Millennials
31/05/16 05:15
Our local paper has been running a sort of series about older youth and young adults who are working hard and accomplishing important tasks. I think it is a sort of a counter argument to some of the disparaging things that have been said about millennials. The articles have been interesting, if not earth-shattering. A 15-year-old who is working hard at a summer job and whose supervisor says is doing a good job is really not big news. There are plenty of teens who are faithful workers and whose work experience will prepare them for other life experiences. I had summer jobs during my teenage years and I count them as formative experiences.
The interesting thing about the articles is that the definition of millennials used by the newspaper doesn’t line up with accepted generational theory. I’m not a big fan of generational theory as it can lead to grouping individuals in ways that label them and create false expectations. Not everyone is in line with their age cohort.
Authors William Strauss and Neil Howe wrote several books on generational theory and they are credited with coining the term “Millennial.” It is a reference to those who have come into their adulthood in the early years of the 21st Century. According to their work there are six living generations in our country today:
The GI Generation are those born between 1901 and 1926. Their lives have been shaped by the Great Depression and World War II. Tom Brokaw coined the term “greatest generation” for this group and the name has been accepted by many others.
The Silent Generation, also called the Mature Generation are those born between 1937 and 1945. These were young adults during the Korean and Vietnam Wars. In general they have enjoyed the richest and longest retirements in history.
Baby Boomers are those born between 1946 and 1964. This group is often sub-divided between “revolutionaries” who came of age in the sixties, and “yuppies” or “career climbers” who came of age in the seventies and early eighties. This is the first generation to have their young lives shaped by television.
Generation X is the next generation, born between 1965 and 1980. Many of this generation were “latch key kids,” who grew up with divorced and/or career driven parents. This group never got a very “catchy” title and they often report that they don’t feel like they are a generation - they share little with their age cohorts and much with the members of other generations.
The Millennials, also called Generation Y, born between 1981 and 2000 had parents who were much more present than those of Generation X. In many cases their parents were omnipresent and their lives were heavily scheduled. They are the first generation to take access to the nearly unlimited information of the Internet for granted.
Generation Z, also known as the boomlets or the homeland generation, were born after 2001. The attack on the World Trade Center is often listed as the event that started a new generation. This will be a large generation, with birth rates up in the United States. There are over 30 million of them already and they represent a significant slice of the economy. It is estimated that youth between 8 and 12 years old represent $51 billion in direct spending with an additional $170 billion spent by parents and other family members. They have never known a world without computers and cell phones.
Of course these definitions do not tell the stories of any individuals. There are many exceptions in every generation and generalities often end up leading to false assumptions. In a sense each family has its own generations depending on the specific times of births and deaths of previous generations. For example my wife and I have experienced the death of our parents and are the oldest living generation in our family. We have peers whose parents are still alive and even a few whose grandparents are living. We are grandparents of young children, but we have peers whose grandchildren are teens and some whose grandchildren are young adults. We have other peers who are not yet grandparents. Those experiences shape our lives in some ways more profoundly than our age cohort.
At any rate, I think that the series in the newspaper is missing the point if it is trying to counter the complaints that are frequently lodged against millennials. I suspect that the writers haven’t even read simple introductions to generational theory as presented in this blog post.
From my perspective, the issues faced by millennials are not so much whether or not they are capable of working, or whether or not they think of their future, but rather that they are experiencing some significant challenges in making the transition to adult living. Many of them have enjoyed great privilege and have good educations. They have experienced summer jobs and some have significant work experience. A significant number have had close personal relationships, though that is very different for them than it was for my generation. The average age of 1st marriage is creeping toward 30 and there is an extended period of a decade or more of transition, when young adults are engaging in close relationships, but not yet married. The effects of a volatile economy has meant that establishing a career has been a significant challenge for many. We know quite a few young adults who are living with their parents, not because they lack the desire to be independent, or because they are unwilling to work, but rather that they can’t find a career path and even though they are college educated haven’t yet found jobs related to their educational experience. Like the extended period of experimentation preceding marriage, there seems to be an extended period of job drifting before settling into a career. Young adults are often unsettled for many years before making commitments.
We all are affected by the history and culture of our times. It is meaningless to blame any age group for the lives they live. I simply think it would have been more interesting for the newspaper to explore the lives of millennials engaged in that difficult period of transition rather than grabbing a few easy “feel good” stories about teens who are doing well at an earlier phase of the transition from youth to adulthood. I suspect that transition is much more difficult for the millennials than it has been for some of the preceding generations.
The interesting thing about the articles is that the definition of millennials used by the newspaper doesn’t line up with accepted generational theory. I’m not a big fan of generational theory as it can lead to grouping individuals in ways that label them and create false expectations. Not everyone is in line with their age cohort.
Authors William Strauss and Neil Howe wrote several books on generational theory and they are credited with coining the term “Millennial.” It is a reference to those who have come into their adulthood in the early years of the 21st Century. According to their work there are six living generations in our country today:
The GI Generation are those born between 1901 and 1926. Their lives have been shaped by the Great Depression and World War II. Tom Brokaw coined the term “greatest generation” for this group and the name has been accepted by many others.
The Silent Generation, also called the Mature Generation are those born between 1937 and 1945. These were young adults during the Korean and Vietnam Wars. In general they have enjoyed the richest and longest retirements in history.
Baby Boomers are those born between 1946 and 1964. This group is often sub-divided between “revolutionaries” who came of age in the sixties, and “yuppies” or “career climbers” who came of age in the seventies and early eighties. This is the first generation to have their young lives shaped by television.
Generation X is the next generation, born between 1965 and 1980. Many of this generation were “latch key kids,” who grew up with divorced and/or career driven parents. This group never got a very “catchy” title and they often report that they don’t feel like they are a generation - they share little with their age cohorts and much with the members of other generations.
The Millennials, also called Generation Y, born between 1981 and 2000 had parents who were much more present than those of Generation X. In many cases their parents were omnipresent and their lives were heavily scheduled. They are the first generation to take access to the nearly unlimited information of the Internet for granted.
Generation Z, also known as the boomlets or the homeland generation, were born after 2001. The attack on the World Trade Center is often listed as the event that started a new generation. This will be a large generation, with birth rates up in the United States. There are over 30 million of them already and they represent a significant slice of the economy. It is estimated that youth between 8 and 12 years old represent $51 billion in direct spending with an additional $170 billion spent by parents and other family members. They have never known a world without computers and cell phones.
Of course these definitions do not tell the stories of any individuals. There are many exceptions in every generation and generalities often end up leading to false assumptions. In a sense each family has its own generations depending on the specific times of births and deaths of previous generations. For example my wife and I have experienced the death of our parents and are the oldest living generation in our family. We have peers whose parents are still alive and even a few whose grandparents are living. We are grandparents of young children, but we have peers whose grandchildren are teens and some whose grandchildren are young adults. We have other peers who are not yet grandparents. Those experiences shape our lives in some ways more profoundly than our age cohort.
At any rate, I think that the series in the newspaper is missing the point if it is trying to counter the complaints that are frequently lodged against millennials. I suspect that the writers haven’t even read simple introductions to generational theory as presented in this blog post.
From my perspective, the issues faced by millennials are not so much whether or not they are capable of working, or whether or not they think of their future, but rather that they are experiencing some significant challenges in making the transition to adult living. Many of them have enjoyed great privilege and have good educations. They have experienced summer jobs and some have significant work experience. A significant number have had close personal relationships, though that is very different for them than it was for my generation. The average age of 1st marriage is creeping toward 30 and there is an extended period of a decade or more of transition, when young adults are engaging in close relationships, but not yet married. The effects of a volatile economy has meant that establishing a career has been a significant challenge for many. We know quite a few young adults who are living with their parents, not because they lack the desire to be independent, or because they are unwilling to work, but rather that they can’t find a career path and even though they are college educated haven’t yet found jobs related to their educational experience. Like the extended period of experimentation preceding marriage, there seems to be an extended period of job drifting before settling into a career. Young adults are often unsettled for many years before making commitments.
We all are affected by the history and culture of our times. It is meaningless to blame any age group for the lives they live. I simply think it would have been more interesting for the newspaper to explore the lives of millennials engaged in that difficult period of transition rather than grabbing a few easy “feel good” stories about teens who are doing well at an earlier phase of the transition from youth to adulthood. I suspect that transition is much more difficult for the millennials than it has been for some of the preceding generations.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Memorial Day 2016
30/05/16 05:08
I had just lead worship in a retirement home with a small congregation of residents. As I greeted the worshipers one asked if I could stay and visit with him. As the others left the chapel, we sat and he told me his story. He gave me permission to tell his story to others.
In the prayers offered during the service I had asked worshipers to remember in their prayers others who had gone before. An image came to his mind that was particularly striking.
The Korean War was the second war of his life. Drafted near the end of World War II, he had not seen combat in that war, but he was recalled to active duty during the Korean War. They were ordered to defend a hill. It was winter. The fighting was bitter. Over a thousand of the enemy were killed in the battle. Their compatriots either could not or would not recover the bodies, which lay strewn over the hillside. In the bitter winter cold the bodies froze in their places. He could recall having to go on patrol, weaving their way around the frozen bodies. This task was especially difficult during the night. In some ways the post-battle patrols were more difficult than the battle had been.
During the battle he had a sense that he had to participate in the killing to avoid being killed. He had to shoot to protect the men with whom he was serving. It was loud and confusing and terrifying. There was no time to think about what they were doing or the larger ethics of war. They were reacting to a very real danger and defending themselves and the territory they had been ordered to defend. After the battle, when the hillside fell silent and night descended and the cold enveloped everything there was time to think.
He thought of those men who had died there - the frozen enemy casualties that littered the hillside. Those men were someone’s sons. They had sisters and brothers and mothers and fathers just like him. Some had wives. He looked at their bodies and most seemed to be younger than he. He tried to recall what he knew of the Chinese and North Korean armies against whom they were fighting. He realized that those men who had fallen must have been conscripted. They didn’t choose to fight, but rather were compelled to do so by the authorities of their government. Just like him, they had responded to orders from authorities and engaged in the battle with fear and a sense of kill or be killed. And now they were dead. And no one was coming to retrieve their bodies and return them to their loved ones.
The image has lingered with him for decades. Mostly he has been able to keep it in the corners of his mind and think of other things. He went on to live a productive life and was called back to service as an advisor in the early years of the War in Vietnam.
For whatever reason, a memorial day prayer touched his memory of the fallen enemy soldiers and the deep sadness he had felt when he thought of their lives and their circumstances.
In January 1866, the Ladies' Memorial Association in Columbus, Georgia, passed a motion agreeing that they would designate a day to throw flowers on the graves of fallen soldiers buried at the cemetery. However, the ladies didn't want this to be an isolated event, so Mary Ann Williams, the group's secretary, wrote a letter asking people to commemorate the war’s fallen soldiers on April 26 and sent it to newspapers all over the United States.
The letter was printed in dozens of newspapers but the date wasn’t correct in all of the various stories. As a result women in Columbus, Mississippi celebrated a day earlier, on April 25. Thus Columbus, Mississippi is credited with the first Memorial Day observance. On April 26, people all across the South heeded the letter and threw flowers on the graves of Civil War soldiers. Some Southern women noticed that Yankee graves, interspersed with the graves of their loved ones, sat untended. The graves were just laying there, kind of barren and the hearts of the women were warmed. They started to feel bad for the mothers who lost those children. They began to throw flowers on the Yankee graves. That story received widespread publication and Memorial Day became a day to honor all of the fallen of war and not just those who fought for one particular side.
War extracts a terrible cost from its participants. The huge sacrifices made cannot be recovered. The tragedies of battle are borne by both sides. The grief is immense.
150 years after those women decorated the graves of enemy fallen, an old man pushed his walker into the chapel of a nursing home in another part of the country. His war had been in another part of the world. His battle was far removed from those of the founders of Memorial Day. He might not even have known that the day originated from the observances of those who were on the losing side of that long-ago war. But as he prayed in that chapel and remembered the story of his life he came to a similar conclusion. The dead of all sides in a war deserve to be remembered. Their deaths remain a testimony to the tragedy of war.
The poet Francis Miles Finch wrote, “They banish our anger forever/When they laurel the graves of our dead!” The simple act of remembering that our loved ones aren’t the only victims of war begins to change the cycle of hatred and revenge. Healing begins when we glimpse the humanity of those we have labeled “enemy.”
Such is the power of memory and of a day set aside to remember. We can look once again at the old wounds, remember the former battles, recall the intensity of the times. And we can also remember the shared humanity of all of the participants and open ourselves to the end of hostilities and the possibilities of healing.
There are many scars left from the wars of our history and many tears that are yet to fall. May our memories open the door to healing and hope.
In the prayers offered during the service I had asked worshipers to remember in their prayers others who had gone before. An image came to his mind that was particularly striking.
The Korean War was the second war of his life. Drafted near the end of World War II, he had not seen combat in that war, but he was recalled to active duty during the Korean War. They were ordered to defend a hill. It was winter. The fighting was bitter. Over a thousand of the enemy were killed in the battle. Their compatriots either could not or would not recover the bodies, which lay strewn over the hillside. In the bitter winter cold the bodies froze in their places. He could recall having to go on patrol, weaving their way around the frozen bodies. This task was especially difficult during the night. In some ways the post-battle patrols were more difficult than the battle had been.
During the battle he had a sense that he had to participate in the killing to avoid being killed. He had to shoot to protect the men with whom he was serving. It was loud and confusing and terrifying. There was no time to think about what they were doing or the larger ethics of war. They were reacting to a very real danger and defending themselves and the territory they had been ordered to defend. After the battle, when the hillside fell silent and night descended and the cold enveloped everything there was time to think.
He thought of those men who had died there - the frozen enemy casualties that littered the hillside. Those men were someone’s sons. They had sisters and brothers and mothers and fathers just like him. Some had wives. He looked at their bodies and most seemed to be younger than he. He tried to recall what he knew of the Chinese and North Korean armies against whom they were fighting. He realized that those men who had fallen must have been conscripted. They didn’t choose to fight, but rather were compelled to do so by the authorities of their government. Just like him, they had responded to orders from authorities and engaged in the battle with fear and a sense of kill or be killed. And now they were dead. And no one was coming to retrieve their bodies and return them to their loved ones.
The image has lingered with him for decades. Mostly he has been able to keep it in the corners of his mind and think of other things. He went on to live a productive life and was called back to service as an advisor in the early years of the War in Vietnam.
For whatever reason, a memorial day prayer touched his memory of the fallen enemy soldiers and the deep sadness he had felt when he thought of their lives and their circumstances.
In January 1866, the Ladies' Memorial Association in Columbus, Georgia, passed a motion agreeing that they would designate a day to throw flowers on the graves of fallen soldiers buried at the cemetery. However, the ladies didn't want this to be an isolated event, so Mary Ann Williams, the group's secretary, wrote a letter asking people to commemorate the war’s fallen soldiers on April 26 and sent it to newspapers all over the United States.
The letter was printed in dozens of newspapers but the date wasn’t correct in all of the various stories. As a result women in Columbus, Mississippi celebrated a day earlier, on April 25. Thus Columbus, Mississippi is credited with the first Memorial Day observance. On April 26, people all across the South heeded the letter and threw flowers on the graves of Civil War soldiers. Some Southern women noticed that Yankee graves, interspersed with the graves of their loved ones, sat untended. The graves were just laying there, kind of barren and the hearts of the women were warmed. They started to feel bad for the mothers who lost those children. They began to throw flowers on the Yankee graves. That story received widespread publication and Memorial Day became a day to honor all of the fallen of war and not just those who fought for one particular side.
War extracts a terrible cost from its participants. The huge sacrifices made cannot be recovered. The tragedies of battle are borne by both sides. The grief is immense.
150 years after those women decorated the graves of enemy fallen, an old man pushed his walker into the chapel of a nursing home in another part of the country. His war had been in another part of the world. His battle was far removed from those of the founders of Memorial Day. He might not even have known that the day originated from the observances of those who were on the losing side of that long-ago war. But as he prayed in that chapel and remembered the story of his life he came to a similar conclusion. The dead of all sides in a war deserve to be remembered. Their deaths remain a testimony to the tragedy of war.
The poet Francis Miles Finch wrote, “They banish our anger forever/When they laurel the graves of our dead!” The simple act of remembering that our loved ones aren’t the only victims of war begins to change the cycle of hatred and revenge. Healing begins when we glimpse the humanity of those we have labeled “enemy.”
Such is the power of memory and of a day set aside to remember. We can look once again at the old wounds, remember the former battles, recall the intensity of the times. And we can also remember the shared humanity of all of the participants and open ourselves to the end of hostilities and the possibilities of healing.
There are many scars left from the wars of our history and many tears that are yet to fall. May our memories open the door to healing and hope.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Reflections on a wedding
29/05/16 05:24
I attending a wedding and reception yesterday, something that is common for ministers. It was a lovely affair, long-planned and carefully orchestrated. A bit of rain in the afternoon presented a minor challenge, but in no way marred the lovely day. I believe that the bride and groom and their families were delighted with how things went.
At the reception we sat with longtime friends, enjoying their company as well as the events of the evening. On the drive home, I noted that I was feeling tired, which surprised me a bit because the day hadn’t been particularly stressful and the work of the day had been light. A couple of observations on how I felt were shared by my wife and by the friends with whom we shared the reception.
The music seemed to be part of my sense of exhaustion. There had been music almost everywhere we went. At the rehearsal dinner, there was music in the background. At the reception, music played continuously through all of the events, pausing briefly for a few toasts. Not all music makes me tired. The service music for the wedding, for example was lovely: a harp and a keyboard and vocalists without amplification. The acoustic music fit the setting and was pleasing. In the other settings, the recorded music was not too loud. I could hear and understand conversation with others. It was played through high-end music systems with good clarity. What is different from the acoustic music of the wedding itself, however, was the presence of sub-woofers. The high end bass vibrations, right at the edge of my capacity to hear are impossible for me to ignore. I almost feel the bass before I can hear the sounds and can sense it from a greater distance than I can discern the rest of the music.
It is entirely possible that this reaction is a product of my age. My hearing has deteriorated some from years of exposure and use. I probably should have it tested again soon to make sure that I am not missing sounds that once were easy for me to hear. I think, however, that it is at least in part due to the advance of technology. The first time I remember hearing that deep, rumbling sub-bass sound was in an IMAX theatre where special care had been given to making the movie a total experience with sounds coming from all directions and stunning visual effects. They had designed the theatre so that you would feel the vibrations as well as hear them. Because we are used to hearing amplified sounds coming from a specific direction the surround sound was slightly disorienting.
