Peace

Finding hope in the hollows

November 25, 2015 by Billy Coffey 1 Comment

I remember hearing an old Thanksgiving story first told to me in the dim past of the 1970s, back when most everyone here was poor but didn’t care because if you were rich you were crooked in some way, and at least we were honest. It was a tale of the mountains, and how there was once the Childresses and the Campbells and you were on one side or the other.

Theirs was never a famous feud on par with the Hatfields and McCoys, nor did their disagreement involve gunfire and murder. Mostly, it was a war of words. This in no way means the situation was any less dire. You will never know a hate more pure and powerful than the sort that burned for a Childress in the heart of a Campbell. Unless, of course, it was the enmity for a Campbell in the mind of a Childress. A whole generation was raised up in it, kids taught from birth that whichever family across whichever holler was an abomination to the Lord and all goodness.

I never did hear back then how it all started. In fact, I doubted then (and still do) that anyone knew. The Hatfields and McCoys went to war over a stolen pig. I expect it was something similar in this case, a small thing that got twisted into something large either through an abundance of boredom or the brokenness of the human heart. Really, that’s about what all wars come down to, isn’t it?

Anyway. About that Thanksgiving:

Right along with turkey and pumpkin pie here is the tradition of the Thanksgiving hunt, when most of the men and not a few of the women take to the woods in the early dawn to shoot something they can brag about at the table. Being good mountain folk, the Childresses and Campbells were much the same. And so it was on that long ago Thursday morning that a Campbell tracking a buck came across the distant shape of a man who had fallen from his tree stand. Thinking the injured was either kin or Christian, he ran to offer aid. It was only upon turning the man over that he realized the victim was neither. He’d done caught himself a Childress.

Yet rather than leave him there to limp out of the cold wood alone, the Campbell gathered the Childress up and piggy-backed him all the way to his truck, nearly four miles off. Once safe, there was no invitation from either for anything further. No request to come eat, certainly no offer of prayer and blessing. Still, the story was told and told again by both parties. There were a few dissimilarities, but both parties involved managed to say the same thing: “Shoot, he looked like kin.”

I’ve been thinking about that story a lot lately. Not whether it was true or not (it was a tale told by an old man, after all, and old men are never so interested in truth as they are in Truth), but how it applies all these years later. As I wake this Wednesday morning before Thanksgiving, I find country and a world that hasn’t been more divided in my memory. People are scared, and because we’re scared we’re mad, and because we’re mad we’re saying all manner of crazy things and spotting all manner of lurking monsters. We’re not speaking to each other more as much as shouting. More than anything else, we see one another as set in boxes not of gender or race or religion, but ideology, and in so doing we lose a great deal of the empathy so lacking in our public discourse. People are a lot easier to hate when they’re not seen as people at all, but the sum of their opinions.

Which is why if I have one Thanksgiving wish this year (and if there is even such a thing), it would be that all of us could go out in the woods or a little while. Walk among the ridges and trees and see that this old world is still a pretty nice and peaceful place. And especially to run into each other out in the hollers, stripped of all that anger and fear, and see that shoot, we all look like kin.

Better days

November 12, 2012 by Billy Coffey 4 Comments

Yesterday was no big deal. Sundays aren’t really supposed to be. It was a sleep in and go to church, come home and eat, take a nap during the football game kind of day. The best day.

And it was Veteran’s Day. Big deal around here. There are quite a few veterans in this small town and the mountains and hollers around it, and yesterday that stood up in our churches and accepted our thanks and ate half price at our restaurants. This is a good thing. I was too young to remember the end of the Vietnam War, but I know the stories of what many of our soldiers faced when they came home. It’s nice that whatever our politics may be, this country can unite around those who’ve fought and died just so we can have the right to disagree.

One more thing about yesterday:

My wife and I fully intend to take care of Christmas early this year. No last minute scrambling for gifts, no tardiness on Christmas cards. Get it done and done quick, then just sit back and enjoy. That’s our plan. So yesterday we told the kids it’s time for wish lists.

Reading over those (Legos and a 3DS for him, books and more books for her) made me think of something else that tied in a roundabout way to Veterans. It happened on the Western Front around Christmas in 1914, in the midst of World War I. And though no American forces were involved, I still want to share it. It goes to a larger story, I think. One about all of us.

