Billy Coffey

storyteller

Why not forget?

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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 looked at me like I was stupid and answered nothing. 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.

Life choices

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My son wants to change his name.

It isn’t that he’s unhappy with the one he has now. It’s fine, he says. It isn’t kooky or hard to say, and it’s only one syllable. I asked him why the one syllable thing is so important. He told me that one syllable words are easy to spell. He said there was a girl in his class last year named Shenequia, and she had a horrible time trying to spell her name.

“Her name had THREE syllables, Daddy,” he told me. “It took her forever to write it.”

So it’s nice to know that deep down he’s okay with what he’s called. That’s not the reason. The reason is something deeper, more personal.

He didn’t have a say in it.

And he should, he says. Because it’s HIS name after all, not mine or my wife’s, even though we were the ones who named him. And it’ll be his forever. Shouldn’t he have had a say in something so important?

Truth is, he had a point. So I asked him what he would name himself if he could. His answer?

Batman.

Batman Coffey.

My answer was no.

This is really all just a small part of a larger problem for him. Call it a pre-teenage bout of philosophical angst. He’s starting to become aggravated by things that plague us all from time to time.

It’s not just his name that’s had him troubled lately. He’s a little upset that no one asked his permission to send him into this world, too. Not that he’s upset with his life, or unthankful, or that he’d much rather NOT be born, or that he isn’t grateful for both the life and family he has. It’s just that, like his name, he didn’t have a say.

Nor, he says, will he have a say in when he dies. He understands on a rudimentary level that there are things he can do to prolong his life—things like not smoking and not drinking and eating right and exercising—but on a basic level he also understands that you can do all of these things and still be hit by a car tomorrow.

It really is depressing, he says. And he says that if you don’t have a choice in what you’re called or when you die or that you were even born, what use is there, really? Why even bother.

Heavy stuff for a boy (I’ve been told he gets all of this honest, and I suppose that’s true). But I think it’s good to have these bouts of inner turmoil from time to time.

And really, it isn’t all bad.

Because yes, we’re born and named and depart from this life and there really isn’t much we can do about any of that, but what I want him to know—and what I must often remind myself—is that all the rest in the middle, that big chunk of in-between, is all up to us.

In the end, we decide.

We. Not others.

We’re not asked to be born, but we are the ones who make our lives.

We are not asked to be named, but we are the ones who decide how we leave our mark.

And the hour we will shed this world for the next is largely unknown, but we it is up to us how that death will be met, and what world that next will be.

Why not forget?

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image courtesy of photobucket.com
image courtesy of photobucket.com

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.

What’s your sign?

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Our sleepy town doesn’t really have a homeless problem. None that I know of, anyway. Those who through choice or circumstance lose their station in life usually have family or friends who are more than willing to offer them a place to stay.

But things are different in the nearby cities, where there are more than a few poor souls who have slipped through the cracks and settled on society’s murky bottom. Forgotten or, even worse, ignored.

You see these people most often perched along the busiest intersections. Their appearance is consistent with their desperation and need—dirty clothes, often a dirtier hat, unshaven and gaunt. And there is always a sign.

VETERAN PLEASE HELP GOD BLESS.

HIV+ NEED MEDICINE.

HUNGRY FAR FROM HOME PLEASE GIVE.

I have friends who refuse to give to such people based upon the skepticism that whatever proceeds these people receive will be used for less than savory activities. They don’t want to be a part of enabling a drug addict to buy more meth or a drunk more liquor. I also have friends who give regardless, believing that their act of mercy, of helping the helpless, is an act God happens to smile brightly upon.

I happen to adopt the latter position and give as often as I can, though I’ll admit there have been more than a few times when I have questioned the validity of their statements.

Still, these signs have always fascinated me. They represent the current state of one person’s life pared down to reveal only the essentials. One story able to fit on a single piece of discarded cardboard. And they are each by necessity crafted to initiate an immediate response. They are not designed to persuade through the intellect or please the eyes. They are meant to be shot as an arrow into the heart.