Those theatre sounds are now common in a wide variety of other settings. People install those high end sound systems in their homes to watch movies in that setting and use the same sound systems to listen to their music. They become adjusted to the thumping bass and omni-present sound. We, however, do not own such a system. Our home is generally very quiet. When I sit to read a book I can become irritated at the sound of the refrigerator in the kitchen because I like the quiet. I rarely listen to music in my office as I work, preferring the quiet environment. I do listen to podcasts in the car, but I don’t have a high-end stereo system with subwoofers in my car, either. In that I know that my life is simply quieter than many other people. When I spend a few hours with that kind of sound I find myself tired from the experience.
A second observation is that in a similar manner to high school graduation ceremonies, I think that there were a few too many comments about “the best day of your life” made to the couple. After nearly 43 years of marriage I recall our wedding fondly. It was a lovely day and the reception was a lot of fun. We were married in a different time. There was no sit-down dinner, just cake, mints and nuts in the church social hall, but we were happy and the people who gathered for the celebration were generous and kind and loving. But there have been a lot of wonderful days since that night. My life didn’t peak out when I was 20 years old. It definitely wasn’t all down hill from that point.
In my comments to the couple I sought to avoid such statements. Indeed it was a wonderful day and I pray that the couple will have fond memories of the day for the rest of their lives. But the happiest day of their lives? I actually hope that it is not. I hope that there are many days, some even more joyful ahead for the couple.
Again, it is a product of my age, but I know that love deepens over time. Shared experiences compile and there is a cumulative effect of having done many things together. On the card to the couple I wrote, “One of the deepest joys of life is growing old together. It is a joy I hope you will one day know.” I really mean it. In a real sense my wife and I grew up together and the delight of many years of shared experiences adds to the joys of the present.
The good news is that I don’t have to make a point of my observations to the couple. The passage of time will teach them lessons that I don’t need to say out loud. They have a solid foundation and a good beginning to their life together and they had a wonderful celebration to inaugurate their married life. The passage of years and the experiences of life together will depend and mature that relationship. They don’t need some old guy to tell them the things they will discover together.
The music, however, is a different matter. Our culture is shaped by its music and I suspect that the changes we are experiencing will take a long time to play out. Whether people have more stressful lives because of the way we listen to music remains to be revealed.
So I have one more prayer for the couple as I begin my day. I pray that they will discover the joy of sharing silence together. I hope that they will have days of sitting together quietly with no music in the background, just enjoying each other. I hope they will take long walks in natural settings, listening to the sounds of birds and the wind in the trees. If they do, I know it will be a blessing.
At the reception we sat with longtime friends, enjoying their company as well as the events of the evening. On the drive home, I noted that I was feeling tired, which surprised me a bit because the day hadn’t been particularly stressful and the work of the day had been light. A couple of observations on how I felt were shared by my wife and by the friends with whom we shared the reception.
The music seemed to be part of my sense of exhaustion. There had been music almost everywhere we went. At the rehearsal dinner, there was music in the background. At the reception, music played continuously through all of the events, pausing briefly for a few toasts. Not all music makes me tired. The service music for the wedding, for example was lovely: a harp and a keyboard and vocalists without amplification. The acoustic music fit the setting and was pleasing. In the other settings, the recorded music was not too loud. I could hear and understand conversation with others. It was played through high-end music systems with good clarity. What is different from the acoustic music of the wedding itself, however, was the presence of sub-woofers. The high end bass vibrations, right at the edge of my capacity to hear are impossible for me to ignore. I almost feel the bass before I can hear the sounds and can sense it from a greater distance than I can discern the rest of the music.
It is entirely possible that this reaction is a product of my age. My hearing has deteriorated some from years of exposure and use. I probably should have it tested again soon to make sure that I am not missing sounds that once were easy for me to hear. I think, however, that it is at least in part due to the advance of technology. The first time I remember hearing that deep, rumbling sub-bass sound was in an IMAX theatre where special care had been given to making the movie a total experience with sounds coming from all directions and stunning visual effects. They had designed the theatre so that you would feel the vibrations as well as hear them. Because we are used to hearing amplified sounds coming from a specific direction the surround sound was slightly disorienting.
Those theatre sounds are now common in a wide variety of other settings. People install those high end sound systems in their homes to watch movies in that setting and use the same sound systems to listen to their music. They become adjusted to the thumping bass and omni-present sound. We, however, do not own such a system. Our home is generally very quiet. When I sit to read a book I can become irritated at the sound of the refrigerator in the kitchen because I like the quiet. I rarely listen to music in my office as I work, preferring the quiet environment. I do listen to podcasts in the car, but I don’t have a high-end stereo system with subwoofers in my car, either. In that I know that my life is simply quieter than many other people. When I spend a few hours with that kind of sound I find myself tired from the experience.
A second observation is that in a similar manner to high school graduation ceremonies, I think that there were a few too many comments about “the best day of your life” made to the couple. After nearly 43 years of marriage I recall our wedding fondly. It was a lovely day and the reception was a lot of fun. We were married in a different time. There was no sit-down dinner, just cake, mints and nuts in the church social hall, but we were happy and the people who gathered for the celebration were generous and kind and loving. But there have been a lot of wonderful days since that night. My life didn’t peak out when I was 20 years old. It definitely wasn’t all down hill from that point.
In my comments to the couple I sought to avoid such statements. Indeed it was a wonderful day and I pray that the couple will have fond memories of the day for the rest of their lives. But the happiest day of their lives? I actually hope that it is not. I hope that there are many days, some even more joyful ahead for the couple.
Again, it is a product of my age, but I know that love deepens over time. Shared experiences compile and there is a cumulative effect of having done many things together. On the card to the couple I wrote, “One of the deepest joys of life is growing old together. It is a joy I hope you will one day know.” I really mean it. In a real sense my wife and I grew up together and the delight of many years of shared experiences adds to the joys of the present.
The good news is that I don’t have to make a point of my observations to the couple. The passage of time will teach them lessons that I don’t need to say out loud. They have a solid foundation and a good beginning to their life together and they had a wonderful celebration to inaugurate their married life. The passage of years and the experiences of life together will depend and mature that relationship. They don’t need some old guy to tell them the things they will discover together.
The music, however, is a different matter. Our culture is shaped by its music and I suspect that the changes we are experiencing will take a long time to play out. Whether people have more stressful lives because of the way we listen to music remains to be revealed.
So I have one more prayer for the couple as I begin my day. I pray that they will discover the joy of sharing silence together. I hope that they will have days of sitting together quietly with no music in the background, just enjoying each other. I hope they will take long walks in natural settings, listening to the sounds of birds and the wind in the trees. If they do, I know it will be a blessing.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Love at first sight
28/05/16 05:29
Today’s blog touches on a familiar theme for me and it contains stories that I have told before. However, as one of the themes of my life it is a topic about which I think a great deal.
When I was growing up I don’t think that I believed in love at first sight. My parents would occasionally comment about relationships between couples that had troubles or had broken up and I came to think that sometimes people got into relationships from a burst of emotion without considering all of the ramifications of their personalities. Love, I believed, takes time to develop and nurture. I wasn’t particularly attracted to my wife the first time that I met her. I wasn’t particularly attracted to anyone at that phase of my life. Romantic feelings came, but only after we had shared quite a few experiences. And certainly our love has grown and matured over the years. The deep sense of attachment that I now know is different than the way I felt in the early years of our marriage. I felt a strong connection with our son from the moment of his birth, but that process of attachment began months before we first set eyes on each other. As we went through the pregnancy we were deeply aware of the love growing in our family.
It was our daughter who first taught me about love at first sight. When the adoption agency called and told us they had a baby they would like us to meet, I was focused on the practical aspects of making a long trip, preparing our son for what was about to happen, gathering clothing and supplies for a baby and taking care of details so I could take a break from my work. I don’t remember the day of preparation and travel as being particularly emotional. The instant the case worked handed me that baby, however, I was in love. I was so smitten that in the first night, awake with excitement and wonder while the rest of the family was sleeping, I stared into that little crib and wondered how I could survive if something went awry with the adoption. There simply was no time from the first instant I set my eyes on her that I wasn’t in love with her. I wrote essays about the experience and tried to capture it, but each fell short of the intensity of attachment that I feel.
I deduced that I definitely believe in love at first sight.
But there is so much more to love than the burst of emotion that one feels. In my sixties, approaching my 43rd wedding anniversary, I find it difficult to tell others how much love has shaped my life and my view of the world. Despite my occasional loss for words - or at least the right words - I believe in love more strongly than ever and I am convinced that the Gospel’s declaration that God is love is a deep part of my faith.
Still, I have wondered, over the years about love at first sight. I know that our son, at the moment of his birth, when his eyes were first opened and not yet able to fully focus, was surrounded by love. For him life began in a place of deep love and caring. The nurse who was present in the delivery room is a life-long friend of ours and I know of her love and care. His first sight was love.
I do not know, however, our daughter’s story. She was a month old when we first met her. I know her life involved a somewhat longer stay in the hospital than typical following her birth as agencies rushed to identify a foster home. Then she lived in a foster family until she was placed in our home. I have decided, however, that her early experiences must have been of love and care simply by observing the loving and caring adult that she has become. I watch her with her husband. I observe her in her work of caring for children and I know that she is a person of love. Furthermore my live is shaped by deep gratitude for her birth mother and the difficult decision that she made to release her little one to our care. Though I never met her, I have no doubt that it was a loving decision. I have decided that even though we weren’t present, our daughter’s first sight must have been of love.
There are, however, children born every day whose life experiences are much more harsh. They experience inconsistency of emotion from their parents and other adults in their lives. They suffer abuse and neglect and horrors so severe that it is a miracle that they survive. Life is not just a story of happy endings for too many children. Love at first sight exists, but it isn’t the only story of humans on this planet.
I am blessed to be around children through the work that I do. Our building is home to a preschool and there are other children who are a part of our church family. Parents trust me with their children and I am privileged to hold them and visit with them in our fellowship hall while their parents visit with friends. It is obvious to me that these little ones are very good at engendering love. A quick look at their faces makes one want to protect and care for them. The feel of a child in one’s arms brings out a deep love of humanity and a passionate ardor. Children have a way of making one want to love them.
I’ve gone beyond believing in love at first sight. I’ve come to believe that the first sight of every child should be love. But love still needs to be nurtured. It needs to grow and develop and mature. I now know that love is not just the first sight. Every sight should be love.
When I was growing up I don’t think that I believed in love at first sight. My parents would occasionally comment about relationships between couples that had troubles or had broken up and I came to think that sometimes people got into relationships from a burst of emotion without considering all of the ramifications of their personalities. Love, I believed, takes time to develop and nurture. I wasn’t particularly attracted to my wife the first time that I met her. I wasn’t particularly attracted to anyone at that phase of my life. Romantic feelings came, but only after we had shared quite a few experiences. And certainly our love has grown and matured over the years. The deep sense of attachment that I now know is different than the way I felt in the early years of our marriage. I felt a strong connection with our son from the moment of his birth, but that process of attachment began months before we first set eyes on each other. As we went through the pregnancy we were deeply aware of the love growing in our family.
It was our daughter who first taught me about love at first sight. When the adoption agency called and told us they had a baby they would like us to meet, I was focused on the practical aspects of making a long trip, preparing our son for what was about to happen, gathering clothing and supplies for a baby and taking care of details so I could take a break from my work. I don’t remember the day of preparation and travel as being particularly emotional. The instant the case worked handed me that baby, however, I was in love. I was so smitten that in the first night, awake with excitement and wonder while the rest of the family was sleeping, I stared into that little crib and wondered how I could survive if something went awry with the adoption. There simply was no time from the first instant I set my eyes on her that I wasn’t in love with her. I wrote essays about the experience and tried to capture it, but each fell short of the intensity of attachment that I feel.
I deduced that I definitely believe in love at first sight.
But there is so much more to love than the burst of emotion that one feels. In my sixties, approaching my 43rd wedding anniversary, I find it difficult to tell others how much love has shaped my life and my view of the world. Despite my occasional loss for words - or at least the right words - I believe in love more strongly than ever and I am convinced that the Gospel’s declaration that God is love is a deep part of my faith.
Still, I have wondered, over the years about love at first sight. I know that our son, at the moment of his birth, when his eyes were first opened and not yet able to fully focus, was surrounded by love. For him life began in a place of deep love and caring. The nurse who was present in the delivery room is a life-long friend of ours and I know of her love and care. His first sight was love.
I do not know, however, our daughter’s story. She was a month old when we first met her. I know her life involved a somewhat longer stay in the hospital than typical following her birth as agencies rushed to identify a foster home. Then she lived in a foster family until she was placed in our home. I have decided, however, that her early experiences must have been of love and care simply by observing the loving and caring adult that she has become. I watch her with her husband. I observe her in her work of caring for children and I know that she is a person of love. Furthermore my live is shaped by deep gratitude for her birth mother and the difficult decision that she made to release her little one to our care. Though I never met her, I have no doubt that it was a loving decision. I have decided that even though we weren’t present, our daughter’s first sight must have been of love.
There are, however, children born every day whose life experiences are much more harsh. They experience inconsistency of emotion from their parents and other adults in their lives. They suffer abuse and neglect and horrors so severe that it is a miracle that they survive. Life is not just a story of happy endings for too many children. Love at first sight exists, but it isn’t the only story of humans on this planet.
I am blessed to be around children through the work that I do. Our building is home to a preschool and there are other children who are a part of our church family. Parents trust me with their children and I am privileged to hold them and visit with them in our fellowship hall while their parents visit with friends. It is obvious to me that these little ones are very good at engendering love. A quick look at their faces makes one want to protect and care for them. The feel of a child in one’s arms brings out a deep love of humanity and a passionate ardor. Children have a way of making one want to love them.
I’ve gone beyond believing in love at first sight. I’ve come to believe that the first sight of every child should be love. But love still needs to be nurtured. It needs to grow and develop and mature. I now know that love is not just the first sight. Every sight should be love.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Design
27/05/16 05:11
Although we have the luxury of having traveled quite a bit, we aren’t exactly what you would call frequent fliers. A trip by airlines is relatively rare at this point in our lives. There was a time, a few years ago, when I was serving on national boards and committees, that I made several airline trips each year, could remember where I kept my frequent flier cards and paid attention to ever-changing airline travel rules, but my life has changed and some of the changes caught me by surprise when we recently made an airline trip.
In the online form you sign to purchase a ticket, on the boarding passes, and in several other prominent locations the ban on traveling with hoverboards was impossible to ignore. I don’t own a hoverboard, so it was no problem for me, but I was surprised about what a big deal the airlines were making about that particular travel ban. No hoverboards in checked luggage. No hoverboards in carry on luggage. No hoverboards at all.
The rule is preventive. There have been no injuries due to hoverboard batteries on airlines. The ban is due to a potential danger. The popular toys are powered by lithium-ion batteries, which are potentially combustable. The airlines already ban lithium-ion batteries in checked luggage. The batteries power a lot of items, our smart phones, cameras, laptop and notebook computers, and a host of household items. They power larger items such as Tesla cars and home solar systems, but no one has tried to bring their Tesla as carry on luggage at this point. There have been reports of fires caused by hoverboards in other settings and the Consumer Product Safety Commission is investigating the cause of overboard fires. It also recommends that people who want to own the self-balancing scooters purchase only ones that are certified by a national testing laboratory.
So I get it. There is a potential danger with all lithium-ion batteries. I understand the special label that was on the box I received yesterday identifying that it contained a lithium-ion battery. I had ordered a replacement battery for a camera I use when paddling and it had traveled by air to get to me.
What I don’t get is the way the battery was packaged inside of the properly-labeled box. The space in the box was mostly consumed by plastic air bags assuring a soft ride for the battery. The battery itself was encased in a plastic container that was sealed at the edges. The only way to get the battery out of the container was to get out a par of scissors and cut through three layers of plastic. Although the container might have provided some cushion against crushing, it wasn’t particularly strong. The thin plastic did, however, produce very sharp edges when cut open.
It was just one more example of poor design in our world today. The waste associated with packaging alone is enough to earn the label of poor design. Add to that the difficulty of opening the package and its failure to provide adequate protection against crushing and it is obvious that things could have been done differently. The unique shape of the package, obviously the product of some thoughtful design, was forgotten due to all of the other design flaws.
Once the package was opened, the battery had to be charged, requiring several hours before it could be used. Another design flaw, in my opinion.
In my mind I compared that with my phone that I purchased a couple of years ago. It too had a lithium-ion battery. It arrived in a carefully designed cardboard box. The box was strong and rigid due to internal baffles and additional cardboard inside. The top fit snugly so that it wouldn’t fall of accidentally, but was easily removed when I wanted to access the contents. I removed the phone, pushed the “on” button and it worked immediately. The battery was charged, the only thing that needed to be done was to remove a thin film protecting the screen and plug it into my computer to transfer the downloaded settings and information from my previous phone. Not a bad piece of design. The care taken in the design of the packaging was obvious and appreciated.
To be fair, the phone was a rather expensive model from a company that is known for the elegance of its design. The battery I received yesterday was a bargain brand purchased for its low price. Once the design work was completed, however, I suspect that the packaging on the cheap battery cost more than the box in which the phone was shipped. The box, however, could be re-used and still is around - repurposed to hold other items. The plastic surrounding the battery is in the garbage, where it will likely cut open the bag before it gets to the landfill. I’m lucky to have gotten it that far without cutting my fingers on the sharp plastic.
Design isn’t just the shape of an object, but rather the entire experience of it. It involves how we use an object and how we feel about it. I’m likely to remember the manufacturers of both items: one as a company with which I’d like to do business in the future; the other as a company to avoid. I’m already regretting having selected the battery on price alone.
That got me to thinking about design and the experience of church. We design our worship and other church events around what is familiar, what we like, and our memories of meaningful experiences in the past. We rarely take the time to think about how that would be experienced by a guest who does not share our history and who may have different likes and dislikes. That is a subject about which I need to do some serious thinking in the days and weeks to come. I think we need to become much more aware of the experiences we design and how that design is perceived by our guests.
After all, I’m not the only one who recognizes bad design when I experience it.
In the online form you sign to purchase a ticket, on the boarding passes, and in several other prominent locations the ban on traveling with hoverboards was impossible to ignore. I don’t own a hoverboard, so it was no problem for me, but I was surprised about what a big deal the airlines were making about that particular travel ban. No hoverboards in checked luggage. No hoverboards in carry on luggage. No hoverboards at all.
The rule is preventive. There have been no injuries due to hoverboard batteries on airlines. The ban is due to a potential danger. The popular toys are powered by lithium-ion batteries, which are potentially combustable. The airlines already ban lithium-ion batteries in checked luggage. The batteries power a lot of items, our smart phones, cameras, laptop and notebook computers, and a host of household items. They power larger items such as Tesla cars and home solar systems, but no one has tried to bring their Tesla as carry on luggage at this point. There have been reports of fires caused by hoverboards in other settings and the Consumer Product Safety Commission is investigating the cause of overboard fires. It also recommends that people who want to own the self-balancing scooters purchase only ones that are certified by a national testing laboratory.