In that week leading up to Christmas, fighting in the trenches between German and British soldiers slackened. Enough, in fact, that soldiers from both countries would even walk across no-man’s land bearing gifts. Season’s greetings were exchanged. And in those brief but welcomed moments between the gunfire, soldiers often heard the singing of carols. It all culminated on the Christmas Eve and Christmas Day almost a hundred years ago, when both sides decided on their own that war simply wasn’t right. They joined together for those two those days not as enemies, but as human beings. There were joint ceremonies to bury the dead. There was even a friendly soccer match.

The war went on after that, of course. There were attempts the following year for another Christmas truce, but it was not as widespread. The generals—ones who strategized and ordered but rarely fought and bled—prohibited it. Poison gas began to be used. The levels of fighting and dying greatly increased. Each side began to view the other as less than human.

I thought about that a lot on Sunday, sitting there in my comfortable living room with my family around me and the sun shining outside.

I am thankful for my country. I am thankful for those who’ve fought and died for me. And yet even as I give thanks I also mourn for the families left shattered, both by those who never returned from war, and those who went to war thinking they’d never return only to come home and not survive the peace they deserved.

I understand this is a mean world. I know there are people and nations who want nothing more than to see the end of this country, and I thank God daily that I can work and rest and play thanks to the men and women who wear our uniform and bear our flag.

I am not a pacifist. Yet I wish for peace, even as I know that peace will never come.

But I wonder what would happen if all the men in all the wars that rage upon this earth would one day decide war simply wasn’t right. I wonder what would happen if we saw everyone as human. People who struggle and hurt and dream and love just as we do.

Goo Goo Dolls, Better Days

Defending the right to offend

September 17, 2012 by Billy Coffey 8 Comments

So all of this mess, every bit of it, is because someone took offense. That’s what the television and newspapers say. That the demonstrations and the riots, the rocket propelled grenades and the two embassies that lay in rubble—the dead—is because of a movie no one has seen. Because someone somewhere just so happened to click on some link that led to some website, and that someone showed someone else, and so on and so on, until (as these things so often do) the world is lit afire.

So they say.

It is rare that I use this space to rant and rail. Whether the object of my frustration is politics or culture or this dark world in general, I usually keep it to myself. The internet is full enough of loud people who yell and cuss and blame. If there is a prideful bone in me, it is that my tiny corner of cyberspace is free of such things. It is instead a place where you and I can gather and sit a spell. Where we can speak as friends and be well met.

This post may be an exception to that.

If the events in the Middle East this past week have shown me anything, it’s that the world is mired in a culture of offense. One that apparently has reached new heights. Because to hear the media and the government explain things, the fault lies not with the people who destroyed our embassies and paraded the dead body of our ambassador, but with some guy who made a movie. And to perhaps emphasize this point, there is talk that this filmmaker may soon face federal charges.

As someone who sees the first amendment as the vehicle for a good portion of his livelihood, hearing things like this makes me nervous. And angry. More and more, writers and artists are being governed by some perverted version of the Hippocratic Oath. Instead of First, do no harm, it is First, do not offend. Say the wrong thing, and at best you will be set upon with a relentlessness that will not yield until you have been pummeled into an apology. At worst, you will be charged with having blood on your hands.

Watch what you say, in other words. Especially now. Because sticks and stones may break our bones, but words can get you branded as a hate monger or an infidel or, worst of all, insensitive.

Like you, I haven’t seen this movie. Also like you, I have no plans to do so. A person’s faith is the most sacred thing in his life, and it should be respected. What this man did was wrong, it was stupid, it was mean, but I defend his right to do it. And lest anyone think such a thing is easy for a guy like me to say, let me remind you that I’m a white Southern conservative Christian male who spends most of his week in a blue collar job at a liberal college. Trust me, folks—something offends me about every five minutes.

My point to this rant is simple, spoken best by another Virginian some two hundred years ago—we are endowed by our Creator with certain unalienable rights. First among these is the right to stand up and speak out in whatever way we believe right. Whether that way lifts up the world or drags it down doesn’t really matter, not here. Because the right to free speech cannot be at peace with the right to never be offended.