After running a few errands in the city yesterday, I was on my way home when I saw a man sitting by the guardrail on the opposite side of the road. His flannel shirt hung loosely from his body, sleeves rolled up against the hot sun. The blue work pants that completed the outfit were the sort that provided the maximum amount of wear for the least amount of money. A pair of untied brown tennis shoes shuffled the gravel.

But it was his sign that caught my attention. Three words, and no more. Three words that spoke very much with very little and offered honesty rather than a plea.

DESPERATE AND TIRED, it read.

The rush hour traffic was such that I couldn’t turn around and offer him what I could. I didn’t have much choice but to keep going. As I drove I watched him through the side mirror, hoping someone would stop.

No one did. Some, I suppose, didn’t notice him. Others probably did but then decided not to. One car full of teenagers blew their horn and offered a chorus of middle fingers.

The man never moved. Never shifted his weight or lifted his head. This was not so much an insult as it was the status quo.

Yet I realized that we all were in many ways like that poor man. Like all of the lost souls who roam our streets and barely manage to survive. We’ve all slipped through our own share of cracks at some point.

VETERAN PLEASE HELP GOD BLESS? We’ve all sacrificed, given all we’ve had, only to not get the same returned back to us.

HIV+ NEED MEDICINE? We are all hurting in our own way. Some are afflicted with physical ailments. Others have their ailments on the inside. Many of us have both.

HUNGRY FAR FROM HOME PLEASE GIVE? Within each of us is a hunger, whether to love or be loved, that can only be filled by a God who at this moment is readying a faraway place for us to call home.

And let’s not forget the last. DESPERATE AND TIRED. How many times have we all felt that way?

The difference between us and them have much less to do with our level of comfort and much more to do with our level of honesty.

Because we all carry a sign that tells the story of our lives, pared down to reveal only the essentials. They choose to show the world in a bid for help. We don’t. And for that, they are better.

***

This post is part of the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival: Madness, hosted by Peter Pollock. For most posts on this topic, please visit PeterPollock.com

On settling and being settled

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image courtesy of photobucket.com
image courtesy of photobucket.com

The thing about Troy Heatwole is that he’s settled. He’ll be the first to tell you that. Not outright, mind you. Troy never says anything outright and never has. He prefers instead to take the long way around to the point he’s trying to make. So instead of simply saying, “I’m settled,” he’ll say something like, “I ain’t as young as I used to be an’ I ain’t as smart, but the world’s quiet.”

And really, who doesn’t long for a quiet world?

Not that life doesn’t pose any challenges. Troy’s like all of us in that he has bills to pay and ends to meet. That’s not what I’m talking about when I say he’s settled. What I’m talking about is that Troy not only knows his place in the world, he’s accepted it with all the happiness and peace one could ask. There is no striving in him, no longing, no unmet expectations. Just a nice, peaceful quiet.

I say this because I want to say that I envy Troy Heatwole. Not so much for what he possesses (which isn’t much aside from a small cabin in the woods, a battered Ford truck, and a coon dog named Bo), but for what he has. There’s a difference between those things. What you possess can be taken from you. What you have can’t. And Troy possesses a settled life. I do not.

But that’s not really what I’m getting at, either. I suppose I’m taking a page out of Troy’s book—I’m taking the long way around to the point I’m trying to make. How else could I bring myself to admit that I’m envious of a man whose life, settled or not and quiet or not, revolves around cleaning and draining septic tanks?

Oh yes, that’s right. Troy’s the septic man.

It isn’t that he loves his job. He does, however, find a purpose in it. Because just as Troy once told me that “Even the Lawd woulda had trouble lovin to do what I do,” he also said that, “Dis here world’s fulla crap, an’ somebody’s gotta clean it all up.” Wise words, those. Kind of makes you think.

