.
In an age of steroids and lurid tales and unbridled pessimism, not just of celebrities but of everyone, what we need is not more transparency, but more honesty. More light in the dark places.
More heroes.
Yes, even grown men need heroes. Maybe grown men most of all.
Sports Illustrated ran a cover story on Albert in March 2009. The cover shows him staring into the camera with a bat on his shoulder. The headline read, “Albert Pujols Has a Message: Don’t Be Afraid to Believe in Me.”
Waiting on the fixing
February 16, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 16 Comments
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My son plops down beside me on the sofa and says, “Dad, can you fix this? I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”
He holds up the Lego spaceship he’d bought with report card money. Three hundred pieces, complete with two figures, three lasers, and an ejection seat. It took us—me, rather—almost an hour to put it together. Now it’s in twenty pieces. Crash landing, he said.
“Sure I can fix it,” I tell him. “No problem.”
And it isn’t. I know what’s wrong with is spaceship, and I know where the pieces go. All I need is a few minutes.
I set to work. My son sits beside me, fidgeting. He wants to play with his spaceship. Now.
“Hurry up, Daddy,” he says.
“Hang on.”
I fix the landing gear first so I can have a stable platform to fix the rest. Two pieces are missing. I find them on the carpet.
More fidgeting. Then, “Daddy?”
“Yep?”
“I don’t think that piece goes there.”
“Sure it does,” I tell him. “I remember how I did it before. Trust me.”
And he does trust me. It’s an uneasy trust though, the kind that is silent and doubting. He looks over my shoulder and sighs. Points to which pieces I should put together next and which I should save until the end. He mumbles. The whole process makes fixing what’s been broken longer and more aggravating. For him, not for me.
“Daddy?”
“Yep?”
“I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’re taking too long.”
“Just wait and see,” I tell him. “I’ll have it fixed in a minute.”
But he can’t wait, and so he doesn’t see.
“Never mind,” he says. “I think I can fix it myself.”
He offers me a sad little sigh and gathers up the pieces in the towel he used to bring them to me. Off he goes back to his bedroom.
I shake my head at his impatience. My son is too young and too inexperienced to know how to fix his toy. He’ll try, of course, and trying is a good thing. But in the end he’ll succeed only in putting it together wrong. It will be imperfect, less than it should be. My son will know that, but he’ll take a flimsy sort of solace in the fact that at least the fixing is done and the playing can begin.
I can’t blame him for this.
There are a lot of times when I bring a mess to God and say, “Father, can you fix this? Fix this problem or this situation. Fix this life. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. I just know it’s crashed and broken.”
“Sure I can fix it,” He tells me. “No problem.”
And it isn’t a problem. God knows what’s wrong. And He can fix it, too. He knows what’s wrong and where all the pieces go.
He sets to work. I want it fixed now, so I fidget. Hurry, I tell him. Hang on, He answers. I fidget more. Time passes, and I begin to wonder if He really knows what He’s doing. I’ll look over His shoulder and offer my own advice about what goes where and what needs done now and what can wait.
You’re not doing it right, I say. Wait and see, He tells me.
But I can’t wait. And because I can’t wait, I never see.
“I’ll just fix it myself,” I finally say. Then I pick up my problems and trudge off.
But this I know: my son will be back soon. He’ll see that getting things fixed right is worth the wait. Especially when he realizes he can’t fix it right on his own.
And God knows I’ll be back, too.
The best conversation I never had
February 14, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 23 Comments
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I’m tempted to do drive faster than normal every weekday at 4:00. Or find some good music on the radio. But I never do. Because I know that just down the road where the city opens up and two lanes turn into four, he’ll pull up beside me in the left lane. Just two guys heading home from work, ending their day with an exhale.
He’s a policeman; that’s apparent by the car he drives—an unmarked sedan with meshed steel separating backseat from front seat. He has the face of a cop, too. Not serious, but steady. Guardian-like. It’s a face that says Don’t worry about it buddy, I got your back. Just don’t let me catch you speeding or playing with the radio.