So I get it. There is a potential danger with all lithium-ion batteries. I understand the special label that was on the box I received yesterday identifying that it contained a lithium-ion battery. I had ordered a replacement battery for a camera I use when paddling and it had traveled by air to get to me.
What I don’t get is the way the battery was packaged inside of the properly-labeled box. The space in the box was mostly consumed by plastic air bags assuring a soft ride for the battery. The battery itself was encased in a plastic container that was sealed at the edges. The only way to get the battery out of the container was to get out a par of scissors and cut through three layers of plastic. Although the container might have provided some cushion against crushing, it wasn’t particularly strong. The thin plastic did, however, produce very sharp edges when cut open.
It was just one more example of poor design in our world today. The waste associated with packaging alone is enough to earn the label of poor design. Add to that the difficulty of opening the package and its failure to provide adequate protection against crushing and it is obvious that things could have been done differently. The unique shape of the package, obviously the product of some thoughtful design, was forgotten due to all of the other design flaws.
Once the package was opened, the battery had to be charged, requiring several hours before it could be used. Another design flaw, in my opinion.
In my mind I compared that with my phone that I purchased a couple of years ago. It too had a lithium-ion battery. It arrived in a carefully designed cardboard box. The box was strong and rigid due to internal baffles and additional cardboard inside. The top fit snugly so that it wouldn’t fall of accidentally, but was easily removed when I wanted to access the contents. I removed the phone, pushed the “on” button and it worked immediately. The battery was charged, the only thing that needed to be done was to remove a thin film protecting the screen and plug it into my computer to transfer the downloaded settings and information from my previous phone. Not a bad piece of design. The care taken in the design of the packaging was obvious and appreciated.
To be fair, the phone was a rather expensive model from a company that is known for the elegance of its design. The battery I received yesterday was a bargain brand purchased for its low price. Once the design work was completed, however, I suspect that the packaging on the cheap battery cost more than the box in which the phone was shipped. The box, however, could be re-used and still is around - repurposed to hold other items. The plastic surrounding the battery is in the garbage, where it will likely cut open the bag before it gets to the landfill. I’m lucky to have gotten it that far without cutting my fingers on the sharp plastic.
Design isn’t just the shape of an object, but rather the entire experience of it. It involves how we use an object and how we feel about it. I’m likely to remember the manufacturers of both items: one as a company with which I’d like to do business in the future; the other as a company to avoid. I’m already regretting having selected the battery on price alone.
That got me to thinking about design and the experience of church. We design our worship and other church events around what is familiar, what we like, and our memories of meaningful experiences in the past. We rarely take the time to think about how that would be experienced by a guest who does not share our history and who may have different likes and dislikes. That is a subject about which I need to do some serious thinking in the days and weeks to come. I think we need to become much more aware of the experiences we design and how that design is perceived by our guests.
After all, I’m not the only one who recognizes bad design when I experience it.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Tools
26/05/16 05:16
For as long as I can remember tools have had an important place in my life. There were several people in my life who taught me about tools. My father was an FAA-licensed airframe and power plant mechanic and was authorized to conduct inspections on aircraft. His toolbox at the airport was filled with special tools: mirrors on long handles, screwdrivers with long shafts, pinking shears for cutting fabric, special pliers for winding safety wire, and neatly organized rows of wrenches and sockets.
My Uncle Ted, who was actually my great-uncle, had been a machinist and sheet metal worker and his tools were mostly organized in boxes and drawers he had made himself. There were a variety of tools for bending metal, a couple of different rivet guns and many different sizes of hammers.
My grandfather had a long carpenter’s toolbox with several saws, claw hammers, chisels and wood planes.
When I was young, I knew that I was not allowed to touch another person’s tools. I received a hand-made tool bench and my own tools from my father and I had my own screwdrivers, hammer, crosscut saw, pliers and even a small wood plane, though I never learned to sharpen it until I was a teenager.
I can remember well being fascinated by the tools that existed in the world and very interested in the people who used those tools. As a result, it is no surprise that our grandson is very interested in tools. I have tools in a variety of locations: some in our camper, some in my pickup, many in the garage. I have a case with precision tools for working on electronic equipment and making fine repairs that our grandson has often seen as it is the place I turn when looking for tools to repair broken toys.
On our last visit to our grandchildren, our grandson asked me, “Did my dad teach you how to use tools?” If you look at it from his point of view, it is a rational question. After all, we both possess skills that he has not yet acquired, and it makes sense that one of us must have taught the other. The comment was very amusing to me and I have been remembering and mulling it ever since he said it.
So, as a departure from the usual, a few comments about tools might be in order for today’s blog.
I own a lot of saws. I have several power saws including a skillsaw, a table saw, a band saw, and a radial arm saw. I also have lots of hand saws including hack saws, crosscut saws, several fine-toothed Japanese pull saws, trim saws, keyhole saws and other specialized saws. The purpose of all saws is to transform materials from too long for the application to too short for the application. I know the old adage, “measure twice, cut once,” but I am capable of cutting on the wrong side of a pencil line despite having measured three or four times. In a way it is handy that there are so many different tools for making boards too short. It brings to mind another saying I used to hear from my grandfather: “I cuts it and cuts it and it is still too short!”
Saws have many other useful functions such as the creation of sawdust. I am sure that people experienced regular shortages of sawdust when there were only hand tools for their use, but with modern power tools, there is no excuse for a shop that isn’t filled with saw dust. I have a large shop vacuum that generally holds 20 or 30 pounds of sawdust, but that doesn’t keep sawdust from coating every other surface in my garage. It smells good and is a good absorbent. And you can write notes, such as the length you want to cut a board in the sawdust. The other day, thumbing through a boat builder’s magazine I saw an advertisement for the sale of “wood flour.” I’ve used sawdust as a thickener for epoxy and other glues for many years, but never thought of it as a commodity that one would buy. Perhaps there is more value in my garage than I thought.
Power saws not only enable the creation of more sawdust at greater paces, they have other functions. For example, a table saw can be used to launch wood projectiles to test the integrity of the walls of the garage. A band saw can be used to cut larger pieces into smaller pieces so they fit in the trash more easily.
And a hacksaw is in a category of its own. It can transform precise and careful movements of the human arm and hand into a crooked, unpredictable motion that directs the blade into almost any shape except a straight line. I think that is why it is called a hacksaw: anything cut with the tool looks like it was hacked off, not like it was removed with a precision tool.
Speaking of tools for propelling objects across the room, none is more effective than a drill press. A drill press is a power tool that is very useful for suddenly snatching flat metal bar stock from your hands and smacking you right in the chest hard enough to take your breath away. It can also be used to fling a coffee cup across the room right onto a freshly painted project that was carefully set in a protected corner where nothing could get to it while that perfect paint job dried.
I have many other useful tools. For example vice grips can be used for many functions. They work well for completely rounding off the heads of bolts that were only partially destroyed by regular pliers. They also are among the most useful tools in the shop for creating blood blisters. Another special function of this tool is transferring intense welding heat into the palm of your hand.
A screwdriver can be used to convert common slotted screws into non removable screws while at the same time raising blisters on your palms. A hammer is one of the most effective tools in the shop for removing fingernails. Usually it allows for several days of decorative blackened fingernails before their removal.
But I’ve run out of space in today’s blog. Perhaps there will be more useful tool tips another day.
My Uncle Ted, who was actually my great-uncle, had been a machinist and sheet metal worker and his tools were mostly organized in boxes and drawers he had made himself. There were a variety of tools for bending metal, a couple of different rivet guns and many different sizes of hammers.
My grandfather had a long carpenter’s toolbox with several saws, claw hammers, chisels and wood planes.
When I was young, I knew that I was not allowed to touch another person’s tools. I received a hand-made tool bench and my own tools from my father and I had my own screwdrivers, hammer, crosscut saw, pliers and even a small wood plane, though I never learned to sharpen it until I was a teenager.
I can remember well being fascinated by the tools that existed in the world and very interested in the people who used those tools. As a result, it is no surprise that our grandson is very interested in tools. I have tools in a variety of locations: some in our camper, some in my pickup, many in the garage. I have a case with precision tools for working on electronic equipment and making fine repairs that our grandson has often seen as it is the place I turn when looking for tools to repair broken toys.
On our last visit to our grandchildren, our grandson asked me, “Did my dad teach you how to use tools?” If you look at it from his point of view, it is a rational question. After all, we both possess skills that he has not yet acquired, and it makes sense that one of us must have taught the other. The comment was very amusing to me and I have been remembering and mulling it ever since he said it.
So, as a departure from the usual, a few comments about tools might be in order for today’s blog.
I own a lot of saws. I have several power saws including a skillsaw, a table saw, a band saw, and a radial arm saw. I also have lots of hand saws including hack saws, crosscut saws, several fine-toothed Japanese pull saws, trim saws, keyhole saws and other specialized saws. The purpose of all saws is to transform materials from too long for the application to too short for the application. I know the old adage, “measure twice, cut once,” but I am capable of cutting on the wrong side of a pencil line despite having measured three or four times. In a way it is handy that there are so many different tools for making boards too short. It brings to mind another saying I used to hear from my grandfather: “I cuts it and cuts it and it is still too short!”
Saws have many other useful functions such as the creation of sawdust. I am sure that people experienced regular shortages of sawdust when there were only hand tools for their use, but with modern power tools, there is no excuse for a shop that isn’t filled with saw dust. I have a large shop vacuum that generally holds 20 or 30 pounds of sawdust, but that doesn’t keep sawdust from coating every other surface in my garage. It smells good and is a good absorbent. And you can write notes, such as the length you want to cut a board in the sawdust. The other day, thumbing through a boat builder’s magazine I saw an advertisement for the sale of “wood flour.” I’ve used sawdust as a thickener for epoxy and other glues for many years, but never thought of it as a commodity that one would buy. Perhaps there is more value in my garage than I thought.
Power saws not only enable the creation of more sawdust at greater paces, they have other functions. For example, a table saw can be used to launch wood projectiles to test the integrity of the walls of the garage. A band saw can be used to cut larger pieces into smaller pieces so they fit in the trash more easily.
And a hacksaw is in a category of its own. It can transform precise and careful movements of the human arm and hand into a crooked, unpredictable motion that directs the blade into almost any shape except a straight line. I think that is why it is called a hacksaw: anything cut with the tool looks like it was hacked off, not like it was removed with a precision tool.
Speaking of tools for propelling objects across the room, none is more effective than a drill press. A drill press is a power tool that is very useful for suddenly snatching flat metal bar stock from your hands and smacking you right in the chest hard enough to take your breath away. It can also be used to fling a coffee cup across the room right onto a freshly painted project that was carefully set in a protected corner where nothing could get to it while that perfect paint job dried.
I have many other useful tools. For example vice grips can be used for many functions. They work well for completely rounding off the heads of bolts that were only partially destroyed by regular pliers. They also are among the most useful tools in the shop for creating blood blisters. Another special function of this tool is transferring intense welding heat into the palm of your hand.
A screwdriver can be used to convert common slotted screws into non removable screws while at the same time raising blisters on your palms. A hammer is one of the most effective tools in the shop for removing fingernails. Usually it allows for several days of decorative blackened fingernails before their removal.
But I’ve run out of space in today’s blog. Perhaps there will be more useful tool tips another day.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Refugee children
25/05/16 05:19
I watched a striking animation recently. It was posted on the BBC website. It tells the story of Omar, a sixteen-year-old unaccompanied minor who lives in the Calais “Jungle” camp. Omar is hoping to join relatives in the UK. He drew sketches of his life to date which wee animated by professional media artists from BBC.
The sun was just appearing over the hills when Omar was coming home from his uncle’s house when he heard an approaching jet. There had been so much activities in the skies, the even little children could distinguish the various aircraft: Sukhoi, Mig or helicopter. Soon he could hear the whistle of other jets as they flew by and the sound of explosions all around him. They were dropping barrel bombs and he did not dare to look to see where they were falling. There was no home for Omar to return to. Eventually, simply trying to get away from the war, he found his way to a refugee boat. It was the first time he had ever been on a boat. The smugglers from Turkey threatened the refugees with weapons. In the middle of the sea, the engine began to make strange noises. Then it fell silent. Everyone was very frightened, but then they saw two dolphins and they forgot about their troubles for a moment. After an hour of drifting, the engine was repaired enough to start once again and the journey continued. Omar and the others on the boat had traveled from Syria all the way to Greece. From there, he followed other refugees, walking, boarding another boat, walking more and finally boarding trains, which took him to Calais, in France. Always he was asking about Britain, where he has relatives. In Germany he was taken alone into an inspection room where he was made to undress. In his fear he attempted to hide his passport, but it was discovered by an officer who hit him for the offense. When he reached Calais, he became stuck in the camp. He’s been their for a year and a half now. There is no way out unless somebody on the outside helps one of the minors in the camp. He wants to get to Britain, where he has relatives. He wants to live, just like anyone else. Omar is still living in the squalid shanty town of blue tarps and a few boards in Calais, but his story has now made it across the channel to England, where there are people working for his release. He has helpers. He hopes to make it to England by September so he can start school.
For now, he is alone in the camp. He becomes frightened. Sometimes he cries out in the night, waking in fear. Sometimes there are rats in the room with him. Sometimes he wishes he could at least have a window in the tarp shack to let in a little light.
It is a story of courage and human survival against the odds, but it is just one story.
There have been various jungle camps around Calais since 1999, with migrants from as far away as Afghanistan. The “official” camp is composed of tents and tarps on a former landfill site. It is beyond capacity with over 6,000 residents. There are no proper sanitary or washing facilities. Food is supplied by charity kitchens. There is a fear in France that anything done to improve the living conditions will attract more immigrants striving to reach the UK with no way to cross the English Channel. Rumors that the land extends and one can walk all the way from France to Britain abound among refugees across Europe.
There have been numerous attempts to force the refugees out of the camps. In February the French government evicted 1,000 refugees from the camp. During the evictions, the southern side of the camp was demolished. Huts were set on fire. The French government has supplied 125 shipping containers to serve as housing units, but they remain mostly vacant because registration is required to live in the units and refugees fear that registration will prevent them from living in the UK.
Reports have come that hundreds of children have been raped and beaten in the camps. More than a hundred children have been reported as missing from the camps. Across Europe there are more than 10,000 unaccompanied minors who are reported missing.
No one is telling their stories.
The more children who die, the fewer remain to tell the story.
We live in a moment of history with an unprecedented refugee crisis. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees reports that there were 19.5 million refugees worldwide at the end of 2014. That number does not include an an additional 5.1 million Palestinian refugees registered with the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA). Those are only the refugees who have reported to official agencies, a small slice of the total number. The Atlantic reported that the total number of refugees and internally displaced people worldwide is almost 60 million. Put another way, that’s as if the entire population of Italy were pushed out of their homes. Or to look at it in yet a different way that’s one in every 122 people worldwide. The number of refugees and internally displaced people has reached its highest point since World War II.
Omar’s plight illustrates something about the crisis that is often hidden in the media reports. War and migration have deep and long-lasting effects on mental health. The trauma witnessed by children remains with them for the rest of their lives. It affects their children as well. We, who live far from the crush of the crisis, will be affected by it. The world’s economy and culture have already been affected and those effects are just beginning to be known. The reach of this crisis is far into our future as a planet.
In the midst of the numbers and the statistics, it is refreshing to read a single story and be reminded that the crisis is about individuals with hopes and dreams and aspirations all their own.
I just wonder about all of the children with no one to help them tell their stories.
The sun was just appearing over the hills when Omar was coming home from his uncle’s house when he heard an approaching jet. There had been so much activities in the skies, the even little children could distinguish the various aircraft: Sukhoi, Mig or helicopter. Soon he could hear the whistle of other jets as they flew by and the sound of explosions all around him. They were dropping barrel bombs and he did not dare to look to see where they were falling. There was no home for Omar to return to. Eventually, simply trying to get away from the war, he found his way to a refugee boat. It was the first time he had ever been on a boat. The smugglers from Turkey threatened the refugees with weapons. In the middle of the sea, the engine began to make strange noises. Then it fell silent. Everyone was very frightened, but then they saw two dolphins and they forgot about their troubles for a moment. After an hour of drifting, the engine was repaired enough to start once again and the journey continued. Omar and the others on the boat had traveled from Syria all the way to Greece. From there, he followed other refugees, walking, boarding another boat, walking more and finally boarding trains, which took him to Calais, in France. Always he was asking about Britain, where he has relatives. In Germany he was taken alone into an inspection room where he was made to undress. In his fear he attempted to hide his passport, but it was discovered by an officer who hit him for the offense. When he reached Calais, he became stuck in the camp. He’s been their for a year and a half now. There is no way out unless somebody on the outside helps one of the minors in the camp. He wants to get to Britain, where he has relatives. He wants to live, just like anyone else. Omar is still living in the squalid shanty town of blue tarps and a few boards in Calais, but his story has now made it across the channel to England, where there are people working for his release. He has helpers. He hopes to make it to England by September so he can start school.
For now, he is alone in the camp. He becomes frightened. Sometimes he cries out in the night, waking in fear. Sometimes there are rats in the room with him. Sometimes he wishes he could at least have a window in the tarp shack to let in a little light.
It is a story of courage and human survival against the odds, but it is just one story.
There have been various jungle camps around Calais since 1999, with migrants from as far away as Afghanistan. The “official” camp is composed of tents and tarps on a former landfill site. It is beyond capacity with over 6,000 residents. There are no proper sanitary or washing facilities. Food is supplied by charity kitchens. There is a fear in France that anything done to improve the living conditions will attract more immigrants striving to reach the UK with no way to cross the English Channel. Rumors that the land extends and one can walk all the way from France to Britain abound among refugees across Europe.
There have been numerous attempts to force the refugees out of the camps. In February the French government evicted 1,000 refugees from the camp. During the evictions, the southern side of the camp was demolished. Huts were set on fire. The French government has supplied 125 shipping containers to serve as housing units, but they remain mostly vacant because registration is required to live in the units and refugees fear that registration will prevent them from living in the UK.
Reports have come that hundreds of children have been raped and beaten in the camps. More than a hundred children have been reported as missing from the camps. Across Europe there are more than 10,000 unaccompanied minors who are reported missing.
No one is telling their stories.
The more children who die, the fewer remain to tell the story.
