endurance

No Home for the Weary

December 16, 2010 by Billy Coffey 25 Comments

It just wouldn’t be Christmas in our house without someone getting hurt. It’s sort of an unintentional family tradition, one that is inevitable given all of the wires and lights and greenery (yes, greenery is dangerous. I’ve proven that).

This year the ouchy came by way of those cardboard tubes that are at the end of every roll of wrapping paper. The ones that look like they were made specifically for impromptu sword fighting. Which is what my daughter and I were doing in the living room.

It was a mostly benign affair in the beginning, and I will say that she started it. I was walking by, and she tapped me on the leg. And since I’m one of those fathers who won’t allow his kids to one-up him, I grabbed the other empty tube and tapped her back.

She tapped me.

I tapped her.

It started like that. It ended with the two of us whacking away at each other like extras in Pirates of the Caribbean. The laughs and giggles and threats ended when our heads collided and we sprawled onto the floor.

Uh-oh.

My daughter had the benefit of youth and a harder head. She rolled over and got up immediately, ready for more. Then she saw me still on the carpet. The miniature mommy inside her kicked into gear.

She dropped her piece of cardboard, raced over to me, and said, “Don’t move!”

“Why?” I asked her.

“Because you might be hurt. We learned about this in school.”

So I didn’t move. Partly because I wanted to see a bit of what she’d been learning in school, and partly because lying on the carpet really felt good.

“Okay,” she said, “first, what happened?”

“You whacked me with your head,” I told her.

“Can you move?”

“Yes.”

“Do you see stars?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who you are?”

“I think so.”

She nodded. “Okay, then you’re supposed to get up.”

So I did just that. She said I was supposed to ask her the same questions she’d asked me. I obliged. We both arrived at the conclusion that we were fine and so should resume our cardboard-sword fight.

We flailed our arms again, this time careful to keep a bit of empty space between us. Then the thought occurred to me that what my daughter had just asked me would be pertinent to more than the body taking a tumble. It could work when your life takes one, too.

We’ve all been knocked on our backs a time or two. Losing a job. Losing a love. The routine visit to the doctor that turns out to be something serious.

And sometimes things aren’t that dramatic. We don’t always land on our backs with a thud. Sometimes it’s just the constant weariness that goes along with being alive or the apparent ordinariness of our days.

If that’s you, you’re not alone. But it’s time to do something about it. So in the spirit of my daughter, I ask you these questions:

What happened? Identifying the problem is an important first step. Knowing what went wrong can help you make sure it doesn’t happen again.

Once you figure that out, Can you move? Is this something that’s paralyzed you with fear or sadness? If it has, don’t be afraid to ask for help. Counseling can do amazing things. I speak from experience.

Do you see stars? This isn’t a good thing when your body takes a tumble, but it’s a necessity when your life takes one. Looking down on yourself seldom improves anything. Better is to look up to God.

Do you know who you are? Always an important question, and one that will likely take most of your life to figure out. But you’re doing well as long as you’re trying.

Pretty simple, huh? Simple enough for me to try it out the next time my own life takes a tumble. I’ll ask myself those questions and answer them as honestly as I’m able. And after all that, I’ll do what my daughter said and what we’re all supposed to do.

Get up.

Keep going.

Try again.

Because life is not for the faint, and this world is no home for the weary.

Still holding…

November 5, 2010 by Billy Coffey 18 Comments

I’ve been on hold for seventeen minutes now.

It’s the cable company and that infernal box they’ve given me. The one that’s supposed to give me a “crystal clear picture and flawless DVR playback.” And it was, for a while. But now the picture is fuzzy and the DVR is AWOL.

“Your call is important to us,” says the mechanical voice on the other end of the line. “Please hold for the next available representative.”

So I wait. The choice I believe I have—to wait or just hang up—is an illusion. Hanging up will not fix my problem of the fuzzy picture and the AWOL DVR. So I’m stuck waiting. And if there is one thing I hate more than being on hold, it’s having no other option.

What’s worse, I can’t do anything while I wait. I can’t read (the only thing more distracting than the mechanical lady is the mechanical elevator music that is eating my brain). I can’t listen to the radio. And of course I can’t watch the television, for obvious reasons. So here I sit, picking at the hole that’s been worn into the right knee of my blue jeans and wondering what this all means. Because even the worst stuff in the world can be borne more easily if bearing it means something.

Honestly, this isn’t too bad. I’ve been on hold lots of times. The phone company, the cell company, the doctor’s office. Once I was on hold for almost an hour when I realized I had no idea whom I’d called (turned out I was ordering a knife, which I then supposed I didn’t really need). Seventeen minutes isn’t so bad in comparison.

And of course the cable company has nothing on God. I was once on hold with Him for over twenty years. Not kidding. That’s a long time to wait. A long time to sit and not have a choice in the matter. I’ll be truthful and say I didn’t take that very well. In fact, I sometimes said the same sorts of things about Him that I’m saying under my breath about the cable company. I’m not proud of that now, though at the time I thought it completely justifiable.