I’m not sure how long we’ve been sharing the road on our ride home, but I noticed him about three months ago. It’s never for long—anywhere between thirty seconds and three minutes, depending upon the flow of traffic. Exactly why he stood out is an answer I do not have. Chances are I share the road at that time of day with plenty of the same other people, too. I suppose the same could be said for him. After all, I’m just a guy in a truck trying to get out of the busy city and back to the quiet country.
Then came yesterday.
Weather: dreary, cold, February-like. Mood: sour. Workday: bad. There was nothing more I wanted than to do than mash the accelerator put the day behind me. Couldn’t do that, not with the knowledge that the Holy Spirit on four wheels would shortly be pulling up beside me. And he did, of course, at the stop light where he usually does.
Most days a fleeting glance is all I offer. The bulk of my attention is focused on the traffic and the stoplights. But yesterday my glance lingered long enough for him to return one of his own.
I lifted my chin hello. He lowered his and helloed back.
The light turned then. We both drove the hundred yards or so until the next intersection. The light was red.
I felt his gaze and tried not to look. That’s common, I think, whenever you’re in the presence of a police officer. But I kept feeling it and looked anyway. He saw me and pointed to the sign in front of the gas station to our right. I looked. A gallon of regular was $3.09.
I looked back to him and shook my head in a sad way. He offered me a What-are-you-gonna-do? shrug.
Green light, another hundred yards. At that intersection a group of teenagers were milling about in typical teenaged fashion, waving to pretty girls and taunting everyone else. They stopped when they saw the policeman beside me. Even pulled up their sagging pants. He looked at me. This time it was he who offered the sad shake of the head and I who answered with the What-are-you-gonna-do? shrug.
Green light, red light. I slumped back into the driver’s seat, sure that the universe had aligned against me in an attempt to sour my mood even more. The man beside me did the same. I made a motion with my hands that suggested he could turn his flashers on and get us both out of there. His laugh told me that probably was not going to happen.
The last stoplight was where we parted ways. I took a right toward the peaceful roads of the backwoods, while he pushed onward through the city. I offered him a wave before I pulled away, which was returned. Another one down, we seemed to say to each other. See you again tomorrow.
I hope so.
Funny things, those little moments. Just two guys putting up with the minor inconveniences of their lives. Two guys just trying to make their way and get back home.
It’s easy sometimes to build a cocoon around yourself, to think that your problems are unique and unshared by others. I found out yesterday that wasn’t true at all. We’re all daily on the front lines of living, trying and stumbling and trying again. What unites us aren’t our joys as much as our challenges.
I’m going to try and keep that in mind. And I’m thankful for what taught me that lesson—
The best conversation I never had.
It’s not fair
February 9, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 24 Comments
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Sometimes a certain phrase will stick out in my mind through sheer repetition, like a mantra told and retold by everyone I meet. It was like that yesterday.
It started early at breakfast, when my daughter said it wasn’t fair that she had to eat eggs. Eggs don’t taste like anything, she said. The box of Pop Tarts she found in the cabinets was more to her liking. We tried explaining to her what she already knew, which was that Pop Tarts do not usually make a good breakfast for diabetics. That’s when she said it.
“It’s not fair.”
My son repeated those very three words not a half hour later, when he was finally convinced there would be no sudden and violent snowstorm and that he would have to go to school. He pouted on the sofa and pushed back tears. Tried to make himself cough. Tried to say he had a fever and chickenpox. When those things didn’t work, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and muttered, “It’s not fair.”
Heard it on the radio on the way to work, too. Someone called in to say it wasn’t fair that we had a Democrat in the White House. Someone else called in to say it wasn’t fair that we didn’t have an all-Republican Congress.
A student told me later it wasn’t fair that she had to wait for her mail.
Shortly after, I told myself it wasn’t fair that I had to be a mailman.
I went through the whole day like that, analyzing all the things people said to me. It was amazing just how often the issue of fairness crept into our conversations, whether outright or implied. In almost every case that fairness was something absent rather than present. Whether it was someone who was sick or out of work or just plain mean, it could all in some way be traced back to the simple fact that life isn’t fair and that we all suffer because of it.
