blog carnival – Page 2

You only go around once

April 4, 2011 by Billy Coffey 21 Comments

A favorite saying of my mother: “You only go ’round this life once.”

Drilled into my head since I was a boy. It was a warning, though one I never truly heeded because it was only partially understood. “You only go ’round this life once” was sort of like my father’s “You can’t see the forest for the trees.” Catchy, but vague.

I’m going to be thirty-nine this summer, which is just close enough to forty to get me worrying. Not that I fret too much about the grinding of the wheels of time. Forty doesn’t mean as much as it used to. In fact, I’ve read that forty is the new thirty. That’s supposed to make me feel better, I suppose. And it does. But still…

It’s fair to say that forty can be considered a good halfway point in most people’s lives. That’s about the point where a lot of us look back over our shoulders and realize there’s a whole lot behind us, then look ahead and swear we can see a speck of something on the horizon. And though death’s great sting isn’t as great as I once thought it to be, I still feel like there’s a lot left for me to do.

And lately I’ve come to realize the gravity of the fact I only go ’round this life once. Time, now, is the issue. Much more now than it’s ever been.

But it’s not just the time I have left to do things I’ve always wanted to do, it’s the time I have left to fix the things I’ve broken. I’ve broken a lot of things in my life. Done things I shouldn’t, said things I shouldn’t. I look back on a lot of my past not in reverie, but in regret. So much so that I now find myself at this magical midpoint thinking a do-over of my first forty years would be nice.

I think about all the time I’ve wasted. Not just wasted by watching television or daydreaming on the front porch, but wasted by worry and fear. Often I realize I have lived vast parcels of my life in reverse and upside down—the things that really should have bothered me never did, and the things that really bothered me were things that didn’t shouldn’t have bothered me at all.

I still act like this. A lot.

But now I’m beginning to realize I shouldn’t, that life is too short and too precious to be mindful of tiny irritations and bothersome fears. The first half of one’s life is viewed through the lens of ourselves—our needs, our wants, our desires. The second half is viewed through the lens of eternity. That’s when we begin to see that as big as this world can seem, it’s really the smallest thing we will ever experience.

I wish I could have figured all of this out earlier. Time and experience have a way of teaching us what we’ve always ignored, though. I spend a lot of my day with people who say if there was a God, He would do something about all of the pain in the world. I tell them I stumble over that sometimes too, but that I also understand if it weren’t for the pains in my own life, I wouldn’t know anything.

That part, at least, I’ve gotten right.

But there is much I haven’t.

It seems a bit pessimistic to be looking ahead at my coming years with the express purpose not to screw them up as badly as I managed the previous ones. That’s what I’m going to do, though. And I’m going to try and love more and worry less. I’m going to try to have faith instead of fear. And I’m going to make the attempt to smile as much in the pain as in the happiness.

Because my mother was right, you only go ’round this life once.

But if you do it right, once is all you’ll need.

Life is a gift to be treasured.

***

This post is part of the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival: Treasure hosted by my friend Peter Pollock. For most posts about Treasure, please visit him at PeterPollock.com

Allison

March 7, 2011 by Billy Coffey 24 Comments

The dedication page from my first novel, Snow Day

I had life figured out by the time I was seventeen. My future was planned, crystal clear and meant to be.

I was the starting second baseman on my high school team and had already received interest from several colleges and even one professional team. I was going to play baseball forever. I had to. Because the kid who roamed the halls of my high school and drove his truck around town wasn’t me. Not the real me, anyway. No, the real me was the guy on the ball field. It was the only place where I ever really felt I belonged.

School was an irritant. Most high school seniors try to stretch out that last year as far as they can, enjoying every moment. Not me. I wanted to get out. I had a life to start living.

Not that high school was hard, mind you. I had the prototypical jock schedule of classes—math, history, English, and four study halls. Brutal. On day my English teacher decided I needed to do something besides sit around all day, so she pulled some strings and got me a job writing a weekly column for the local newspaper. Write about anything, she said. Just make it good.

Oh. Joy.

I obliged, partly because I had to but mostly because she was my favorite teacher. Every Tuesday evening, I would sit down with a pad of paper and write between innings of the Braves games on television. It was busy work, nothing else. Just something to pass the time.

Then everything fell apart.