Please Take One

April 21, 2009 by Billy Coffey 39 Comments

The toy store downtown is one of those mom-and-pop deals that you can get lost in, the sort of place where you can find things that Toys R Us would never think of stocking. Good things. Great things. Things that really, really make me wish I were a kid again. Which makes shopping there both a pleasure and a curse. A pleasure because there is so much I’d like to get my kids for two weeks of chores well done. A curse because I can’t make up my mind what to get them.

So, there on a Wednesday during lunch, I wander. And in my wandering I happen to spot a Longaberger basket sitting atop a wooden display of toy soldiers (Toy soldiers, I think to myself. My son would love some toy soldiers).

In the basket is a pile of those long, thick pretzel sticks. The sign above them says PLEASE TAKE ONE.

Given the fact that it’s lunchtime and I’m hungry, that’s exactly what I do. I take one and munch while I walk. Through the Legos, the building blocks, the books, the dolls. Through the Tonka trucks and coloring books and Play Doh.

And I am back to where I started. At the basket of pretzels.

Still unsure of what to buy and still hungry, I decide to restock and take another trip around the store. I reach into the basket for another pretzel. And as I bite it, I see something out of the corner of my eye.

Standing beside the stuffed animals about four feet away is a little boy. Sixish, not much older than my son, and staring. At me. He holds out one fist and raises his index finger.

One, it says.

I wrinkle my eyebrows, unsure of what his attempt at sign language means.

One, again.

“What?” I ask him (which actually came out as “Wamp?” because I hadn’t swallowed yet).

“You took two pretzels,” he says.

“So?”

“You’re only ‘posed to take one.”

“Who are you” I ask, “the pretzel police?”

“It’s what the sign says,” he states, now using his index finger to point. “Mama said the sign says ‘Please take one.”

I look at the sign, then back to him. “No,” I answer, “the sign says ‘Please take one.’ There’s a difference. It’s all a matter of emphasis.”

“What’s empkasis?”

“Never mind,” I say.

“You shouldn’t have taken that pretzel. Mama says God watches us.”

My mind takes a sudden detour to those old Disney movies, where the older, bigger kid was always accompanied by Jiminy Cricket, Mr. Disney’s version of a conscience. I’m starting to think this kid is my Jiminy Cricket. Or maybe just aggravating. I haven’t made up my mind yet.

“Your mama’s right,” I answer, wondering where in the world his mama was. “But since God knows the sign says ‘Please take one,’ I think I’m in the clear.”

“Please. Take. One,” he corrects.

There we stand in the middle of the store, staring down one another like two gunslingers in a Western wondering who would draw first.

PLEASE TAKE ONE. An invitation to me, a rule for him. Which was right? I’m not as sure as I was a few minutes ago.

How do we decide who is right and who is wrong? Easy.

Go ask the owner of the store.

“Excuse me,” I say to the nice lady behind the counter. “I was wondering if you could shed a little light on a problem this youngin’ and I are having.”

She perks up and joins us, happy to have something to do.

“We were wondering about this sign here,” I say. “Is it please take one, or please take one?”

The owner gives us both a strange look. “Well, I’m not sure. No one’s ever asked.”

“It’s preyin’ on our minds, ma’am,” the boy says.

“Preyin’,” I add.

“If you’d like a pretzel,” she says, “please take one. If you’d like another, you can take one, too.”

Excellent.

“Can I have a pretzel?” the boy asks.

Situation resolved, the three of us part ways. Him to his mother, who had been preoccupied with the books, the owner back to the register, and me to finish my shopping.

Funny, I think, how three words led us this far. But I am sure of this: if two people can disagree over something as simple as pretzels, it’s no wonder why we disagree over the important things even more—politics and God, right and wrong, war and peace.

Who’s to know which is right and which is wrong? Or even if there really is a right and wrong? How do we settle our differences, put away our prejudices, and find the truth?

Maybe, I thought, we should all do what that little boy and I ended up doing.

Maybe we should all go the Owner of the store and see what He says.