I pass Troy on the road often. Our workdays tend to end around the same time and converge at a stoplight just outside of town. He usually gets the green while I’m stuck at the red. He blows by in his big pumper truck, windows down and long stringy hair waving in the breeze. And smiling, always smiling, because Troy has a quiet life and he’s settled.

Me, I’m not.

That’s not a big deal, I guess, assuming you’re not closing in on 40 and you don’t have a family and a mortgage. All of which describes me. If I’m ever going to be settled, this should be the time when I should get started. But I can’t. Even though I’ve been blessed with much, I can’t escape the feeling there’s more out there I should be shooting for. There are other lands to travel and other things to do and other Me’s to be. I want to settle and yet I feel I shouldn’t settle for less than I should.

That, in a nutshell, is why I’m envious of Troy the septic man. He has no need to ponder such things. He’s found his life. He doesn’t have to wander anymore.

But there are times when he passes me at the stoplight after a long day and I see his hair waving and his face smiling and I think differently. I think that maybe I have it all backwards. Maybe we should all be craving to be a little more than what we are. Maybe we should all be wanting to grow a little more each day.

Deep down we all want to be settled, but that may be more a trap than a treasure.

Maybe only as far as we’re unsettled is there any hope for us.

Future Billy

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image courtesy of photobucket.com
image courtesy of photobucket.com

It seemed an easy enough thing—fill up the gas tank on Friday afternoon so I wouldn’t have to do it on Monday morning. And in all honesty that’s exactly what I meant to do. But as I was nearing the gas station in town, my favorite song came on the radio. I was so busy singing it that I drove right past.

I could have turned around—the Food Lion was right up ahead—but I didn’t do that, either. The song was still on, for one, and so I was still singing. And for another, I’d decided by then that none of it really mattered anyway. I had enough gas to get home and enough to get back out again, and I wouldn’t be driving my truck all weekend. Besides, it was Friday afternoon. Weekend time. I’d fill up later.

Later came this morning. Monday morning. Monday morning at 6:30. Monday morning at 6:30 in near total darkness and pouring rain. And as I stood there wet and shivering watching the dollars and gallons tick away, I discovered two things. One was that the very last thing anyone should have to do on a Monday morning is stop and get gas. The other was that Past Me had screwed Present Me yet again.

The sad thing is it wasn’t the first time that had happened. In fact, it happens quite a bit. Call it what I will—being an adult, not putting off for tomorrow what I could do today—it all sounds good in theory but tends to fall apart in practice. Because when it comes right down to it, I’m pretty much living for the now. That’s not a bad thing, really; most of the advice we get on how to live says the present is all that matters. The past is gone, so there’s nothing we can do about that. The future isn’t here, so there’s no use worrying about that. All we have then, and all we need, is this moment. This now.

So that’s what I’ve tried to do most of my life—live for this now. Be in the present. And you know, it often doesn’t work very well. I’ve also tried living in my past. That works even less.

This morning, in the middle of pumping gas and shivering and yawning, I realized what I’d been doing wrong all this time. Living in the present kind of sucks. Not right now, maybe. Not usually. But later. And most of the time.

Because none of us are really only one person, we’re actually three—there’s the person we were earlier, the person we are now, and the person who comes later. Where I screw up is that I tend to think more often about Present Me and not nearly often enough about Future Me. Which, to really confuse you, often makes Present Me really not like Past Me very much at all.

It’s confusing, carrying three people inside you. And yet that’s what we all do. No wonder we seem so tired and stressed all the time.

I’m big on the idea that the simpler we make our lives, the better off we’ll be. If we don’t have too much and don’t do too much and don’t want too much, chances are we’ll be much happier. I really believe that.

That’s why I’m going to think more of Future Billy. I’m going to try and do more now so he won’t have to do so much later. And I’m going to be more willing to put up with a little discomfort so he’ll be able to smile.

It’s perhaps the sincerest purpose we can have in this life—to live today with the intent of making tomorrow better.