I blew out my shoulder three weeks later. Trips to doctors and specialists resulted in a shared consensus that though I could kinda/sorta play baseball again, I’d never play the way I had.

It’s tough being seventeen and knowing that every dream you’d ever had was gone. Tough knowing that your entire life lay in front of you, but it wasn’t going to be the life you wanted. Tough.

Too tough.

So one night I got into my truck, drove into the mountains, and found the highest rock I could so I could jump off.

Almost did it, too. I got to two-and-a-half on my count to three when a voice popped into my head and said, “You’re not really afraid of dying, are you?”

No. Not at all.

“Then you’re afraid of living.”

Whether that voice was God’s or my own still escapes me. But I sat for a long while on that rock, thinking. Then I got back into my truck, drove home, and wrote my column. Really wrote. About how things sometimes don’t turn out the way they’re supposed to and how sometimes life can be more night than day. About how, in the end, we all just have to keep on.

That was the night I learned to strip myself bare on the page, to risk exposing fears and worries and doubts. To quit pretending I was someone I wasn’t. It was the biggest act of courage I’d ever displayed.

Three days later, a letter was sent to the high school with my name on the front. Thank you, it said. “I’m having a really tough time right now, and a few days ago I thought I just couldn’t take it anymore. I was going to end it. Then I read your article and, well, I’m still here. So thank you. You rescued me.”

It wasn’t signed, and there was no return address on the envelope. I didn’t know who sent it, but I did know this: God didn’t want me to play baseball. He wanted me to write.

At the mall, a month later. I was picking up my girlfriend from work and decided to walk down to the bookstore. Approaching me was a teenage girl in jeans and a leather jacket. I nodded as she passed, and then she called my name.

“Allison,” she said. “My name’s Allison. I’m the one who wrote you that letter.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what she wanted me to say. So I asked if she was all right, to which she replied she was, to which I replied that it was nice to meet her. I was so shy, so backward, so unnerved, that I simply nodded again and walked away.

I have had many bad moments in my life. That one? Top three.

I never saw Allison again. I do, however, still spend many a day wishing that I would have. Just once more. Just to say I’m was sorry for not saying more. To tell her to keep hanging in there and she’s not alone.

And to tell her she rescued me, too.

***

This post is part of the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival: Future hosted by my friend Peter Pollock. To check out more posts on this topic, please visit his website, PeterPollock.com

Falling Rocks

February 7, 2011 by Billy Coffey 18 Comments

You have to cross the mountains to get from my house to the city of Charlottesville, a drive that offers some of the best views Virginia has to offer. It’s an easy trip if the weather’s right. When it isn’t, it’s the fog and the snow you have to deal with. And, of course, the falling rocks.

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

Jangle, jangle

December 14, 2010 by Billy Coffey 19 Comments

My wife sent me to the store forty-five minutes ago. Since it takes only five minutes or so to get there from the house and another five to pick up a gallon of milk, pay for it, and leave, I figure I should have been home about a half an hour ago. But I’m not.

In fact, I haven’t even made it into the store yet. I’ve been stuck near the entrance watching a Salvation Army volunteer.

The boy is maybe ten, and he’s taking his job seriously. A wool cap sits on his head, ski gloves on his hands. His coat is the puffy kind that looks like its made for sub-Arctic temperatures. He needs them all today. It’s cold out here, and the wind is biting.

This is the time of year when the Salvation Army is out in full force. They’re a gracious lot, volunteering their valuable time to help the helpless. They stand out in the cold and ring their bells and say Merry Christmas when you offer a little something to the nearby kettle. Other than that, though, most won’t say much. They have the bell, and the bell is good enough.

Not so for this boy.

His bell is a clarion, a call to say a message is forthcoming and it is something you’d better heed if you know what’s good for you:

JANGLEJANGLE—“Give to the poor folk. They need Jesus, and so do you.”

The “Jesus” comes out more like “Jayzus.” I can see the boy’s breath in the cold December air. It stops mere inches from his mouth and then fades, but the sound carries. It carries far.

Every shopper who approaches the doors must get through him first. He lets no one off the hook.

JANGLEJANGLE—“Give some money, mister. Think of what all you have and the needy folk who have nothing.”

Standing along the wall about ten feet from the boy is an older man. He, too, wears a wool cap and ski gloves and a heavy coat. He’s sipping coffee and watching. The smile on his face tells me who he is.