We live in a moment of history with an unprecedented refugee crisis. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees reports that there were 19.5 million refugees worldwide at the end of 2014. That number does not include an an additional 5.1 million Palestinian refugees registered with the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA). Those are only the refugees who have reported to official agencies, a small slice of the total number. The Atlantic reported that the total number of refugees and internally displaced people worldwide is almost 60 million. Put another way, that’s as if the entire population of Italy were pushed out of their homes. Or to look at it in yet a different way that’s one in every 122 people worldwide. The number of refugees and internally displaced people has reached its highest point since World War II.
Omar’s plight illustrates something about the crisis that is often hidden in the media reports. War and migration have deep and long-lasting effects on mental health. The trauma witnessed by children remains with them for the rest of their lives. It affects their children as well. We, who live far from the crush of the crisis, will be affected by it. The world’s economy and culture have already been affected and those effects are just beginning to be known. The reach of this crisis is far into our future as a planet.
In the midst of the numbers and the statistics, it is refreshing to read a single story and be reminded that the crisis is about individuals with hopes and dreams and aspirations all their own.
I just wonder about all of the children with no one to help them tell their stories.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Shaped by our times
24/05/16 05:38
Anthony Burgess once wrote, “It’s always good to remember where you come from and celebrate it. To remember where you come from is part of where you’re going.” The motivational speaker Morris Massey says a similar concept this way: “What you are is where you were when.” It is clear that we are shaped by our past, not only by our personal experiences, but also by the political and social events of the world into which we were born and in which we grow.
As I look back, the timing of the launching of Sputnik 1, the first artificial Earth satellite was a factor in my education. I was only four years old when the event occurred, but it caused an enormous response here in the United States. The space race was on. I was a third grader when President John F. Kennedy announced before a special joint session of Congress the dramatic and ambitious goal of sending and American safely to the Moon and back before the end of the decade. That goal was achieved through an intense burst of national focus and effort. It isn’t that there weren’t any other things going on - there were. The Cuban missile crisis, the assassination of the President and several other major leaders, the Vietnam War - there is a long list of national events that are memorable and shaped the story and culture of our people. But it think it might be fair to say that the space race had some of the most far-reaching effects on shaping who I am as an adult.
Almost instantly, science, math and engineering were important skills. The curricula of public schools was quickly refocused on teaching those skills. New math wasn’t a new subject but rather a new way of thinking about teaching mathematical skills. The academic track in our school was heavily weighted with math and science. Students who were intelligent and who showed promise as scholars were tracked into science and engineering classes.
There was a part of me that enjoyed the emphasis. I was interested in becoming a pilot and admired the astronauts. I studied their biographies and wrote personal letters to several of the original 7 astronauts. An autographed photograph of Walter Schirra was on the wall of my bedroom. He flew on all three phases of the moon program: Mercury 8, Gemini 6 and Apollo 7. He was two years younger than my father and they shared the same first name.
I had the ability to learn the math and science courses that were offered in our high school. However, by the time I reached high school, I was beginning to recognize that there were other fields of endeavor and study that were worthy of thought and energy. Science and math weren’t the only intellectual pursuits - the were the ones that were emphasized by the culture of the times.
There weren’t many philosophy majors in my college. There was even a mythology that philosophy was a bit of a slacker course of study, not requiring the same dedication, brilliance or commitment of the hard sciences. Logic, essential to the study of philosophy was taught as a mathematics course in our college. It was in the middle of my college career that I discovered the history and philosophy of science. I began to see that there is a long heritage of serious thinking about the directions of scientific exploration. I also began to see the value of interdisciplinary study. Different fields inform one another and while intense focus and narrow thinking can lead to discovery and pushing the boundaries of a particular discipline, taking a step back and looking at the big picture is essential to the application of discovery. Left to themselves, mathematics and physics become speculative enterprises that leave direct observation and application behind. I find it fascinating that some scientists disregard religion and speak of it as a study of nothing while at the same time reveling in the search for neutrinos. At Sanford Lab here in the hills the Large Underground Xenon (LUX) dark matter experiment is composed of one third of a ton of liquid xenon surrounded with sensitive light detectors inside a titanium vessel. The theory is that a dark matter particle will collide with a xenon atom inside the detector and a tiny burst of light will be emitted that can be detected. It is supposed to be one of the most sensitive scientific instruments ever devised. This huge effort at enormous cost has yet to yield any direct observation. LUX hasn’t detected a single particle of dark matter. The response of the scientists is to be deep into the planning and fund raising for an even larger detector, something on the scale of ten times of the present experiment, surpassing the world’s largest detector, buried int he ice of Antarctica.
All of this effort is to detect a particle that has not been directly observed. It is entirely possible that LUX will never detect a particle of dark matter.
And they call theology speculative.
It is, of course, a matter of perspective.
I happen to support physics research. I think building the large detectors has the potential to yield great discoveries and to push the limits of human knowledge and understanding the the universe. I think it is a worthy endeavor. But there are other ways to invest human thinking and energy that are equally worthy. Still, don’t expect theological seminaries or philosophy departments to be able to raise the kind of funding and attention afforded to speculative physics research. We’ve set national priorities and established agenda that favor some fields of study over others.
That is where knowing a bit of the history and philosophy of science is useful. The study of theology was a part of human life for thousands of years before the development of scientific method. Dismissing the book of Genesis as “unscientific” misses the point entirely. It comes from a period of human history before scientific methodologies existed. The study of theology will remain long after current scientific explorations are labeled primitive by new discoveries.
Thinking about the nature of God is a worthy human endeavor. It may even be one of the outcomes of the effort to detect dark matter.
As I look back, the timing of the launching of Sputnik 1, the first artificial Earth satellite was a factor in my education. I was only four years old when the event occurred, but it caused an enormous response here in the United States. The space race was on. I was a third grader when President John F. Kennedy announced before a special joint session of Congress the dramatic and ambitious goal of sending and American safely to the Moon and back before the end of the decade. That goal was achieved through an intense burst of national focus and effort. It isn’t that there weren’t any other things going on - there were. The Cuban missile crisis, the assassination of the President and several other major leaders, the Vietnam War - there is a long list of national events that are memorable and shaped the story and culture of our people. But it think it might be fair to say that the space race had some of the most far-reaching effects on shaping who I am as an adult.
Almost instantly, science, math and engineering were important skills. The curricula of public schools was quickly refocused on teaching those skills. New math wasn’t a new subject but rather a new way of thinking about teaching mathematical skills. The academic track in our school was heavily weighted with math and science. Students who were intelligent and who showed promise as scholars were tracked into science and engineering classes.
There was a part of me that enjoyed the emphasis. I was interested in becoming a pilot and admired the astronauts. I studied their biographies and wrote personal letters to several of the original 7 astronauts. An autographed photograph of Walter Schirra was on the wall of my bedroom. He flew on all three phases of the moon program: Mercury 8, Gemini 6 and Apollo 7. He was two years younger than my father and they shared the same first name.
I had the ability to learn the math and science courses that were offered in our high school. However, by the time I reached high school, I was beginning to recognize that there were other fields of endeavor and study that were worthy of thought and energy. Science and math weren’t the only intellectual pursuits - the were the ones that were emphasized by the culture of the times.
There weren’t many philosophy majors in my college. There was even a mythology that philosophy was a bit of a slacker course of study, not requiring the same dedication, brilliance or commitment of the hard sciences. Logic, essential to the study of philosophy was taught as a mathematics course in our college. It was in the middle of my college career that I discovered the history and philosophy of science. I began to see that there is a long heritage of serious thinking about the directions of scientific exploration. I also began to see the value of interdisciplinary study. Different fields inform one another and while intense focus and narrow thinking can lead to discovery and pushing the boundaries of a particular discipline, taking a step back and looking at the big picture is essential to the application of discovery. Left to themselves, mathematics and physics become speculative enterprises that leave direct observation and application behind. I find it fascinating that some scientists disregard religion and speak of it as a study of nothing while at the same time reveling in the search for neutrinos. At Sanford Lab here in the hills the Large Underground Xenon (LUX) dark matter experiment is composed of one third of a ton of liquid xenon surrounded with sensitive light detectors inside a titanium vessel. The theory is that a dark matter particle will collide with a xenon atom inside the detector and a tiny burst of light will be emitted that can be detected. It is supposed to be one of the most sensitive scientific instruments ever devised. This huge effort at enormous cost has yet to yield any direct observation. LUX hasn’t detected a single particle of dark matter. The response of the scientists is to be deep into the planning and fund raising for an even larger detector, something on the scale of ten times of the present experiment, surpassing the world’s largest detector, buried int he ice of Antarctica.
All of this effort is to detect a particle that has not been directly observed. It is entirely possible that LUX will never detect a particle of dark matter.
And they call theology speculative.
It is, of course, a matter of perspective.
I happen to support physics research. I think building the large detectors has the potential to yield great discoveries and to push the limits of human knowledge and understanding the the universe. I think it is a worthy endeavor. But there are other ways to invest human thinking and energy that are equally worthy. Still, don’t expect theological seminaries or philosophy departments to be able to raise the kind of funding and attention afforded to speculative physics research. We’ve set national priorities and established agenda that favor some fields of study over others.
That is where knowing a bit of the history and philosophy of science is useful. The study of theology was a part of human life for thousands of years before the development of scientific method. Dismissing the book of Genesis as “unscientific” misses the point entirely. It comes from a period of human history before scientific methodologies existed. The study of theology will remain long after current scientific explorations are labeled primitive by new discoveries.
Thinking about the nature of God is a worthy human endeavor. It may even be one of the outcomes of the effort to detect dark matter.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Optimistic about the future
23/05/16 04:33
Recently I was listening to some previously-downloaded podcasts and came across a TED talk given by Al Gore in February. The talk outlined the reasons why he is optimistic about the ability of humans to find a solution to global climate change before it is too late. He ended the talk with this story:
When I was 13 years old, I heard that proposal by President Kennedy to land a person on the Moon and bring him back safely in 10 years. And I heard adults of that day and time say, "That's reckless, expensive, may well fail." But eight years and two months later, in the moment that Neil Armstrong set foot on the Moon, there was great cheer that went up in NASA's mission control in Houston. Here's a little-known fact about that: the average age of the systems engineers, the controllers in the room that day, was 26, which means, among other things, their age, when they heard that challenge, was 18.
I always think about 18-year-olds at this time of the year. High School graduation was yesterday in our town. Our congregation has a slump in this particular age group. After having several graduates for quite a few years, we have only one graduate this year. But despite the fact that my part of the ministry of the church doesn’t involve much youth work, I still have a keen interest in youth and youth culture. I was surprised to learn the statistic about the controllers and systems engineers at NASA in the late 1960’s, but when I think of it, it really makes sense.
I’ve been known to joke that I reached the height of my intellectual powers at the age of 25. Although I have accomplished a lot since those days and there are some things in my life that are definitely aided by experience and wisdom, there is another sense in which I had a kind of intellectual brilliance and passionate fire about my life in those days that has since been at least a little bit dulled. I completed my doctorate just before I celebrated my 25th birthday. I was a published author, had one of my pieces translated into other languages, was recognized several who’s who listings, and was ready to begin my career. I could read and process information at a very quick pace and was able to solve intellectual challenges and puzzles with ease and speed.
But at age 25 I lacked the patience, insight and managerial skills to do the job I do today. I didn’t have the experience of having preached through the lectionary multiple times and incorporated as many biblical passages into my life as is the case today. I read my sermons from those days and know that the congregation I now serve wouldn’t tolerate such a tirade of poorly informed sermons.
In those days I was completely sold on the value of youth mission trips. I planned, promoted organized and fund-raised to travel with youth to many different locations knowing the power of trips and service to transform the lives of youth. It took me a couple of decades of working with youth to discover that the best experience for those youth was not to travel in a group of people the same age, but rather to participate in intergenerational activities. Even more powerful than a youth mission trip is a mission trip that incorporates people of many different ages. In our partnership with our sister church in Costa Rica we have taken several trips that involved teens and people in their seventies and representatives of every decade in between.
If I were given the opportunity to respond to Vice President Gore’s talk or to have a conversation with him about the subject, I would share his optimism, especially when it comes to the brilliance and potential of youth for leadership and solving major world problems. But I would add that even more amazing things come from the interaction of youth with people of other ages. If you combine the intellectual brilliance, energy and enthusiasm of youth with the wisdom, maturity and experience of age the potential is even greater.
It is this passion for people of different ages working together that inspires much of what I do in the church these days. I believe strongly that although there are many places in our culture that divide people by age and segregate them into age groupings, the church is an institution that is committed to being intentionally intergenerational. To be honest, there are church groups that show little enthusiasm for age diversity and there are congregations that are made up of people who are all of a similar age. However, there is still much of intergenerational life in many congregations. The congregation I serve leans a bit toward the grey- and white-haired set, but if you speak with any of our members you will discover the intense desire to expand our community to be more inclusive of younger members. The church is open to leadership from all ages and celebrates the youth in our midst with genuine care and affection.
By many accounts I am approaching the age where it will make sense for me to step aside and allow someone who is younger to take the reins of leadership in the church. Before I do, however, I hope that I have at least one more opportunity to work as equal colleagues with those who are much younger than I. I believe that we have much to offer to each other and to the church.
Bring on the leaders in their twenties and thirties, and allow them to work side by side with those of us who have been about this business for as long as they have been alive. Together we just might provide dramatic leadership to a church that is continually changing and growing.
Without a doubt, I am optimistic about the future of the church.
When I was 13 years old, I heard that proposal by President Kennedy to land a person on the Moon and bring him back safely in 10 years. And I heard adults of that day and time say, "That's reckless, expensive, may well fail." But eight years and two months later, in the moment that Neil Armstrong set foot on the Moon, there was great cheer that went up in NASA's mission control in Houston. Here's a little-known fact about that: the average age of the systems engineers, the controllers in the room that day, was 26, which means, among other things, their age, when they heard that challenge, was 18.
I always think about 18-year-olds at this time of the year. High School graduation was yesterday in our town. Our congregation has a slump in this particular age group. After having several graduates for quite a few years, we have only one graduate this year. But despite the fact that my part of the ministry of the church doesn’t involve much youth work, I still have a keen interest in youth and youth culture. I was surprised to learn the statistic about the controllers and systems engineers at NASA in the late 1960’s, but when I think of it, it really makes sense.
I’ve been known to joke that I reached the height of my intellectual powers at the age of 25. Although I have accomplished a lot since those days and there are some things in my life that are definitely aided by experience and wisdom, there is another sense in which I had a kind of intellectual brilliance and passionate fire about my life in those days that has since been at least a little bit dulled. I completed my doctorate just before I celebrated my 25th birthday. I was a published author, had one of my pieces translated into other languages, was recognized several who’s who listings, and was ready to begin my career. I could read and process information at a very quick pace and was able to solve intellectual challenges and puzzles with ease and speed.
But at age 25 I lacked the patience, insight and managerial skills to do the job I do today. I didn’t have the experience of having preached through the lectionary multiple times and incorporated as many biblical passages into my life as is the case today. I read my sermons from those days and know that the congregation I now serve wouldn’t tolerate such a tirade of poorly informed sermons.
In those days I was completely sold on the value of youth mission trips. I planned, promoted organized and fund-raised to travel with youth to many different locations knowing the power of trips and service to transform the lives of youth. It took me a couple of decades of working with youth to discover that the best experience for those youth was not to travel in a group of people the same age, but rather to participate in intergenerational activities. Even more powerful than a youth mission trip is a mission trip that incorporates people of many different ages. In our partnership with our sister church in Costa Rica we have taken several trips that involved teens and people in their seventies and representatives of every decade in between.
If I were given the opportunity to respond to Vice President Gore’s talk or to have a conversation with him about the subject, I would share his optimism, especially when it comes to the brilliance and potential of youth for leadership and solving major world problems. But I would add that even more amazing things come from the interaction of youth with people of other ages. If you combine the intellectual brilliance, energy and enthusiasm of youth with the wisdom, maturity and experience of age the potential is even greater.
It is this passion for people of different ages working together that inspires much of what I do in the church these days. I believe strongly that although there are many places in our culture that divide people by age and segregate them into age groupings, the church is an institution that is committed to being intentionally intergenerational. To be honest, there are church groups that show little enthusiasm for age diversity and there are congregations that are made up of people who are all of a similar age. However, there is still much of intergenerational life in many congregations. The congregation I serve leans a bit toward the grey- and white-haired set, but if you speak with any of our members you will discover the intense desire to expand our community to be more inclusive of younger members. The church is open to leadership from all ages and celebrates the youth in our midst with genuine care and affection.
By many accounts I am approaching the age where it will make sense for me to step aside and allow someone who is younger to take the reins of leadership in the church. Before I do, however, I hope that I have at least one more opportunity to work as equal colleagues with those who are much younger than I. I believe that we have much to offer to each other and to the church.
Bring on the leaders in their twenties and thirties, and allow them to work side by side with those of us who have been about this business for as long as they have been alive. Together we just might provide dramatic leadership to a church that is continually changing and growing.
Without a doubt, I am optimistic about the future of the church.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Gray day
22/05/16 05:08
When I was 12 or 13 years old my family took a vacation. There were seven of us in our Chevy Caryall. The passenger version of the panel van had three rows of seats, but only two doors. The right third of the front seat folded toward the dash to provide entry to the back rows of seats. Seat belts weren’t a standard feature in those days, but our father had installed airplane seat belts for all of the seats of the car. The belt for the third row was a single long belt that strapped all of the occupants together. It wasn’t comfortable if your seat mate was a squirming brother. We left on this particular trip shortly after school got out for summer vacation, which in our neck of the woods was a time when there were a few rainy days. The wipers on the truck were like the wipers on all of the vehicles in our town at the time: seldom used and cracked from the sun. They left streaks on the windshield and squeaked when employed. There were no intermittent wipers in those days and the switch was on the dashboard - a healthy reach for the driver. I can remember the squeaking wipers and wishing that our father would turn them off more often.
We headed to the Black Hills of South Dakota to see the sights. Driving across southwest Montana, there weren’t many sights to see and it was late in the day by the time we got the family fed and checked into our motel. Some of us slept in sleeping bags on the floor. The next morning dawned gray and misty and after breakfast we headed out to see Mount Rushmore. We spent a couple of hours at the monument, mostly inside peering through the big glass windows and occasionally making out a bit of the shape of a nose or eye through the misty fog. It was simply too foggy to see anything. Our parents spent part of the time going through the tourist brochures making up an alternate plan for the rest of the day.
We ended up at Evans Plunge in Hot Springs, which was a wonderful treat for the whole family. The gravel bottomed indoor pool was clean and warm and the steep slide was a thrill for us kids. We stayed until our skin was wrinkled from the time in the pool.
I don’t remember seeing anything else in the hills on that trip. The next day we headed for our uncle’s home in Colorado. He raised pigs and the visit to the farm was interesting and fun for us kids.