“Your call is important to us…”

I’m sure it is. Word has it that the cable company’s in trouble. Lots of people are turning to the dish nowadays. I suppose there’s some semblance of power in that. One small choice. I’m important because I can cancel my service.

Twenty years ago I could have cancelled my service with God, too. That was my choice. Sitting there on hold with Him all that time? I’m surprised the thought never crossed my mind. There were plenty of other providers out there who promised better service—other beliefs, other religions, even no religion (that one couldn’t promise heaven, but it did its very best to promise the world).

Twenty minutes—
—“Your call is important to us.”—

—and I’m still on hold. My finger dances over the END button, but instead I just grip the phone harder.

I was once on hold for much longer for much more important things. A fuzzy picture on my television is nothing next to a fuzzy picture on my life. Not being able to see the former can make me miss a run in the World Series or a touchdown on Sunday afternoon. Not being able to see the latter made me miss much more.

I’ll endure this. Absolutely. Just like before.

Twenty-three minutes. Still better than twenty years.

Then again, I found out something while I was waiting all that time. I learned that God will put you on hold sometimes, but He won’t bother with putting on some celestial version of elevator music to help you pass the time. Instead, He’ll talk to you. His voice sounds faint; you have to listen hard to hear it. Not His fault, though. All that worry and impatience can fill the line with static.

But He’ll talk. He’ll say things like, “You’re doing good, just hang in there” and “Your call is important to Me and so is what you’re waiting on, but you know what? You’re even more important than either of those.”

And that’s true. I think God sometimes puts us on hold just so we’ll realize that. That we’re more important to Him than the things we want.

After all, it isn’t our happiness that He’s after. Not our peace, not our dreams.

Just us.

Why I got a tattoo

June 29, 2010 by Katdish 46 Comments

tattoo The first rule I ever remember learning was maybe the most important—always keep your promises. The reasoning behind that rule was basic. In the end, all a man has is his word. If we say we’re going to do something, we’d better do it. Simple as that.

I’ve done my best to fulfill my promises over the years. I’ve succeeded most times. Failed some, too. Others have had to be put on hold until the circumstances were right. One of those promises was one I made to myself, one that had been put on hold for seven years. I was determined to keep that promise. Last Saturday, I did just that.

I got a tattoo.

I realize that may sound a little ridiculous. Childish, even. I assure you that neither applies in this situation. My tattoo was serious business, the product of much thought and introspection. It wasn’t done on a whim, and it isn’t, as Jimmy Buffett so eloquently put it, “A permanent reminder of a temporary feeling.”

When I first sat down to write Snow Day, I did so with two thoughts in mind. One was that if it was good enough, it would get published one day. The other was that it could very well give a lot of people what I was so lacking at the time, and that was a sense of hope in their lives.

The odds of getting a book published were not lost to me. I knew what I was getting into and what would be involved. So I promised myself that if I managed to hang on and if God just so happened to smile upon me, I’d get a tattoo.

It’s easy to lose chapters in the story of your life, easy to let the ones already written slip away and into the wind while you’re writing the here and now. I didn’t want that. I wanted to make sure that didn’t happen.

And I didn’t want a run of the mill tattoo, either. I wanted something unique to me. Something that told my own story.

I wanted a Native American feel, since they’re in both my blood and my family tree. To the Native Americans, every person has their own totem, an animal that acts as a protector and guide through physical and spiritual worlds. Knowing your totem is an innate process, they say, and a sacred one. Though my own beliefs don’t really allow room for spirit guides, I’ve always been drawn to wolves. To the Native Americans, wolves were the pathfinders, the protectors of wisdom and tribe. Loyal and strong and independent. Always watching. At home in the mountains and the wild places.

If God would have made me as an animal, it would have been a wolf.

I wanted a reminder of those long years spent trying and failing, too. I didn’t ever want to forget the faith I found or even the doubts I had, as both served to make me a better man. Our hopes and dreams don’t nearly define us as much as the manner by which we journey toward them. I needed to make sure I could remember that. Which is the reason for the designs around the wolf. Each design represents a year I spent waiting to get published. The small ones are years that went by quickly, when hope was abundant and doubt was hiding. The long ones are the years when I almost gave up.

There are a lot of long ones.

One question has been asked the most—did it hurt? My answer has usually been given in typical Country Boy fashion—“It didn’t tickle.” The truth is that it hurt. The truth is also that I was looking forward to that hurt, because much of the last six years hasn’t tickled, either.

I got a lot of thinking done during the two and a half hours I spent with an electric needle punching me in the arm (the tip of which, appropriately enough, looked much like the nib of a fountain pen). I allowed myself to remember. Everything. The places I’ve been, the people I’ve known, and the blessings I’ve received.

To the artist doing the work, it was just another tattoo.

To me, it was my story.

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

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