I ease my way up to him and say, “That’s your boy, ain’t it?”

He nods while sipping and smiles again. “Sure is,” he says.

JANGLEJANGLE—“God wants you to help the poor people, ma’am.”

The ma’am does. She puts five dollars into the kettle and gets a “Merry Christmas!” in return.

“Seems to be doing a pretty good job,” I tell the father.

“That ain’t no lie, buddy,” he says. He nods toward his son. “He told me last night he wanted to come watch, but that didn’t last long. He said I was doin’ it wrong. I told him he could give it a try if he thought he could do better. That was about an hour ago.”

It’s my turn to smile. “You should be proud.”

Another sip, then, “I sure am. He told me he didn’t understand why there had to be poor people. Said it broke his heart. But then he said that maybe there were poor people because not enough people have done something to help. Lots of people blame God for stuff that’s our own fault.”

JANGLEJANGLE—“Hey mister, don’t you wanna help the poor?”

I suppose some could say the boy’s methods are all wrong. Rather than appeal to whatever inward sense of charity people have, he prods them—and maybe even guilts them—into giving.

But honestly? I’m good with that. Jesus once said that the poor will always be with us, and that’s the sort of thing that can make it easy for us to pass them over. “Let someone else help,” we say. “I have too many problems of my own.” So I don’t mind his prodding and guilting. It forces people to do something about the state of the world. Sometimes it’s good to feel shame.

Me, I’m with the boy. I don’t understand why there has to be poor people, either. It upsets me right along with him. The heart is broken upon the sight of that which contradicts what we know God desires.

But maybe instead of blaming Him, we should all do something about it.

I wish the father a good day and make my way inside. On the way, I drop my own contribution into the kettle. Not enough, I know that. But a start.

“God loves you, mister,” the boy says.

Yes. And God loves him, too.

This post is part of the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival: Rejoice hosted by my friend Peter Pollock. To read more posts on the topic of Rejoicing, please visit his blog, PeterPollock.com

Choosing to walk

November 16, 2010 by Billy Coffey 27 Comments

Diabetes Walk That’s my daughter over there in the picture. She’s eight now, and that’s a fact I seem to struggle with on a daily basis. It seemed only days ago that I held her for the first time—held her in one hand, almost—and she grabbed my finger and squeezed. There are moments in life that moisten eyes long determined to remain calm and stoic, and that was one of them for me. I still remember that moment. I always will.

If that moment was days ago as my memory suggests, then it was only hours ago when she said her first word (“Dada,” of course) and mere minutes when she took her first steps. Then came the diabetes. I suppose that should seem like seconds ago, but it doesn’t. That seems years more than the meager four it’s been.

Isn’t it strange how that happens? How the world sometimes seems to shrink the good into moments but stretch the bad into eternities? True in my case, at least. Because there are days—and this is between you and I, dear reader—when the many moments of hearing my daughter laugh are overcome by the moments in which she’s cried, and the days of peace are swallowed by nights of fear and worry.

I suppose in that regard I’m no different than any parent. We fear and worry for our children. We protect their innocence and their happiness, we covet it, because we know the ways of the world. We know it’s dark and scary and that it isn’t fair, and we know that one unfortunate day they will know it too, and we vow to make that day as faraway as possible. Because we are parents, and that is what parents do.

Not so for my daughter. In many ways, the blessed ignorance that is childhood ended for her after four years. She is burdened with knowledge no child should be forced to carry.

She knows already that life is not fair.

It’s a fact she must face daily. It rears its teeth when her classmates are on the swings and the jungle gym and the kickball court and she must sit on the bench sipping apple juice because her sugar is low. Bites her when the headaches slam into her skull when her sugar is high. Its shadow looms every two hours when one of her little fingers is pricked and bloodied. It engulfs her in bruises on her arms and legs from the four insulin shots she must get between the time she rises and the time she sleeps.

And yet she continues.

She continues in spite of her bouts with tears and anger, and perhaps because of them. Because even now at the age of eight, she is searching for answers. God has a purpose. He must. There are times when I believe the difference between her and me is that she is sure of that and I merely hope.

But there she is in that picture, showing me—showing us—that belief is the seed from which actions grow.