It has been nearly a half century since that trip, but it took place around this time of the year and yesterday was one of those days when the weather matched my memories of the Black Hills.
I launched my little row boat early in the morning. I couldn’t see across the lake as I took the oars in hand. Rowing in a straight line is not a problem, but you do need to have some good points of reference because you face the rear of the boat when rowing and it takes a few glances over your shoulder to get the boat to go where you want. The gray fog didn’t help with navigation that much. However, the lake is very familiar to me and I headed straight across, rowing from the north ramp to the south and back. There was one fisherman on the lake. Other than that I had the lake to myself.
Rowing in the fog is a pleasant experience. The day wasn’t cold, but I didn’t have to worry about getting too warm, either. Rowing is a gentle exercise. I don’t have a sliding seat in this boat, so it mostly involves my arms and shoulders. Going straight means pulling equally on both oars and I have a good foot brace and seat. The boat feels very stable as it pulls easily across the water, leaving a small wake as evidence of my progress. In the fog there isn’t much sight seeing to be done, so my mind is free to wander. There were many pleasant memories from the week past and a long list of tasks that lie ahead in a very busy week to come. An hour or so of rowing was just right to prepare me for the day ahead.
Rowing and paddling are my preferred forms of exercise these days. I have a relatively active lifestyle with plenty of walking in an average day, but the discipline of regular exercise is always a bit of a challenge for me. I can always think of other things that I want to do. In the winter I try to spend at least a half hour on the rowing machine three times a week, but don’t always keep that discipline. When the weather permits, however, I prefer to get outside and do my exercise in a more natural environment and I’m better at making time for the adventure. I’m not sure what the difference is, really. It isn’t as if I had anything to see yesterday. Still even when it is gray and foggy, I prefer to be outside. Rain does little to deter me from outside activities. I have pretty good rain gear and I’ve discovered over the years that I’m pretty much waterproof anyway. Immerse me and I’m not much worse for the wear.
Yesterday there was a little breeze, stirring a bit of texture on the surface of the lake. The breeze also caused the fog to shift and move around, leaving moments when the visibility was better interspersed with times of barely being able to see the shore. With so little contrast, there weren’t many fish rising to the surface. The high humidity probably was keeping the insects out of the feeding zone as well. It might not have been the best morning for the fishermen, but there was only one on the lake anyway. For me, the fog was a gift of solitude.
I’ve got really pleasant memories of our trip to the Black Hills when we couldn’t see the faces at Mount Rushmore. In the years since I’ve added more pleasant memories of gray days. Yesterday was one more in a long line of good memories.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Pictures and words
21/05/16 02:12
My blog is an evolving entity. When I started writing daily, my vision was that I would combine a single photograph with an essay each day. This discipline would keep me involved in a hobby that I love, photography, and help me develop as a writer. I arrived at the formula of a single picture and a one thousand word essay because of the adage, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” In the early day son this blog I kept to that format. Then, after a while, I discovered that I frequently did not have a picture to go with my essay. For a while I used stock images from the Internet, but somehow that seemed not to be keeping with my original intentions. I discovered that if I allowed myself to write each day and use pictures only when I had a particularly striking image I was freed to continue writing. Quickly my photography and my writing took different routes.
The basic problem is that while I am disciplined about my writing and find it to be meaningful to write every day, I am less disciplined about my photography. Photography is an avocation for me and I take pictures when I have time. In a similar time the use of pictures on the internet has increased so much that we rarely take time to examine and enjoy a single image. If one were to use the adage as a point of reference, it might be fair to say that the value of pictures has decreased when it comes to the Internet.
The price of ten thousand words, however, had other references in literary history. The Works of Mr. James Thomson, published in 1802 claimed, “One timely deed is worth ten thousand words.” In 1808, “The Trust: A Comedy, in Five Acts,” declared “That tear, good girl, is worth, ten thousand words.” And the American Journal of Education, in 1858, printed, “One fact well understood by observation, and well guided development, is worth a thousand times more than a thousand words.”
So, today I’m putting lots of pictures in my blog. The reason has nothing to do with the comparative value of pictures and words, however. It has to do with the fact that the vacation we took in the last week afforded time for me to take a lot of pictures.
Most of those pictures were of our grandchildren and I am reluctant to post pictures of them in the Internet. I know it is common. The Facebook entries of my friends are filled with pictures of their grandchildren. I, however, am reluctant to do so. Our children are pretty careful about what they do and do not post on the Internet and a sense of caution seems to be in order when it comes to something as precious as their children.
So today there are plenty of pictures in my blog. They aren’t illustrations of the words per se, but rather a reflection of my perspective in the past week. After all the blog is always a commentary on my changing perspectives on life and faith and it makes sense that I offer a bit of visual variety as well as the kaleidoscope of perspectives that is my usual fare.
Regular readers of the blog may notice that there are more images when I have more time and am in a more recreational phase of my life. I know that my attention is much more focused when using my single lens reflex camera to make an image than when I pull out my phone for a quick snapshot. Time and mental focus are important factors in producing quality photographs.
After all, depending on the current value of pictures, today’s blog could be considered to be much longer than usual.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
People in motion
20/05/16 05:22
On my father’s side of the family, there were quite a few restless folks. If you follow the genealogy back, you’ll discover that that we didn’t stay put in any one location for very long. My grandfather made a move of over 600 miles from the homestead where he was born to the community where he retired. His father struck out across the continent to establish that homestead. He himself was descended from people that had left the country of their birth to establish a new life on a different continent. Along the way there are relatives who found a home place and settled in for several generations, but there have always been those in each generation who left home for a distant location.
On my mother’s side of the family, I have a cousin who is raising the sixth generation of their family on the homestead of my mother’s parents and grandparents. I’m the descendant of a blending of nomads and settlers. I’ve carried on the family tradition in my own way. I’ve lived in five different states. I lived in Illinois for only four years as I attended school. We lived in North Dakota for seven years. In each of our other locations, we’ve stayed for a decade or more and we’ve lived in our current home for nearly 21 years. By contemporary standards, we don’t move around as much as many of our colleagues and friends. On the other hand, we’ve had our share of experiences with covering long distances. Each of our moves has involved changing states and distances of nearly 1,000 miles.
Our children, who made two big moves during their growing up years, have not been afraid of moving as adults. Our son lives nearly 1200 miles away, our daughter over 750 miles in another direction. Although they are in established careers and live in their own homes, it is quite possible that both families will move again in the course of their lives.
There is a huge difference for our children’s generation, however. When my grandfather picked up stakes and left the homestead behind there was little or no long distance telephone service. The usual method of communication was by letter, delivered by the US Postal Service. Although postage was inexpensive, it took several days for a letter to be delivered. Letters communicate a great deal, but they have their limits when it comes to sharing life’s most important moments. Still, they had an advantage over previous generations. It wasn’t long ago when people said good bye to their families before boarding a ship to the “new” country and never again had a conversation with those who were left behind.
We had lunch with our grandchildren yesterday and read them stories as they laid down for their naps. Then we rode to the airport, boarded a plane, transferred to another plane and were home in time to sleep in our own beds. Using public transportation, we can make the journey between the two homes in half a day.
We exchanged text messages along the way so that everyone in our family already knows that our trip went smoothly and we arrived home safely. We can turn on the computer and video chat with our family members, something that we did multiple times in the past week as we were with our grandchildren and our daughter remained in her home thousands of miles away and our son went on a business trip to Toronto, Canada.
The mobility of this generation is amazing. So is the technology we use to keep in nearly constant contact as we travel.
I can’t imagine the emotional journeys of previous generations as they said good bye. Children were born without even meeting their grandparents. Families launched into new territories and never looked back.
We’ve had such fun with our grandchildren in the past week that it is extremely easy for me to allow my mind to wander and imagine moving to a closer location. Of course doing so would mean a major shift in employment and finding new jobs isn’t an easy process for someone my age. And moving closer to the home of our son would mean moving farther away from the home of our daughter. And a move to another location in pursuit of new opportunities could happen to either of our children in the next decade or so. Despite our joy at being together and our genuine desire to live in closer proximity, the realities of modern life mean that we need to learn to live with physical distances and we need to work hard at the techniques and the mastering of technologies that allow us to remain emotionally close even when there are big physical distances.
It doesn’t hurt to have travel be among our family’s financial priorities as well. We are fortunate to be able to purchase airline tickets and travel to be together on a regular basis.
The drama of our family’s story is fairly mild, however, when compared with the human drama that takes place on a massive scale around the world every day. I watched video clips of Syrian families literally handing their children through the windows of a bus bound for Turkey in hopes that the children might survive a war that continues to take lives on a daily basis. Families make enormous moves to places with unknown languages and cultures because they are forced to flee for their lives. Extended families are separated by oceans and national boundaries not through well-planned choices, but rather by circumstances over which they have no control. The movement of people across continents and around the world is dramatic and filled with human tragedy, separation, loss and grief. Against the background of a world filled with refugees, our family’s situation is wonderfully fortunate. I resolve not to take this good fortune for granted. I offer prayers of gratitude not only for my family and my relationships with others, but also for the time of my life and the ability to travel.
And if I am a bit tired as I go through my day at work today, I have the promise of a good rest at night and the memories of a great trip and precious days with family.
On my mother’s side of the family, I have a cousin who is raising the sixth generation of their family on the homestead of my mother’s parents and grandparents. I’m the descendant of a blending of nomads and settlers. I’ve carried on the family tradition in my own way. I’ve lived in five different states. I lived in Illinois for only four years as I attended school. We lived in North Dakota for seven years. In each of our other locations, we’ve stayed for a decade or more and we’ve lived in our current home for nearly 21 years. By contemporary standards, we don’t move around as much as many of our colleagues and friends. On the other hand, we’ve had our share of experiences with covering long distances. Each of our moves has involved changing states and distances of nearly 1,000 miles.
Our children, who made two big moves during their growing up years, have not been afraid of moving as adults. Our son lives nearly 1200 miles away, our daughter over 750 miles in another direction. Although they are in established careers and live in their own homes, it is quite possible that both families will move again in the course of their lives.
There is a huge difference for our children’s generation, however. When my grandfather picked up stakes and left the homestead behind there was little or no long distance telephone service. The usual method of communication was by letter, delivered by the US Postal Service. Although postage was inexpensive, it took several days for a letter to be delivered. Letters communicate a great deal, but they have their limits when it comes to sharing life’s most important moments. Still, they had an advantage over previous generations. It wasn’t long ago when people said good bye to their families before boarding a ship to the “new” country and never again had a conversation with those who were left behind.
We had lunch with our grandchildren yesterday and read them stories as they laid down for their naps. Then we rode to the airport, boarded a plane, transferred to another plane and were home in time to sleep in our own beds. Using public transportation, we can make the journey between the two homes in half a day.
We exchanged text messages along the way so that everyone in our family already knows that our trip went smoothly and we arrived home safely. We can turn on the computer and video chat with our family members, something that we did multiple times in the past week as we were with our grandchildren and our daughter remained in her home thousands of miles away and our son went on a business trip to Toronto, Canada.
The mobility of this generation is amazing. So is the technology we use to keep in nearly constant contact as we travel.
I can’t imagine the emotional journeys of previous generations as they said good bye. Children were born without even meeting their grandparents. Families launched into new territories and never looked back.
We’ve had such fun with our grandchildren in the past week that it is extremely easy for me to allow my mind to wander and imagine moving to a closer location. Of course doing so would mean a major shift in employment and finding new jobs isn’t an easy process for someone my age. And moving closer to the home of our son would mean moving farther away from the home of our daughter. And a move to another location in pursuit of new opportunities could happen to either of our children in the next decade or so. Despite our joy at being together and our genuine desire to live in closer proximity, the realities of modern life mean that we need to learn to live with physical distances and we need to work hard at the techniques and the mastering of technologies that allow us to remain emotionally close even when there are big physical distances.
It doesn’t hurt to have travel be among our family’s financial priorities as well. We are fortunate to be able to purchase airline tickets and travel to be together on a regular basis.
The drama of our family’s story is fairly mild, however, when compared with the human drama that takes place on a massive scale around the world every day. I watched video clips of Syrian families literally handing their children through the windows of a bus bound for Turkey in hopes that the children might survive a war that continues to take lives on a daily basis. Families make enormous moves to places with unknown languages and cultures because they are forced to flee for their lives. Extended families are separated by oceans and national boundaries not through well-planned choices, but rather by circumstances over which they have no control. The movement of people across continents and around the world is dramatic and filled with human tragedy, separation, loss and grief. Against the background of a world filled with refugees, our family’s situation is wonderfully fortunate. I resolve not to take this good fortune for granted. I offer prayers of gratitude not only for my family and my relationships with others, but also for the time of my life and the ability to travel.
And if I am a bit tired as I go through my day at work today, I have the promise of a good rest at night and the memories of a great trip and precious days with family.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Smoked salmon
19/05/16 05:12
One of the pivotal developments in the evolution of human beings was the discovery of cooking. When consumed raw, digestion of food requires a lot of calories. Some animals, especially those that are large, require the majority of their time in the process of gathering and consuming food. However, with the advent of cooking, humans were able to be slightly more efficient with their food gathering and digesting and thus began to have time for other activities, including more conversation and learning.
At some point, thousands of years ago, probably by accident, someone discovered that meat or fish that was exposed to smoke lasted longer before spoiling. This discovery led to techniques of smoking for the preservation of food. The process became especially developed where humans live in harsh environments, far from the equator. All across northern Europe, Asia and North America, there are traditions of smoking to preserve food. In some areas there are elaborate smoke houses, developed for just the right combination of smoke and temperature. Other traditions involve sticks or frames or other means of holding the meat in the smoke of the fire.
These days, with the advent of modern refrigeration and freezing, smoking is not primarily employed for the purpose of preserving food, but rather employed for the flavor it imparts. Certain woods provide desired flavors. Smoked meats are considered to be delicacies around the world.
Wherever we travel we delight in the opportunities to eat local foods that are not part of our usual diet. Of course, with modern air freight, almost any kind of food is available in our local grocery store. Being available, however, doesn’t mean that it is affordable and it is important that we make wise choices in the foods we consume because among the prices of our food is the energy that is consumed producing and delivering them to us. It has been widely reported that the transportation of food is a major factor in overall global energy consumption. We can do more to decrease our energy footprint by the choices we make about what food we eat than by the choices we make about transportation. At our home, the fresh fruits and vegetables we pick up at the grocery store often have traveled more than we.
Whenever we are privileged to travel to coastal areas we take great delight in eating local seafood. This trip has been no exception. There is a small fish market in Olympia where we are able to obtain the freshest seafood. We have feasted on local steamer clams, eating them the same day that they were dug. We have eaten rock cod, also known as red snapper, fresh off of the boat.
One of the fish we really enjoy is salmon. Salmon begin their lives in fresh water and as young fish migrate out into the open ocean where they live most of their lives, returning to the same freshwater rivers and streams where they were born to lay their eggs and begin the cycle of life once again. The return of the salmon takes place in the late summer and fall and that is when they are harvested by bears and humans and other creatures. The advent of refrigeration, especially portable refrigeration and of very fast air travel, has resulted in salmon being available year round, if one is willing to pay the price of travel.
This time of year the salmon in the fish markets even here on the coast, is from far away. When we travel to the coast, we often bring home a bit of smoked salmon as a special treat. Alaskan salmon, properly smoked, is sealed in air-tight containers and remains ready to be eaten for long periods of time. It is available at home, but the price is significantly higher than here where it is closer to the source. Part of the pacific fishing fleet normally based in the Puget Sound travels north to participate in fishing in the summer and fall in Alaska.
So there is a small amount of smoked salmon packed and ready to return home with us today.
The process is slightly different in modern times, but people have been preserving salmon by smoking for thousands of years. In earlier generations, salmon was the major protein source for coastal tribal people. They would cut meaty filets from the huge fish, cure them by coating with salt, attach the filets to alder planks, and jam the planks into the ground around a fire. Sometimes they would simply drape the filets over a pole above a smoldering fire.
These days instead of using a dry rub consisting mostly of salt, the meat is brined in a liquid solution of salt and spices suspended in water and after brining it is smokes. A variety of woods are used, but fruit woods such as apple and cherry are often preferred for smoking salmon. The technique preferred for Alaskan salmon is what is known as warm or hot smoking. The fish is placed near enough to the fire to be slowly cooked as it is smoked, usually at a temperature between 200 and 300 degrees fahrenheit.
There is a process of cold smoking, where the fish is cooked at temperatures below 200 degrees. This produces a different form of smoked salmon known as lox. This process is more difficult because of the possibility of the process not totally eliminating pathogens, especially heat resistant spores. There is even a risk of parasites when fish is not smoked properly. We prefer the hot smoked salmon for its stronger flavor and increased storage time once the package is opened.
A bit of smoked fish is a modest souvenir to take home after a week here in the northwest. Of course souvenirs aren’t the main things we bring home from our travels. What we enjoy best are the memories. Long after the trinkets have been placed on a shelf and the food has been consumed, we take great delight in telling the stories of our travels and recalling the memories. This trip is no exception. Our photographs are mostly of our grandchildren. Our stories feature them as well.
It has been a grand trip and it will be difficult to say good bye, but we are blessed to have been able to take the week and come. Maintaining our relationship over the distance is enhanced by modern technologies, but it is also strengthened by in person visits and shared experiences.
Smoke makes salmon last a bit longer. Hugs make love last forever.
At some point, thousands of years ago, probably by accident, someone discovered that meat or fish that was exposed to smoke lasted longer before spoiling. This discovery led to techniques of smoking for the preservation of food. The process became especially developed where humans live in harsh environments, far from the equator. All across northern Europe, Asia and North America, there are traditions of smoking to preserve food. In some areas there are elaborate smoke houses, developed for just the right combination of smoke and temperature. Other traditions involve sticks or frames or other means of holding the meat in the smoke of the fire.
These days, with the advent of modern refrigeration and freezing, smoking is not primarily employed for the purpose of preserving food, but rather employed for the flavor it imparts. Certain woods provide desired flavors. Smoked meats are considered to be delicacies around the world.
Wherever we travel we delight in the opportunities to eat local foods that are not part of our usual diet. Of course, with modern air freight, almost any kind of food is available in our local grocery store. Being available, however, doesn’t mean that it is affordable and it is important that we make wise choices in the foods we consume because among the prices of our food is the energy that is consumed producing and delivering them to us. It has been widely reported that the transportation of food is a major factor in overall global energy consumption. We can do more to decrease our energy footprint by the choices we make about what food we eat than by the choices we make about transportation. At our home, the fresh fruits and vegetables we pick up at the grocery store often have traveled more than we.