Civilizations are built upon the notion that unfairness can be fixed. The laws we have are largely based on eliminating the inequality among us and replacing it with a sense of evenhandedness. It’s the concept behind things such as mediation and negotiation. It’s all done to make things fair, even if the results sometimes are not. Just ask my kids, who would much rather have Pop Tarts for breakfast and enjoy a perpetual summer vacation.
It’s something I hope they both grow out of and something I know they never will. After all, I’m pushing forty years old, and I don’t think much in my life is fair, either.
But for the past few days I’ve been watching the scene in the Middle East unfold. Like you, I’ve seen riots and protests. I’ve seen people beaten and robbed. I’ve heard the frantic pleas of people afraid for their families, for their futures, and for their very lives.
The vast majority of them are poor and undernourished. I’ve heard the average Egyptian worker makes just over four dollars per week. For thirty years they’ve been under the heel of a tyrant, and now most of the world fears that tyrant will be replaced by Islamic extremists who are even more tyrannical.
If someone would ask these people who have marched and shouted (and now bled and died), I’m sure they, too, would say it isn’t fair. They don’t enjoy the sort of life we Americans have. They don’t have the freedom to say and do. We have plenty, they have nothing. We have comfort, they have pain. Like us, they want to work and provide for their families and give their children a future. Unlike us, chances are they’ll never have those opportunities.
So I tell myself and my children this:
We all have struggles, not the least of which is that indwelt desire to obtain what we think will make our lives better. In this life we are subjected to things we do not deserve and must conform to things we do not like. We want fairness, but we’ll never have it. Not on this side of life.
But far from bemoaning that fact, you and I should be thankful for our position in all that unfairness. Because but for the grace of God, we would be the ones rioting and bleeding in the streets.
Falling Rocks
February 7, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 18 Comments
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The signs are plentiful at the peak of Afton mountain. Big, diamond-shaped yellow signs with capitalized letters in bold black.
WATCH FOR FALLING ROCKS.
I tell my kids the same story I was told as a child, and that is the signs are not warnings at all. Long ago there was young Indian girl who had fallen in love with a brave named Falling Rocks. The two were to wed, but Falling Rocks disappeared while on a hunting expedition into the mountains. He was never found. The poor Indian girl mourned her loss to the point of death, then finally passed on after a month of unending tears. The legend states that her ghost still roams the mountains here and will not rest until she finds her lost love. Hence the signs along the roads.
So the tale goes. In reality, large amounts of rain and snow have in the past dislodged chunks of rock, sending them tumbling down onto the roads.
I suppose that’s another instance of fact being more mundane than story. But in this case, the facts are no less instructive.
I’ve been driving over that mountain for years, and I’d never seen one instance of either falling rocks or Indians of the same name. But the past week brought snow to my part of the world that was followed by a day or two of warmer temperatures. The combination resulted in a large boulder rolling down the face of a cliff Saturday morning that came to rest along the shoulder of the road I was driving upon.
I was talking about this to an acquaintance of mine this morning, who also happens to be a biology professor. He said it was a common assumption to think that something as solid as a mountain could never break apart and tumble, but it happens all the time. That’s because mountains really aren’t that solid at all. They’re a part of the earth, floating upon tectonic plates and at the mercy of both gravity and the elements. And like all things in motion, sooner or later parts will tumble.
It’s the same with everything, he told me. All of creation is in motion. And since no motion is perpetual, sooner or later that motion will slow and cease. Rocks, earth, sky, even planets. One day, they will all fall down. Then he smiled and said, “What’s important is to heed the signs and proceed with caution.”
True, I think. Because according to my friend the professor, the first rule of biology is this—nothing lasts.
Even us. One day we will all fall down, too.
He thought that was depressing in a way, though he had long resigned himself to the fate of the universe. But I find a strange sort of comfort in the transience of things. I like knowing all the bad won’t always hover over us and that things like despair and sadness aren’t permanent. They’re destined to all fall down, too.