Dyin’ Right

March 31, 2009 by Billy Coffey 35 Comments

Four days ago:

I am standing in the middle of the woods, arms raised in surrender. Surrounding me are two Apache scouts who have warned me in no uncertain terms that one step further into their territory will be the last step I ever take. They mean it, too.

This is the sort of situation I often find myself in. Sad. Also true.

It began with a walk through the woods near my home. Evening. Sun setting and birds chirping, though that did little to ease my discomfort. Something was wrong, which was bad, but I didn’t know what exactly, which was worse. There are times when life becomes more of a trial and less of a joy, and I was mired in one of those times. How or why didn’t matter at the moment. All I wanted to know was what I was doing wrong and how I could make it right again.

So I took a walk.

It didn’t take long, however, before I got the sneaky sensation that I was being followed. Two sets of footfalls shadowed me from behind, muffled by the trees. Too noisy to be animals. But if not, what?

Then: “AAARRRRUUUUUGGGGHH!!!!”

Sprinting out from the trees toward me came two boys dressed in redneck chic—camouflage pants, black T-shirts, and boots—whooping and hollering and waving plastic knives as they charged. My mind raced, trying to figure out what was happening, but all it could do was replay all one hundred and nine minutes of Deliverance. Complete with dueling banjos, of course.

They circled me then stopped, bent over with their hands on their knees and exhausted from the long run. Leather belts were cinched across their foreheads with discarded bird feathers sticking up in the back, giving the appearance of multihued cowlicks. Their faces were painted with what I could only imagine was lipstick. Someone’s mother was not going to be happy.

That’s when I understood. I had been taken captive by Geronimo and Cochise.

“Hold it, White Man,” says the older boy, waving his knife in front of me.

“Yeah,” echoes the younger, who has dropped his knife to catch his breath. “Don’t (wheeze) move.”

I raise my hands. “Easy now,” I say. “I don’t want no trouble with Injuns.”

The boys smile, then quickly returned to character.

“What-um are you doin’ on our lands, White Man?” Geronimo asks.

What to tell him? That I’m in an existential rut and trying to get out? No. Children are happily ignorant of such things.

So I say, “Fine, then. The truth is I’m a cowboy, and some Indians stole my horse and burned down my cabin. I’m out here looking for them.”

More smiles.

“We did it! We did it!” shouts Cochise, who then proceeds to jump up and down and scream “WOO-WOO-WOO!” in an impromptu victory dance. Apache style.

“Looks like we have a fight on our hands, then,” I say.

They pounce the next instant. Plastic blades shimmer in the setting sun, piercing my shirt and jeans. I feel every thrust and slash, tickled to the point of crying.

Victorious, the warriors dance around me, waving their knives in the air and calling the spirits of their forefathers to take notice of their deeds. To them, the Bad White Man has been vanquished. To me, standing there with my arms crossed, I just want them gone so I can get back to the business of figuring out my problem.

Halfway through, they stop their celebration. Delight has turned to disappointment.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you?” asks Geronimo.

“Yeah,” wonders Cochise. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” I ask. “I don’t get it.”

“You’re just standing there,” Geronimo explains.

“Like an idiot,” Cochise explains further.

“So?”

“So?” answers Geronimo. “So you’re doin’ it wrong.”

“I’m doing what wrong?”

He sighs the way an adult sighs when trying to explain something very simple to a very simple child.

“Dyin’. Don’t you see? You’re not dyin’ right.”

His words are like magic, the voice of angels.

Not dyin’ right, my brain says. Is that it? Is that your problem? Is that what’s happened to you? Have you gotten life all turned around, thinking that the things you need to do and say don’t need to be done today because there’s always tomorrow? Stop wasting your life! Can’t you see? You’re not living. No one is living. We’re all dying. Every day, every moment is one step closer to your last. Quit sitting around waiting for things to happen. Make them happen. Embrace your days. Ravish them. Don’t worry about living right. Worry about dying right.

Yes. YES!

“You’re right,” I say to them. “Let’s do it again.”

They smile and attack, I laugh and defend. We brawl and battle and wail. Each thrust of their knives brings joyful laughter from the three of us. Finally, I lunge into the nearest bush, clutching my mortal wounds, and then collapse with a flourish into the arms of heaven.

It was a glorious death.

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.

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