Whenever we are privileged to travel to coastal areas we take great delight in eating local seafood. This trip has been no exception. There is a small fish market in Olympia where we are able to obtain the freshest seafood. We have feasted on local steamer clams, eating them the same day that they were dug. We have eaten rock cod, also known as red snapper, fresh off of the boat.
One of the fish we really enjoy is salmon. Salmon begin their lives in fresh water and as young fish migrate out into the open ocean where they live most of their lives, returning to the same freshwater rivers and streams where they were born to lay their eggs and begin the cycle of life once again. The return of the salmon takes place in the late summer and fall and that is when they are harvested by bears and humans and other creatures. The advent of refrigeration, especially portable refrigeration and of very fast air travel, has resulted in salmon being available year round, if one is willing to pay the price of travel.
This time of year the salmon in the fish markets even here on the coast, is from far away. When we travel to the coast, we often bring home a bit of smoked salmon as a special treat. Alaskan salmon, properly smoked, is sealed in air-tight containers and remains ready to be eaten for long periods of time. It is available at home, but the price is significantly higher than here where it is closer to the source. Part of the pacific fishing fleet normally based in the Puget Sound travels north to participate in fishing in the summer and fall in Alaska.
So there is a small amount of smoked salmon packed and ready to return home with us today.
The process is slightly different in modern times, but people have been preserving salmon by smoking for thousands of years. In earlier generations, salmon was the major protein source for coastal tribal people. They would cut meaty filets from the huge fish, cure them by coating with salt, attach the filets to alder planks, and jam the planks into the ground around a fire. Sometimes they would simply drape the filets over a pole above a smoldering fire.
These days instead of using a dry rub consisting mostly of salt, the meat is brined in a liquid solution of salt and spices suspended in water and after brining it is smokes. A variety of woods are used, but fruit woods such as apple and cherry are often preferred for smoking salmon. The technique preferred for Alaskan salmon is what is known as warm or hot smoking. The fish is placed near enough to the fire to be slowly cooked as it is smoked, usually at a temperature between 200 and 300 degrees fahrenheit.
There is a process of cold smoking, where the fish is cooked at temperatures below 200 degrees. This produces a different form of smoked salmon known as lox. This process is more difficult because of the possibility of the process not totally eliminating pathogens, especially heat resistant spores. There is even a risk of parasites when fish is not smoked properly. We prefer the hot smoked salmon for its stronger flavor and increased storage time once the package is opened.
A bit of smoked fish is a modest souvenir to take home after a week here in the northwest. Of course souvenirs aren’t the main things we bring home from our travels. What we enjoy best are the memories. Long after the trinkets have been placed on a shelf and the food has been consumed, we take great delight in telling the stories of our travels and recalling the memories. This trip is no exception. Our photographs are mostly of our grandchildren. Our stories feature them as well.
It has been a grand trip and it will be difficult to say good bye, but we are blessed to have been able to take the week and come. Maintaining our relationship over the distance is enhanced by modern technologies, but it is also strengthened by in person visits and shared experiences.
Smoke makes salmon last a bit longer. Hugs make love last forever.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
A lot of people
18/05/16 04:48
In the hills where we live the predominant species of tree is Ponderosa Pine. The other evergreen tree is Black Hills Spruce. There are also birch, aspen and even oak trees in the hills, but their numbers are much smaller than the pine. With our soils and moisture patterns, the pine trees can grow to 60 or even 75 feet high. They create an effective wind barrier and create cover for all kinds of animals. We do have a tree that is nearly 150 feet high just southwest of our home, but it doesn’t really count as it is a cell phone tower.
When I visit the Pacific Northwest, I am always amazed by the trees. The Olympic peninsula and regions around the Hood Canal and the southern end of the Puget Sound are technically temperate rain forest. Sitka Spruce, Hemlock, and Douglas Fir grow to 150 feet high. The size of the trunks of the trees is amazing to someone from our part of the world. The varieties of mosses and ferns and other undergrowth make a walk in the woods around here a delightful adventure.
One of the big advantages of these wonderful trees is that they are very good at absorbing sound. It is said that there are parts of Olympic National Park that are among the most acoustically natural places on the earth. These sound properties of the trees are very important because the greater Seattle area is one of the great urban centers of the world. Interstate 5 runs north and south a ways inland from the Pacific Coast from Mexico to Canada crossing through many of the major cities of California, Oregon and Washington. It is a corridor for the transportation of everything from food to energy supplies to high tech gear. Interstate 5 never sleeps. There are multiple lanes of traffic on the road in the middle of the night as well as during the day. Some of the truck traffic is higher during the night than the day as transportation networks supply the retail goods that are required to keep the cities running.
The motel where we stay when we visit our children is very close to the Interstate with just a narrow band of trees separating it from the Interstate. Although our children’s home is within walking distance, the difference in location makes a fairly big difference in the amount of noise from the highway. If we listen and pay attention, the dull roar in the background when we are at the motel is the sound of the highway supplying the cities of the West coast.
A couple of times during this visit I have been lying awake on the bed and listening to the traffic noise and wondering about all of those people. The city of Olympia itself is not much bigger than Rapid City. But Rapid City is a long ways from other cities. You have to travel more than 300 miles in any direction to find another town as big as ours when you are in South Dakota. Several of those larger cities are in different states. Driving from Olympia to the airport in Seattle you pass through Tacoma and some of the Seattle suburbs. Tacoma has over 200,000 people and more than 650,000 people call Seattle home. Although they don’t all go to the airport at the same time, sometimes it seems as if a fairly large percentage of the population is on the move. Whether driving on the Interstate or walking in the downtown region, one encounters a lot of people wherever you go.
For the most part the people get along with each other very well. If you consider the number of vehicles that pass on the Interstate every hour the accident rate around here is remarkably low. Travel is safe and we do so without worries. Still with all of those people in a relatively small amount of space it is inevitable that there is human drama playing out all the time. There are folks being rushed to hospitals where the emergency rooms are filed with dramatic actions and complex events. There are fires and ambulance and police calls around the clock in the cities. Each of those events is a big deal in the lives of those involved. If you were to know all of the stories of the city, you’d be overwhelmed by the human emotions involved.
In the midst of all of those people and all of those stories, we have been focusing our attention on just one family. We borrow our son’s car to run to the grocery store or to take the children to the park. We walk around the neighborhood with the dog. We follow our grandson as he rides his bicycle on the trail. We see lots of other people and we greet a few of them, but we don’t really know their stories. Chances are they all have stories as fascinating and interesting as the story of our family. Chances are they have children and grandchildren and parents and others in their lives that add richness and meaning. Chances are they have jobs and are engaged in volunteer work and enjoy their lives. Chances are they have problems to solve and challenges in their lives. But we just don’t know their stories.
Most of the time I am engaged in the church where I have an opportunity to learn at least part of the stories of the people with whom I work. Their families become important to me. Their challenges are mulled in my prayers. But here in a city where we are visitors, my prayers for these people have to be more generic. When I don’t know the stories, I pray general prayers for safety and meaning and justice. When I hear a motorcycle on the freeway, I don’t know the story. I don’t know why someone is riding by on a motorcycle in the middle of the night. So I just pray that the rider reaches his or her destination safely.
Except for four years of seminary when we lived in Chicago, I have never lived in a city. I am very content in our home in the hills. But once in a while it is a worthy experience to visit a city and be reminded of all of the people who make their homes in such places.
I hope some of them notice the magnificent trees growing alongside the road as they zoom from place to place.
When I visit the Pacific Northwest, I am always amazed by the trees. The Olympic peninsula and regions around the Hood Canal and the southern end of the Puget Sound are technically temperate rain forest. Sitka Spruce, Hemlock, and Douglas Fir grow to 150 feet high. The size of the trunks of the trees is amazing to someone from our part of the world. The varieties of mosses and ferns and other undergrowth make a walk in the woods around here a delightful adventure.
One of the big advantages of these wonderful trees is that they are very good at absorbing sound. It is said that there are parts of Olympic National Park that are among the most acoustically natural places on the earth. These sound properties of the trees are very important because the greater Seattle area is one of the great urban centers of the world. Interstate 5 runs north and south a ways inland from the Pacific Coast from Mexico to Canada crossing through many of the major cities of California, Oregon and Washington. It is a corridor for the transportation of everything from food to energy supplies to high tech gear. Interstate 5 never sleeps. There are multiple lanes of traffic on the road in the middle of the night as well as during the day. Some of the truck traffic is higher during the night than the day as transportation networks supply the retail goods that are required to keep the cities running.
The motel where we stay when we visit our children is very close to the Interstate with just a narrow band of trees separating it from the Interstate. Although our children’s home is within walking distance, the difference in location makes a fairly big difference in the amount of noise from the highway. If we listen and pay attention, the dull roar in the background when we are at the motel is the sound of the highway supplying the cities of the West coast.
A couple of times during this visit I have been lying awake on the bed and listening to the traffic noise and wondering about all of those people. The city of Olympia itself is not much bigger than Rapid City. But Rapid City is a long ways from other cities. You have to travel more than 300 miles in any direction to find another town as big as ours when you are in South Dakota. Several of those larger cities are in different states. Driving from Olympia to the airport in Seattle you pass through Tacoma and some of the Seattle suburbs. Tacoma has over 200,000 people and more than 650,000 people call Seattle home. Although they don’t all go to the airport at the same time, sometimes it seems as if a fairly large percentage of the population is on the move. Whether driving on the Interstate or walking in the downtown region, one encounters a lot of people wherever you go.
For the most part the people get along with each other very well. If you consider the number of vehicles that pass on the Interstate every hour the accident rate around here is remarkably low. Travel is safe and we do so without worries. Still with all of those people in a relatively small amount of space it is inevitable that there is human drama playing out all the time. There are folks being rushed to hospitals where the emergency rooms are filed with dramatic actions and complex events. There are fires and ambulance and police calls around the clock in the cities. Each of those events is a big deal in the lives of those involved. If you were to know all of the stories of the city, you’d be overwhelmed by the human emotions involved.
In the midst of all of those people and all of those stories, we have been focusing our attention on just one family. We borrow our son’s car to run to the grocery store or to take the children to the park. We walk around the neighborhood with the dog. We follow our grandson as he rides his bicycle on the trail. We see lots of other people and we greet a few of them, but we don’t really know their stories. Chances are they all have stories as fascinating and interesting as the story of our family. Chances are they have children and grandchildren and parents and others in their lives that add richness and meaning. Chances are they have jobs and are engaged in volunteer work and enjoy their lives. Chances are they have problems to solve and challenges in their lives. But we just don’t know their stories.
Most of the time I am engaged in the church where I have an opportunity to learn at least part of the stories of the people with whom I work. Their families become important to me. Their challenges are mulled in my prayers. But here in a city where we are visitors, my prayers for these people have to be more generic. When I don’t know the stories, I pray general prayers for safety and meaning and justice. When I hear a motorcycle on the freeway, I don’t know the story. I don’t know why someone is riding by on a motorcycle in the middle of the night. So I just pray that the rider reaches his or her destination safely.
Except for four years of seminary when we lived in Chicago, I have never lived in a city. I am very content in our home in the hills. But once in a while it is a worthy experience to visit a city and be reminded of all of the people who make their homes in such places.
I hope some of them notice the magnificent trees growing alongside the road as they zoom from place to place.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
The joys of being grandpa
17/05/16 04:23
Somewhere in the back of my mind are the remnants of articles that I once read about the evolutionary advantages of grandparent/grandchild relationships. I can’t recall with any scientific accuracy the details of the articles, but the basic concept is that part of our nature as humans is to form strong bonds not only with our immediate offspring, but with our grandchildren as well. Children play their part in this multi-generational process by coming into this world in such cute and lovable packages. Their survival is dependent upon the nurture of adults and they do their part by sparking the best feelings and urges to nurture in the adults who meet them. Adults have specific physiological responses to children, among them the release of certain hormones that bring out qualities such as self-sacrifice, empathy, compassion, and satisfaction from care of another person. Through this relationship, the things required for children to thrive are encouraged.
This certainly seems to be the case for me when I am around young children. There is a deep joy and pleasure that comes from taking care of them. There is a fierce protectiveness that makes me want to do everything in my power to give those children every advantage in the world. And I experience all of these sensations in a kind of exaggerated way when I am with our grandchildren. I have been passionately in love with these little ones since before I met them face to face and when we are together I feel the emotions that I felt as a father of young children. However, there is something about being a grandparent that allows me to focus on those emotions with fewer distractions. When our children were little, I had to balance my relationship with them with the need to earn a living, establish a career, and make my place in the world. When I am with my grandchildren, concerns for career seem to fade and doing whatever is needed for the benefit of the child comes to the front of my consciousness.
We are fortunate that our grandchildren have loving and caring and competent parents whose actions are inspiring to us. We have been spared the conflict that can arise in families when there are differences in priorities. I truly admire the parenting skills of our son and daughter-in-law. They get along fine without us. When we are in our home and they are in theirs more than a thousand miles away, they are competent to care for their children’s every need. It isn’t that the survival of our grandchildren, or their nurture and education is dependent upon this relationship. Still, when we are together I feel that powerful natural attraction that has been part of the teamwork of nurturing children from the earlier times of humans on this planet.
It has always taken a team to raise children. In my profession, I get to witness some superb examples of single parenting and I have deep admiration for those who, through circumstances of life are left with a larger than usual job when it comes to raising children. Still, I know that no one person can provide everything that is needed for a child to thrive. Single parents rely on networks of family, friends, teachers, mentors and other relationships to raise their children.
When my wife and I are caring for our grandchildren we fall into a very natural pattern of trading off chores. One can prepare meals while the other plays with the children. One can do laundry while another assists with bath time. One can read stories while the other does the dishes. When the parents are home from work or other outside of the house obligations, the teamwork allows for opportunities for significant adult-to-adult conversation in the midst of family life. We haven’t had to do much negotiating about roles and expectations, we seem to have fallen into this pattern very naturally. Of course it is for a relatively short amount of time. We are on vacation and soon will be returning to our home and regular lives and our son and daughter-in-law will resume the great teamwork that has allowed them to build their family. I remain, however, amazed at how easy it is to shift into our roles as grandparents whenever we are with our children and grandchildren. I once commented to my wife, “It is as if I was meant to be a grandpa.”
Perhaps that is literally true. Our species has evolved family systems to nurture children as a way of passing on our genetic code to future generations. Those with the best ability to nurture have the best survival rates of their offspring. A strong partnership between parents and grandparents provides the context for healthy and happy children who grow into their roles as parents and grandparents.
Even though I am always a bit of a philosopher, I don’t want to over analyze this. I simply want to revel in the joy of the relationship. It gives me deep pleasure to get down on the floor and play games with my grandchildren. I find deep meaning in watching them learn and grow. I am amazed and delighted by their intelligence and capacity for learning. I love to listen to their ideas and pay attention to the patterns of their thoughts. I am inspired by their energy and passion for living. Being with our grandchildren restores my soul.
In my life I have the great benefit of working in an institution where children are present. The preschool in our church currently has 84 children enrolled and will have a few more next year. I have the opportunity to observe 3- and 4-year-old children nearly every day. And I am given the trust to hold and bless the babies of our congregation and participate in their lives in the church. Although my role in our church’s church school program is limited, I get to focus on Vacation Bible School nearly every year.
There are some things about growing older that present unique challenges and difficulties. There are other things that offset struggle with deep joy. Being a grandfather is a source of the deepest joy available.
This certainly seems to be the case for me when I am around young children. There is a deep joy and pleasure that comes from taking care of them. There is a fierce protectiveness that makes me want to do everything in my power to give those children every advantage in the world. And I experience all of these sensations in a kind of exaggerated way when I am with our grandchildren. I have been passionately in love with these little ones since before I met them face to face and when we are together I feel the emotions that I felt as a father of young children. However, there is something about being a grandparent that allows me to focus on those emotions with fewer distractions. When our children were little, I had to balance my relationship with them with the need to earn a living, establish a career, and make my place in the world. When I am with my grandchildren, concerns for career seem to fade and doing whatever is needed for the benefit of the child comes to the front of my consciousness.
We are fortunate that our grandchildren have loving and caring and competent parents whose actions are inspiring to us. We have been spared the conflict that can arise in families when there are differences in priorities. I truly admire the parenting skills of our son and daughter-in-law. They get along fine without us. When we are in our home and they are in theirs more than a thousand miles away, they are competent to care for their children’s every need. It isn’t that the survival of our grandchildren, or their nurture and education is dependent upon this relationship. Still, when we are together I feel that powerful natural attraction that has been part of the teamwork of nurturing children from the earlier times of humans on this planet.
It has always taken a team to raise children. In my profession, I get to witness some superb examples of single parenting and I have deep admiration for those who, through circumstances of life are left with a larger than usual job when it comes to raising children. Still, I know that no one person can provide everything that is needed for a child to thrive. Single parents rely on networks of family, friends, teachers, mentors and other relationships to raise their children.
When my wife and I are caring for our grandchildren we fall into a very natural pattern of trading off chores. One can prepare meals while the other plays with the children. One can do laundry while another assists with bath time. One can read stories while the other does the dishes. When the parents are home from work or other outside of the house obligations, the teamwork allows for opportunities for significant adult-to-adult conversation in the midst of family life. We haven’t had to do much negotiating about roles and expectations, we seem to have fallen into this pattern very naturally. Of course it is for a relatively short amount of time. We are on vacation and soon will be returning to our home and regular lives and our son and daughter-in-law will resume the great teamwork that has allowed them to build their family. I remain, however, amazed at how easy it is to shift into our roles as grandparents whenever we are with our children and grandchildren. I once commented to my wife, “It is as if I was meant to be a grandpa.”
Perhaps that is literally true. Our species has evolved family systems to nurture children as a way of passing on our genetic code to future generations. Those with the best ability to nurture have the best survival rates of their offspring. A strong partnership between parents and grandparents provides the context for healthy and happy children who grow into their roles as parents and grandparents.
Even though I am always a bit of a philosopher, I don’t want to over analyze this. I simply want to revel in the joy of the relationship. It gives me deep pleasure to get down on the floor and play games with my grandchildren. I find deep meaning in watching them learn and grow. I am amazed and delighted by their intelligence and capacity for learning. I love to listen to their ideas and pay attention to the patterns of their thoughts. I am inspired by their energy and passion for living. Being with our grandchildren restores my soul.
In my life I have the great benefit of working in an institution where children are present. The preschool in our church currently has 84 children enrolled and will have a few more next year. I have the opportunity to observe 3- and 4-year-old children nearly every day. And I am given the trust to hold and bless the babies of our congregation and participate in their lives in the church. Although my role in our church’s church school program is limited, I get to focus on Vacation Bible School nearly every year.