She is taking part in the Juvenile Diabetes Walk held at the park in the city. In that picture, she has discovered she is not alone. There are others like her, children who have also been burdened with the knowledge that life is not fair. She walks, and as she walks she knows that each step is raising money for research and a cure for what ails her broken body.

Strapped to her is the pack carrying what she can never stray far from—juice, test strips, a meter, a finger pricker, insulin, syringes, cotton balls, Skittles, a book listing the amount of carbohydrates found in the most common foods, and a terrifying Glucagon syringe in case the worst happens (it never has, and thank you, Jesus).

She walks in the Saturday sunshine. Walks among the birds and the ducks and the others like her. Walks the 1.3 miles around the park.

And then walks around once more.

She had to take that second trip. It was neither required nor expected, it was her decision.

Her choice.

I will keep this picture, and I will remember that day. I hope she does, too.

Because it taught her an important lesson, maybe one even more important than the fact that life isn’t fair. And that lesson is this:

We often cannot choose what happens to us, but we can choose what we do with what happens to us.

We can choose doubt or faith. Love or hate. Strength or weakness. Courage or fear.

We can choose to stop or we can choose to walk.

My daughter chooses to walk. Every day. And then she chooses to walk once more.

And for that, I am grateful.

And for that, she is my hero.

This post is part of the blog carnival on Gratitude, hosted by Bridget Chumbley. To read more, please visit her site.

Cleaning up the world

October 5, 2010 by Billy Coffey 14 Comments

To work at a college is to have the opportunity to live your life in reverse. To see yourself as the person you used to be. True for me, anyway. I listen to their stories and hear their dreams and realize both sound familiar. They’re much the same as mine were, once upon a time.

There is a sense of determination among them, an anticipation. It’s almost palpable. They’re at that golden age in life when they’re both informed of the happenings of the world and determined to do something about them. And though the thousand or so students here differ in beliefs and opinions, they are united in this one important sense:

They are all convinced the world needs a good cleaning up.

Many more than you might think are here for simply that reason. They’re learning and preparing to go forth into the dark lands outside these ivory walls and do some good. To clean up. They see The Way Things Are and believe theirs is the generation who will put a stop to it all.

But there’s much they can do while they’re here, too. There are clubs and protests and candlelight vigils for everything from tolerance to global warming to ending the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. They write articles for the school newspaper on equality. Each of these activities are undertaken with a sense of excitement and passion you’d expect to find in young adults. They’re fighting the good fight and smiling as they go.

That was me once. I was never one for clubs and protests and candlelight vigils, but I did write articles. And I did believe the world needed a good cleaning up. Believed I was the sort of person to do it, too. I had all the excitement and passion in the world behind me to push me ahead. I promised myself that things would be better one day and that my generation would be the ones to thank for it.

It’s funny what people believe when they’re young. How that excitement and passion is the result of a blind expectation rooted not in reality, but in the idealistic dreams of youth.

You, dear reader, know this. I’m sure of it. Because like me, you likely once thought much the same. But the big dreams we sometimes have tend to shrink as time wears on. Where they once lifted us up in possibility, they soon begin to weigh us down in doubt. We may know of the world at twenty, but we cannot fathom it. Not yet. That comes later, when job and family and responsibility appear. When getting ahead is narrowed into getting by. And we see then for the first time this horrible truth—things are too big for us. We are not the stalwart captains of hope and change we once believed we were; our determination instead resides in surviving this day to face the next.

We no longer wish to change the world. All we want is to make sure the world doesn’t change us. That would be enough. We don’t like thinking we’ll lose in this life, even if winning seems unfeasible. Fighting to a draw, then, is the best we think we can do.

That’s what I think about when I see these students every day. About how their passion will be tempered against the hardness of a world they can only flirt with and not yet love. I wonder how kind the coming years will be to them, what they will lose and then gain from the loss.

And through it all they will be nagged by the very notion that still nags you and me, the notion that the world does indeed need a good cleaning up. We’re all right in believing that. Where they’re wrong now and I was wrong once is believing that cleaning should begin at the upper reaches of our society and drip down onto everyone else. I don’t believe that to be true. Not anymore.

Because now I know better. Now I know that if I ever want to help clean up the world, I have to start by cleaning up myself.

This post is part of the blog carnival on Healing, hosted by Bridget Chumbley. To read more, please visit her site.

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