I always liked that story about Falling Rocks and his forlorn bride. My kids like it, too. I’ve even heard my daughter telling the story to her friends as we rode over the mountains one day. But I think from now on whenever I see those signs, I’ll instead be reminded of what my friend the biologist said.
Whether things are good or bad, they won’t always stay this way. They’ll change, just as the mountains and the planets. Just as we. I don’t think there should be any fear in that. Not as long as we heed the signs and proceed with caution.
This post is part of the One Word at a Time blog carnival: Renewal hosted by my friend Peter Pollock. To read more posts about renewal, visit his blog, PeterPollock.com
Your story
February 2, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 18 Comments
I recently spent a Friday afternoon with a group of high school English students. They were stuck, their teacher said. Could you help? Since the teacher happened to be a longtime friend and I didn’t have much else to do, I said yes. Absolutely.
But it was more than simply helping out a friend and having something to do. Much more. The problem her students were having was the problem isn’t the sole property of the formative years. I didn’t have anyone around back then to tell me how to fix it. It isn’t often that life affords you the chance to right some cosmic wrong. When it does, you can’t pass it up.
Their problem was a basic one, simple yet foundational.
They had nothing to write about.
To a person, they were stereotypical teenagers. Clumsy and loud, with a strange combination of fear and arrogance. The one thing that set them apart from the rest was a common love of writing, whether it was expressed or not. But a love of writing isn’t enough. You have to do something with it. You have to have material. And they had none. Zero. Nada.
Or so they thought.
I can’t say that I managed to convince all of them otherwise in the three or so hours I was there. But I did some, I think. And I did a few most assuredly. Considering the fact that it’s darn near impossible to get a teenager to change his or her mind about anything, I’d call that a victory.
But then I started thinking about the fact that thinking there isn’t anything interesting about your life isn’t just for teenagers. Not just for writers, either. We all fool ourselves into thinking there isn’t anything that separates us from everyone else. So I thought I’d give the same little pep talk to you today that I gave them a couple weeks ago. Just in case.
It’s amazing how the rules of good writing are also the rules of good living. The two go hand in hand, I think. Good writing is cutting out all the excess, whittling down what you want to say until what you need to say is left. Same with living. Whittle it down. Find the basics. Keep it simple. Makes for not just a better story, but a better life, too.
I wasn’t visiting that class to talk about the basics of a good story, though. I was there to talk about the basics of getting ideas. Not surprisingly, that just so happened to be my own rule number one to good writing. And good living.
Rule Number One: You are extraordinary.
Don’t let anyone fool you with that. Some will try, of course. Some will try very hard. They’ll say you’re good or nice or very polite or even special, but not extraordinary. And maybe you’ll even tell yourself that. Don’t. That’s a lie, and maybe the biggest. Believe it, and nothing will really happen. Don’t believe it, and everything will.
It’s not just you that’s extraordinary, either. Your life is, too. What you’re feeling, what you’re doing, what you’re thinking. Your dreams and your fears, your hopes and worries. Extraordinary, and in a very special way. On the one hand, those things are unique to you. Your thoughts about them are your own, and how you approach each of them is determined by everything from your DNA to your experience and your beliefs.
But on the other hand, those dreams and fears and hopes and worries are for the most part shared by every other person who’s ever walked in this world. There is an invisible line that runs through the heart of every person, connecting you not only to your family and your friends, but to the stranger down the road. As different as we may appear to be on the outside, we’re all the same on the inside.
You are common, yes. But only in the way Da Vinci and Einstein and Twain were common. They were extraordinary in what they did with their commonness. You can be the same.
Think of this world as a house with many rooms. Some are big and wide and hold many people. Others are small and cramped and hold just a few. But all of those rooms are dark inside.
When you’re born, God gives you a light and places you in one of those rooms. It might be a big room with many people. Maybe it’s a smaller room with a few people.
It doesn’t matter what kind of room you’re in. Doesn’t matter who’s there and who isn’t.
All that matters is that you shine your light.
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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