There are some things about growing older that present unique challenges and difficulties. There are other things that offset struggle with deep joy. Being a grandfather is a source of the deepest joy available.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Seeking focus
16/05/16 04:38
It is interesting to me to watch and listen to people whose ages and life experiences are different from my own. I am especially inspired by young adults. I can remember the passion and energy of earlier years in my career. I made a lot of mistakes, but I also accomplished a lot of good work. I can see an incredible wealth of leadership emerging among today’s young adults and it is energizing to spend time with them. A few years ago, there was a lot of talk about multitasking. The amazing devices that were becoming a part of our digital lifestyles allowed us to do a number of tasks in close proximity to each other. Our address books, cameras, libraries, devices to access movies and music were all a single handheld unit that we kept with us most of the time. We could switch from one task to another in rapid succession. There arose a myth that a truly competent person could do multiple tasks at the same time: talk on the phone and drive the car; work at the office and keep up with the news; check the stock market and take care of children.
What we have learned from brain science is that our brains don’t work exactly that way. We don’t actually focus our attention on multiple things at the same time, but rather become accomplished at rapid switching from one thing to another. Our attention has the ability to focus quickly during switches and, depending on a lot of complex factors, we can become fairly competent at accomplishing multiple tasks in coordination with each other.
Interesting to me is that spiritual practices of presentness, focus, and single mindedness have become very popular among young adults. After a decade or so of pursuing the rather hectic and difficult life of constant multitasking, they are discovering the value of learning to slow down, focus, and clear their minds of extraneous distractions. There are even phone applications that contain guided meditations of various lengths to hep with the process of presentness and focus.
When I was in my twenties, I was wrestling with the writings of the Danish philosopher, theologian, poet, social critic and religious author who is widely considered to be the first existentialist philosopher. Søren Kierkegaard was a lay person who wrote on religious themes and who explored a variety of challenges of the religious life. One small treatise, less than 100 pages, that was published around 40 years after his death is a meditation on the Book of James called “Purity of Heart is to Will One Thing.” In it he explores the human tendency for our desires to come into conflict with each other. The pursuit of riches is often limited by a corresponding inability to manage financial resources. Much is gained and much is lost by the same person. The joy that one expects upon the accomplishment of accumulating wealth is not present because the individual discovers that it is the pursuit, not the accomplishment that has given the pleasure. We worry and complain about trials and temptations that we encounter in our lives, but those same things build character and give humans endurance and abilities to deal with the realities of life. Basically what Kierkegaard says in the book is that we are complex beings.
Kierkegaard’s essay is intended to be a sort of curricula for those wanting to learn faith practices. This particular essay as a preparation for the rite of confession and reconciliation. Kierkegaard is concerned that the penitent person focus not on the external process, but rather on the internal motivations for working to restore one’s relationship with God. The question for Kierkegaard is not what we do, but rather why we do it.
His conclusion is that there is only one thing worthy of our ultimate focus: our relationship with God.
In our highly secularized society, there are plenty of young adults who are not yet ready to come to single-mindedness about their relationship with God and those who are might not use the overtly religious language of my vocation. They are, however, discovering in their own way that making connections with something beyond the present moment and present circumstances is worthy of time and attention. They have “discovered” truths that previous generations have glimpsed.
I am fascinated to encounter people who aren’t engaged in traditional religious institutions yet who invest considerable time and energy in meditation and structured focusing activities. They aren’t yet ready to call it prayer and spiritual practice, but if Kierkegaard is right, their focus will lead them directly to reconciliation with God. God isn’t concerned with the language used or the institutions encountered. God is all about relationships.
I wonder if the young adults who are encountering and exploring practices of meditation and focus haven’t found some of their inspiration in the process of becoming parents. In the incredibly hectic and complex multitasking lifestyles of the contemporary era the birth of a child can invite one to stop and take a fresh look. I’ve witnessed plenty of occasions when a child’s ability to focus on a single item overwhelms a parent who is trying to manage multiple concerns and activities at the same time. A two year olds’ temper tantrum can change the timing of an entire family’s activities. The ability to focus on one thing at a time is powerful and young parents learn that power naturally. They don’t need philosophers or theologians to offer theories to them. Their own experiences are competent teachers.
As I approach the time in my life when I will one day draw back from the everyday management of a religious institution, in a time when there is plenty of evidence of decline in the institutions, I am encouraged by the knowledge that the relationship with God is not dependent on the institutions. God beaks into the lives of all humans regardless of the language they use to describe the process. Each generation is called to participate in the eternal task. And, as was the case thousands of years before our time on this planet, it is true today: “A little child shall lead them.”
What we have learned from brain science is that our brains don’t work exactly that way. We don’t actually focus our attention on multiple things at the same time, but rather become accomplished at rapid switching from one thing to another. Our attention has the ability to focus quickly during switches and, depending on a lot of complex factors, we can become fairly competent at accomplishing multiple tasks in coordination with each other.
Interesting to me is that spiritual practices of presentness, focus, and single mindedness have become very popular among young adults. After a decade or so of pursuing the rather hectic and difficult life of constant multitasking, they are discovering the value of learning to slow down, focus, and clear their minds of extraneous distractions. There are even phone applications that contain guided meditations of various lengths to hep with the process of presentness and focus.
When I was in my twenties, I was wrestling with the writings of the Danish philosopher, theologian, poet, social critic and religious author who is widely considered to be the first existentialist philosopher. Søren Kierkegaard was a lay person who wrote on religious themes and who explored a variety of challenges of the religious life. One small treatise, less than 100 pages, that was published around 40 years after his death is a meditation on the Book of James called “Purity of Heart is to Will One Thing.” In it he explores the human tendency for our desires to come into conflict with each other. The pursuit of riches is often limited by a corresponding inability to manage financial resources. Much is gained and much is lost by the same person. The joy that one expects upon the accomplishment of accumulating wealth is not present because the individual discovers that it is the pursuit, not the accomplishment that has given the pleasure. We worry and complain about trials and temptations that we encounter in our lives, but those same things build character and give humans endurance and abilities to deal with the realities of life. Basically what Kierkegaard says in the book is that we are complex beings.
Kierkegaard’s essay is intended to be a sort of curricula for those wanting to learn faith practices. This particular essay as a preparation for the rite of confession and reconciliation. Kierkegaard is concerned that the penitent person focus not on the external process, but rather on the internal motivations for working to restore one’s relationship with God. The question for Kierkegaard is not what we do, but rather why we do it.
His conclusion is that there is only one thing worthy of our ultimate focus: our relationship with God.
In our highly secularized society, there are plenty of young adults who are not yet ready to come to single-mindedness about their relationship with God and those who are might not use the overtly religious language of my vocation. They are, however, discovering in their own way that making connections with something beyond the present moment and present circumstances is worthy of time and attention. They have “discovered” truths that previous generations have glimpsed.
I am fascinated to encounter people who aren’t engaged in traditional religious institutions yet who invest considerable time and energy in meditation and structured focusing activities. They aren’t yet ready to call it prayer and spiritual practice, but if Kierkegaard is right, their focus will lead them directly to reconciliation with God. God isn’t concerned with the language used or the institutions encountered. God is all about relationships.
I wonder if the young adults who are encountering and exploring practices of meditation and focus haven’t found some of their inspiration in the process of becoming parents. In the incredibly hectic and complex multitasking lifestyles of the contemporary era the birth of a child can invite one to stop and take a fresh look. I’ve witnessed plenty of occasions when a child’s ability to focus on a single item overwhelms a parent who is trying to manage multiple concerns and activities at the same time. A two year olds’ temper tantrum can change the timing of an entire family’s activities. The ability to focus on one thing at a time is powerful and young parents learn that power naturally. They don’t need philosophers or theologians to offer theories to them. Their own experiences are competent teachers.
As I approach the time in my life when I will one day draw back from the everyday management of a religious institution, in a time when there is plenty of evidence of decline in the institutions, I am encouraged by the knowledge that the relationship with God is not dependent on the institutions. God beaks into the lives of all humans regardless of the language they use to describe the process. Each generation is called to participate in the eternal task. And, as was the case thousands of years before our time on this planet, it is true today: “A little child shall lead them.”
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Pentecost, 2016
15/05/16 05:29
Christians, Jews and Muslims all share a common set of stories. We often call them the Old Testament or Hebrew Scriptures. One of the foundation stories in that set appears at the beginning of the 11th chapter of Genesis. It is classified by scholars as an etiological story: one that explains the origins of something. This story explains the differences in language, culture, and understanding among people.
The story is that after the great flood, the survivors became a group of people with a common language, a common story and common culture. They decided to build a great city with a great tower and forgot their dependence upon God. They had many skilled craftspeople and visionaries and believed that they could be completely self reliant. The construction of the tower, however, proved to be disastrous. There were too many different visions and too many different leaders and the taller the tower got the less reliable it got. Some wanted things one way, some wanted things another way. Some saw one solution to the problems that cropped up in construction. Others saw different solutions. It was as if they weren’t even speaking the same language. And then they really weren’t speaking a common language. The tower collapsed into a jumble of building materials and the culture collapsed into a jumble of different languages, cultures and stories.
One of the faiths that emerged from the Hebrew Scriptures, Christianity, has a “bookend” story. There is the story of the Tower of Babel in Genesis and then, in the Christian Scriptures, the second chapter of the book of acts reports that people of all of the different languages and cultures and traditions that had developed were gathered in a common room when the gift of the Holy Spirit was given. The experience was difficult even for those who were present to describe. Some described the sound of a mighty wind. Others described tongues, as of fire, resting on each person. With all of the languages and cultures and stories that were present confusion might have been expected. What happened, however, was that a common understanding emerged. Everybody present heard the good news of Jesus Christ in a language that they could understand. Despite different languages, cultures and traditions a common story of understanding Jesus as Savior resulted from the event.
I have been thinking of language over the past few days because we are so enjoying our granddaughter. Not quite two, she is vocalizing a lot and we have been making lists of the words that she is saying. She seems to understand our speech, but not every sound that comes out of her mouth is language that we can interpret. She is very good at making her needs and wants clear, and she can say the names of a lot of things, but sometimes she uses a combination of gestures, words, squeaks and squeals in place of sentences and paragraphs. It is clear that a common language is emerging. Like our people’s stories of Pentecost, our family has common core values and commitments that we can see in all of our members.
Our granddaughter is vigilant about justice. She pays attention to the privilege of age that her brother has acquired and is quick to act for equal privilege. She is a seasoned partitioner of the art of learning by imitation and wants to eat real food, not baby food; play with real toys, not baby toys; and participate fully in all of the activities and adventures of the family. On every adventure we’ve experienced in our visit, she is right in the middle of the action participating fully.
Still, there is the matter of perspective. Each member of the family sees things from a different point of view. When we went to the market, she insisted on walking for herself much of the time, but saw everything from very close to the floor. While we were looking at fruits and vegetables and baked goods she was focused on the texture of the floor and items that had been dropped from the bins above. A couple of times I had to squat down as low as possible without tipping over to catch her point of view.
Our grandson, who is five, has grasped a much larger slice of the family story. While his sister calls my wife and I “mama” and “dada” just like her parents, he understands the concept of “Poppa Ted” and “Grandma Susan.” He knows that we are the parents of his father and that his father lived with us when he was a boy. Still, we can tell he is working out how all of that transpired. Yesterday, when I got in the driver’s seat of one of his family’s cars, he quizzed me about my qualifications to be a driver. He wanted to make sure that I possessed the skills his parents had. Later, when we made a small adjustment of the height of the seat of his bicycle he asked me, “Did my dad teach you how to use tools?” When you think about it, his question makes sense. The adults in his world share a common set of skills. All of the adults in his world know how to drive and cook and use the household appliances. All of them can do things that he cannot yet do such as make simple repairs and lift heavy objects. How they acquired those skills is not yet clear. But he also knows that people become skillful through the process of teaching and learning. It makes sense to him that his father might have taught me how to drive a car or manipulate tools. After all, if his father or mother is present when we go somewhere, they are the ones to do the driving while Poppa and Grandma sit next to the kids in the back of the car.
Today as we celebrate the festival of Pentecost in the church, I am deeply aware of the pentecost emergences in family life. By sharing common experiences, a common language, a common worldview and a common set of values are emerging. Truly the spirit continues to do its work.
The story is that after the great flood, the survivors became a group of people with a common language, a common story and common culture. They decided to build a great city with a great tower and forgot their dependence upon God. They had many skilled craftspeople and visionaries and believed that they could be completely self reliant. The construction of the tower, however, proved to be disastrous. There were too many different visions and too many different leaders and the taller the tower got the less reliable it got. Some wanted things one way, some wanted things another way. Some saw one solution to the problems that cropped up in construction. Others saw different solutions. It was as if they weren’t even speaking the same language. And then they really weren’t speaking a common language. The tower collapsed into a jumble of building materials and the culture collapsed into a jumble of different languages, cultures and stories.
One of the faiths that emerged from the Hebrew Scriptures, Christianity, has a “bookend” story. There is the story of the Tower of Babel in Genesis and then, in the Christian Scriptures, the second chapter of the book of acts reports that people of all of the different languages and cultures and traditions that had developed were gathered in a common room when the gift of the Holy Spirit was given. The experience was difficult even for those who were present to describe. Some described the sound of a mighty wind. Others described tongues, as of fire, resting on each person. With all of the languages and cultures and stories that were present confusion might have been expected. What happened, however, was that a common understanding emerged. Everybody present heard the good news of Jesus Christ in a language that they could understand. Despite different languages, cultures and traditions a common story of understanding Jesus as Savior resulted from the event.
I have been thinking of language over the past few days because we are so enjoying our granddaughter. Not quite two, she is vocalizing a lot and we have been making lists of the words that she is saying. She seems to understand our speech, but not every sound that comes out of her mouth is language that we can interpret. She is very good at making her needs and wants clear, and she can say the names of a lot of things, but sometimes she uses a combination of gestures, words, squeaks and squeals in place of sentences and paragraphs. It is clear that a common language is emerging. Like our people’s stories of Pentecost, our family has common core values and commitments that we can see in all of our members.
Our granddaughter is vigilant about justice. She pays attention to the privilege of age that her brother has acquired and is quick to act for equal privilege. She is a seasoned partitioner of the art of learning by imitation and wants to eat real food, not baby food; play with real toys, not baby toys; and participate fully in all of the activities and adventures of the family. On every adventure we’ve experienced in our visit, she is right in the middle of the action participating fully.
Still, there is the matter of perspective. Each member of the family sees things from a different point of view. When we went to the market, she insisted on walking for herself much of the time, but saw everything from very close to the floor. While we were looking at fruits and vegetables and baked goods she was focused on the texture of the floor and items that had been dropped from the bins above. A couple of times I had to squat down as low as possible without tipping over to catch her point of view.
Our grandson, who is five, has grasped a much larger slice of the family story. While his sister calls my wife and I “mama” and “dada” just like her parents, he understands the concept of “Poppa Ted” and “Grandma Susan.” He knows that we are the parents of his father and that his father lived with us when he was a boy. Still, we can tell he is working out how all of that transpired. Yesterday, when I got in the driver’s seat of one of his family’s cars, he quizzed me about my qualifications to be a driver. He wanted to make sure that I possessed the skills his parents had. Later, when we made a small adjustment of the height of the seat of his bicycle he asked me, “Did my dad teach you how to use tools?” When you think about it, his question makes sense. The adults in his world share a common set of skills. All of the adults in his world know how to drive and cook and use the household appliances. All of them can do things that he cannot yet do such as make simple repairs and lift heavy objects. How they acquired those skills is not yet clear. But he also knows that people become skillful through the process of teaching and learning. It makes sense to him that his father might have taught me how to drive a car or manipulate tools. After all, if his father or mother is present when we go somewhere, they are the ones to do the driving while Poppa and Grandma sit next to the kids in the back of the car.
Today as we celebrate the festival of Pentecost in the church, I am deeply aware of the pentecost emergences in family life. By sharing common experiences, a common language, a common worldview and a common set of values are emerging. Truly the spirit continues to do its work.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Grandpa duties come first
14/05/16 13:45
The Medical Library Association (MLA) is an international professional association of health information providers. Medical libraries and health information centers can reduce hospital costs, length of stay, changes in diagnosis and clinical decision making and improve patient outcomes. I’ve always been a fan of libraries and research centers, but I knew much about the specialty of medical libraries until our son was a graduate student at the University of North Carolina and began to specialize in medical library science.
This morning, I rose from my bed at 2:30 am, after a very short night, to give our son a ride to the airport so that he could leave on a very early flight to attend the largest gathering of medical librarians and health information professionals in the world: a joint meeting of the Medical Library Association, the Canadian Health Libraries Association (Association des bibliothèques de la santé du Canada (CHLA/ABSC)), and the International Clinical Librarian Conference (ICLC) in Toronto, Canada. The event probably won’t make much news outside of Toronto, but it is a significant event. Although there is an annual MLA conference, gathering with the Canadian and international associations is not an annual event.
I know from my experiences of attending our church’s General Synod that part of these large meetings is gaining inspiration for one’s vocation. Gathering together with others who have a similar calling and who share your passion for your field reminds you of the reasons you went into the work in the first place. Taking a step back from the everyday allows one to remember the big picture.
When we think of it we all know that modern health care is dependent upon accurate and timely information. Those who can enable connections with that information are indispensable to the health of the people. It takes an other adjustment for a person like me to understand our son’s work, however. I went through my upbringing and education in an era when physical libraries had a commanding presence. Libraries were enormous buildings because of the need to be able to store and display tens of thousands of books. In the digital era, information doesn’t take up huge amounts of physical space. There is more data available from my phone than was in the University of Chicago’s Regenstein Library when I was a graduate student. I loved that library and spent a lot of time doing research there. But I also love our computers and access to the Internet and the ability to conduct research from any location. Our unabridged dictionaries now reside in our basement because we can access major dictionaries from our phones these days.
In this information age, the problem often is not enough information, but rather too much information. Discerning the difference between accurate information and misinformation is a critical skill. Librarians do much more that help people find books, they are involved in a sophisticated process of helping people to sort through the vast volume of information available to find the information that is most relevant - the information that is most needed.
In the hospital setting information is literally a life and death matter. Hospital librarians are key players in the delivery of safe health care. Our son is the director of library and information services for a large, multi-hospital health care system. His father couldn’t be more proud.
I see our son’s work as very close to the work to which I have devoted my life: connecting people with the truth. We both know that we don’t accomplish that task by thinking for people or telling people what to think or believe, but rather by connecting them with accurate and honest information so that they can make their own decisions and choose their own actions.
Meanwhile, back in Olympia, Washington, we are gearing up for a few days of intensive grandparent duty. Our daughter in law is a marriage and family therapist. Her private practice is arranged so that she sees most of her clients on Fridays and Saturdays. The ability to provide professional services on the weekend is very important to busy families whose need to earn a living often makes it difficult to focus on their relationships. So we have the privilege of caring for our grandchildren while she works.
Grandparents caring for grandchildren is an ancient and time honored part of the human enterprise, one that is less common in our generation because of our high degree of mobility. We don’t do much childcare for our own grandchildren simply because they don’t live in the same state as we do. So, for us, this is a rare privilege and honor and a wonderful way to invest a week of our vacation. Unlike the parents, who have to balance work and the running of a household with all of the associated chores and activities, we’ve taken the week off. We don’t have any other distractions or commitments. All we have to do is to be present with our grandchildren. Two grandparents to two grandchildren. It is a wonderful ratio for those of us who love children.
I can take time to marvel at our granddaughter’s new words. I can take time to walk the dog with my grandson.
And . . . now it is several hours later. We went to the farmer’s market with the kids and picked out carrots, cherries, apples and a cookie for each at the bakery. Then it was time to head home for lunch and a nap for the kids (probably one for grandpa, too). In a world of lots and lots of change it is such a treat to have a bit of just being with our grandchildren doing everyday tasks and enjoying one another’s presence. We have a whole week of visiting ahead of us and I intend to savor every minute of it.
I’m also taking lots of pictures, which we are enjoying. However, I’m not too keen on posting my grandchildren’s pictures on the Internet, so we’ll save those for sharing with our friends when we are face to face.
I am a very fortunate person!
This morning, I rose from my bed at 2:30 am, after a very short night, to give our son a ride to the airport so that he could leave on a very early flight to attend the largest gathering of medical librarians and health information professionals in the world: a joint meeting of the Medical Library Association, the Canadian Health Libraries Association (Association des bibliothèques de la santé du Canada (CHLA/ABSC)), and the International Clinical Librarian Conference (ICLC) in Toronto, Canada. The event probably won’t make much news outside of Toronto, but it is a significant event. Although there is an annual MLA conference, gathering with the Canadian and international associations is not an annual event.
I know from my experiences of attending our church’s General Synod that part of these large meetings is gaining inspiration for one’s vocation. Gathering together with others who have a similar calling and who share your passion for your field reminds you of the reasons you went into the work in the first place. Taking a step back from the everyday allows one to remember the big picture.
When we think of it we all know that modern health care is dependent upon accurate and timely information. Those who can enable connections with that information are indispensable to the health of the people. It takes an other adjustment for a person like me to understand our son’s work, however. I went through my upbringing and education in an era when physical libraries had a commanding presence. Libraries were enormous buildings because of the need to be able to store and display tens of thousands of books. In the digital era, information doesn’t take up huge amounts of physical space. There is more data available from my phone than was in the University of Chicago’s Regenstein Library when I was a graduate student. I loved that library and spent a lot of time doing research there. But I also love our computers and access to the Internet and the ability to conduct research from any location. Our unabridged dictionaries now reside in our basement because we can access major dictionaries from our phones these days.
In this information age, the problem often is not enough information, but rather too much information. Discerning the difference between accurate information and misinformation is a critical skill. Librarians do much more that help people find books, they are involved in a sophisticated process of helping people to sort through the vast volume of information available to find the information that is most relevant - the information that is most needed.
In the hospital setting information is literally a life and death matter. Hospital librarians are key players in the delivery of safe health care. Our son is the director of library and information services for a large, multi-hospital health care system. His father couldn’t be more proud.
I see our son’s work as very close to the work to which I have devoted my life: connecting people with the truth. We both know that we don’t accomplish that task by thinking for people or telling people what to think or believe, but rather by connecting them with accurate and honest information so that they can make their own decisions and choose their own actions.
Meanwhile, back in Olympia, Washington, we are gearing up for a few days of intensive grandparent duty. Our daughter in law is a marriage and family therapist. Her private practice is arranged so that she sees most of her clients on Fridays and Saturdays. The ability to provide professional services on the weekend is very important to busy families whose need to earn a living often makes it difficult to focus on their relationships. So we have the privilege of caring for our grandchildren while she works.
Grandparents caring for grandchildren is an ancient and time honored part of the human enterprise, one that is less common in our generation because of our high degree of mobility. We don’t do much childcare for our own grandchildren simply because they don’t live in the same state as we do. So, for us, this is a rare privilege and honor and a wonderful way to invest a week of our vacation. Unlike the parents, who have to balance work and the running of a household with all of the associated chores and activities, we’ve taken the week off. We don’t have any other distractions or commitments. All we have to do is to be present with our grandchildren. Two grandparents to two grandchildren. It is a wonderful ratio for those of us who love children.
I can take time to marvel at our granddaughter’s new words. I can take time to walk the dog with my grandson.
And . . . now it is several hours later. We went to the farmer’s market with the kids and picked out carrots, cherries, apples and a cookie for each at the bakery. Then it was time to head home for lunch and a nap for the kids (probably one for grandpa, too). In a world of lots and lots of change it is such a treat to have a bit of just being with our grandchildren doing everyday tasks and enjoying one another’s presence. We have a whole week of visiting ahead of us and I intend to savor every minute of it.
I’m also taking lots of pictures, which we are enjoying. However, I’m not too keen on posting my grandchildren’s pictures on the Internet, so we’ll save those for sharing with our friends when we are face to face.
I am a very fortunate person!
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Telling the stories
13/05/16 05:47
In the history of human civilizations, written language is a relatively new invention. Although forms of writing go back thousands of years and alphabetic languages may be as much as 4,000 years old, it was only in recent centuries that large amounts of people became literate. Reading and writing were the province of scholars and experts. Prior to the invention of moveable type, books were incredibly expensive and time consuming to produce. Compared to writing, however, electronic media such as television and movies streamed over the Internet are brand new. Worldwide access to those media has taken place in my lifetime. It is probably too early to determine all of the effects of this relatively recent and sudden change in human culture, but one thing we old timers note is that the skill of memorization is declining. With all of the very capable machines to which we have constant access, we don’t have a need to memorize much at all. We can use the computer to file and then to access the information that we need.
When the majority of our people weren’t literate, we were very good at remembering our stories with incredible accuracy. One of the pivotal dates in our story that we remember occurred a long time ago, in 587 BCE. It was the destruction of Jerusalem during which a large number of the people of Israel were forcibly taken from their homes into exile in Babylon. If you read the Hebrew Scriptures that we call the Old Testament, you will find that this event is so important that there are subtle references to it throughout the entire document.
To understand the importance of the event, you need to remember that most of our people couldn’t read or write. There were a few scholars and learned people, mostly men, who were able to read and write. There were a few documents that had been treasured and kept in important places such as the temple. For the most part, however, the knowledge and stories of our people lived inside of our people. They had been taught from generation to generation by a process of group memorization. People would sit around in private homes and public dwelling places and tell the stories over and over again. With no reading, no television, no radio, and very few public entertainments, this process was built into the everyday lives of the people. One of the stories that was most often told was the story of the Exodus form Egypt. The history of enslavement, combined with the dramatic actions of God in the salvation of the people was exciting fare for eager ears and we remembered that Moses had been commanded by God in the giving of the laws to our people that we should always teach this story to our children. We had pledged to never forget what had happened and we were faithful to our vow.
In fact, the people of Israel were known by all who met them for their stories. These stories contained the identity of the people and they became even more important with the exile. Now, no longer able to gather in groups, every family became responsible for teaching the stories to the next generation. It could not have happened were it not for the generations of group memorization. If we had not learned our stories well, what would have resulted was that different stories would be told in different places and before long no common story would remain and the people would be fully assimilated into the wider culture and adopt the stories of their captors. But that is not what happened. Our stories became even more important and our people even came up with some new stories as a response to the stories of the dominant culture. Out of this experience a firm set of stories began to emerge and when the Persians conquered the Babylonians and our people were allowed to return to Jerusalem the process of forming a unified story - a bible - was undertaken in earnest. It still took centuries before we had anything resembling a common book, but making permanent copies of our stories became a high priority for our people.
I was thinking of that process last night as I lay on my back on the floor of the living room of our son and daughter in law’s home. Next to me was our five-year-old grandson. We were coming to the end of a very exciting day. Having traveled from South Dakota to Washington we were so excited to see each other. We played games and sang songs and were so happy to be together that it was hard for the young ones to begin to wind down and get ready for bed. So I began to tell stories and our grandson was interested in the stories. Our son, helping to get our granddaughter bathed and ready for bed was listening from the other room. I was telling stories of what happened to my father when he was a young man, younger than our son is today. They are stories that my father told me when I was a child. They are stories that I told to my son who was born after my father died. And now I have the privilege of telling them to my grandson. He was very interested in the stories and the process of listening and asking questions calmed us all down and prepared for the remaining events of the evening. Before long the children were sleeping in their beds and we adults lingered a bit longer to tell a few more stories, mostly of more recent events.
Earlier in the day, as we sat down for supper, our grandson had said to me, “I want to ask you about God. What about God is like people?” I had answered that there were many things but one important thing is that God loves, just like people love. When you love other people you can tell a little bit about God. Our daughter-in-law after our commented, later: “He has lots of questions about God sometimes and I don’t know the answers.”
I’m happy to know that there are some questions that aren’t best answered by Google and Wikipedia. I take delight in questions whose answers come not from some external source, but from our hearts. The stories that live, not in a book or in an archive, or in a data storage device, but in our hearts are still incredibly valuable to our people. We’ve been teaching each other that God is love for so long that I don’t need to look it up in the book. It is inside of me. And It is inside of my son and it is inside of my grandson. Our people will be telling these stories thousands of years from now, when the technologies are all different. In the end, what remains are not the inventions and the structures. What remains are the stories.
When the majority of our people weren’t literate, we were very good at remembering our stories with incredible accuracy. One of the pivotal dates in our story that we remember occurred a long time ago, in 587 BCE. It was the destruction of Jerusalem during which a large number of the people of Israel were forcibly taken from their homes into exile in Babylon. If you read the Hebrew Scriptures that we call the Old Testament, you will find that this event is so important that there are subtle references to it throughout the entire document.
To understand the importance of the event, you need to remember that most of our people couldn’t read or write. There were a few scholars and learned people, mostly men, who were able to read and write. There were a few documents that had been treasured and kept in important places such as the temple. For the most part, however, the knowledge and stories of our people lived inside of our people. They had been taught from generation to generation by a process of group memorization. People would sit around in private homes and public dwelling places and tell the stories over and over again. With no reading, no television, no radio, and very few public entertainments, this process was built into the everyday lives of the people. One of the stories that was most often told was the story of the Exodus form Egypt. The history of enslavement, combined with the dramatic actions of God in the salvation of the people was exciting fare for eager ears and we remembered that Moses had been commanded by God in the giving of the laws to our people that we should always teach this story to our children. We had pledged to never forget what had happened and we were faithful to our vow.
In fact, the people of Israel were known by all who met them for their stories. These stories contained the identity of the people and they became even more important with the exile. Now, no longer able to gather in groups, every family became responsible for teaching the stories to the next generation. It could not have happened were it not for the generations of group memorization. If we had not learned our stories well, what would have resulted was that different stories would be told in different places and before long no common story would remain and the people would be fully assimilated into the wider culture and adopt the stories of their captors. But that is not what happened. Our stories became even more important and our people even came up with some new stories as a response to the stories of the dominant culture. Out of this experience a firm set of stories began to emerge and when the Persians conquered the Babylonians and our people were allowed to return to Jerusalem the process of forming a unified story - a bible - was undertaken in earnest. It still took centuries before we had anything resembling a common book, but making permanent copies of our stories became a high priority for our people.
I was thinking of that process last night as I lay on my back on the floor of the living room of our son and daughter in law’s home. Next to me was our five-year-old grandson. We were coming to the end of a very exciting day. Having traveled from South Dakota to Washington we were so excited to see each other. We played games and sang songs and were so happy to be together that it was hard for the young ones to begin to wind down and get ready for bed. So I began to tell stories and our grandson was interested in the stories. Our son, helping to get our granddaughter bathed and ready for bed was listening from the other room. I was telling stories of what happened to my father when he was a young man, younger than our son is today. They are stories that my father told me when I was a child. They are stories that I told to my son who was born after my father died. And now I have the privilege of telling them to my grandson. He was very interested in the stories and the process of listening and asking questions calmed us all down and prepared for the remaining events of the evening. Before long the children were sleeping in their beds and we adults lingered a bit longer to tell a few more stories, mostly of more recent events.
Earlier in the day, as we sat down for supper, our grandson had said to me, “I want to ask you about God. What about God is like people?” I had answered that there were many things but one important thing is that God loves, just like people love. When you love other people you can tell a little bit about God. Our daughter-in-law after our commented, later: “He has lots of questions about God sometimes and I don’t know the answers.”
I’m happy to know that there are some questions that aren’t best answered by Google and Wikipedia. I take delight in questions whose answers come not from some external source, but from our hearts. The stories that live, not in a book or in an archive, or in a data storage device, but in our hearts are still incredibly valuable to our people. We’ve been teaching each other that God is love for so long that I don’t need to look it up in the book. It is inside of me. And It is inside of my son and it is inside of my grandson. Our people will be telling these stories thousands of years from now, when the technologies are all different. In the end, what remains are not the inventions and the structures. What remains are the stories.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
An excited grandpa
12/05/16 03:16
For as long as I can remember I have gotten excited about trips and traveling. When I was young I could barely sleep the night before a big trip. I loved the process of traveling. I loved the idea of going to new places. I loved the idea of the people we would visit.
Some of the passions of my youth have dimmed as I have grown older. The love of traveling has not. I still get excited when I have the opportunity to take a trip.
I’ve been anticipating today’s trip for quite a while now. We will be boarding an airliner at 6 am for a short flight to Denver where we’ll catch the flight to Seattle. In Seattle we’ll catch the shuttle bus to Olympia, home of our son, daughter-in-law and our two grandchildren. I know that our grandchildren get excited about the visit of their grandparents, but I’m not sure who is more excited because I know the grandparents are really excited about this trip as well.
I am a firm believer in vacations. I am well aware that the vocation to which I have been called can be demanding and that when your heart is in your work it is tempting to work so many hours that you become inefficient due to exhaustion. There are plenty of studies that show that peak efficiency requires adequate time for rest and relaxation. This isn’t rocket science. Our people have been aware of this at least since Moses received the ten commandments on Mt. Sinai. Over the years I have served on Committees on the Ministry and have argued on behalf of my colleagues for adequate vacation leave for clergy. I remember one conversation in which someone said that four weeks vacation was well above the standard for US workers. I asked the person how many weeks of vacation that person got. He responded, “Two.” I asked him if he would be willing to make a deal in which he got four weeks of vacation in exchange for having to work every other weekend of the year. He conceded that four weeks vacation for a pastor made sense to him.
For me it is more than just taking time off. After all there are many parts of my daily life that will continue on vacation. I’ll still send and receive email. I’ll still be available to the office by cell phone. I’ll still be thinking of the people in the congregation. But I will also be modeling for the congregation something that I think is important. Just as was the case when our children lived at home and I kept conflicts with family dinners to a minimum, it is important that I live my commitment to my family in such a way that it is visible to the congregation. I believe that spending time with family is something we all should be doing. Taking a week to be with my family is something that I want the congregation to see. And when I am with my family, they deserve my full attention and energy.
I’m also modeling important values for our children and grandchildren. They see my commitment to them. They are reminded that their lives and concerns are priorities in my life. The reason for the timing of this particular trip is that our son will be traveling to a professional conference and although we’ll get to see him at the beginning and end of our trip, much of the time our role will be to support his wife and children in his absence.
That all sounds serious. But the truth is that I’m excited because I know this week is going to be just plain fun for me. “Grandpa, read me a story.” “Grandpa, let’s go for a walk.” “Grandpa, can I have a sweet treat?” These words are music to my ears. I hear them regularly as we stay in touch with Skype, but there is something especially wonderful about face-to-face contact.
After all, my grandson once declared, in front of his sister, parents and us, “I think that the best story readers are grownup men with beards.” And his father does not have a beard. And neither of his uncles has a beard. And his other grandfather does not have a beard. I’m the only one that fits into that category. Ever since I heard him say that I have resolved that when ever asked, I will make myself available to read a story. And I do read to him over Skype. But for a week, I’ll be ready with a story whenever asked.
I can’t think of anything that I’d rather do this week.
There are times when I can feel a twinge of envy for the grandparents who live in the same town as their grandchildren. I have a friend who has two granddaughters within a couple of blocks of his home. But envy isn’t a very appealing trait and the truth is that we raised our children to be strong and independent and to make their own decisions. I am incredibly proud of our children and I wouldn’t want to restrict their ability to choose their jobs and places of residence.
From time to time I read in the newspaper columns the stories of grandparents who are cut off from their grandchildren. We are so fortunate that our children want us to visit and they trust us with our grandchildren. And in those children I can see a legacy of love that had been passed down for generations before it got to their great-great-grandparents.
My father died after we had announced that we were expecting but before the birth of our first child. My mother died after the expectations were announced but before the birth of our first grandchild. These precious new generations of our family always bring bittersweet memories to my mind. But I know that I see the traits of previous generations in the youngest members of our family. That is worth celebrating.
So don’t expect my blog posts to always be on time for the next week. I’ll keep writing, but it won’t be my first priority.
Reading stories comes before writing for this grandpa this week.
Some of the passions of my youth have dimmed as I have grown older. The love of traveling has not. I still get excited when I have the opportunity to take a trip.
I’ve been anticipating today’s trip for quite a while now. We will be boarding an airliner at 6 am for a short flight to Denver where we’ll catch the flight to Seattle. In Seattle we’ll catch the shuttle bus to Olympia, home of our son, daughter-in-law and our two grandchildren. I know that our grandchildren get excited about the visit of their grandparents, but I’m not sure who is more excited because I know the grandparents are really excited about this trip as well.
I am a firm believer in vacations. I am well aware that the vocation to which I have been called can be demanding and that when your heart is in your work it is tempting to work so many hours that you become inefficient due to exhaustion. There are plenty of studies that show that peak efficiency requires adequate time for rest and relaxation. This isn’t rocket science. Our people have been aware of this at least since Moses received the ten commandments on Mt. Sinai. Over the years I have served on Committees on the Ministry and have argued on behalf of my colleagues for adequate vacation leave for clergy. I remember one conversation in which someone said that four weeks vacation was well above the standard for US workers. I asked the person how many weeks of vacation that person got. He responded, “Two.” I asked him if he would be willing to make a deal in which he got four weeks of vacation in exchange for having to work every other weekend of the year. He conceded that four weeks vacation for a pastor made sense to him.
For me it is more than just taking time off. After all there are many parts of my daily life that will continue on vacation. I’ll still send and receive email. I’ll still be available to the office by cell phone. I’ll still be thinking of the people in the congregation. But I will also be modeling for the congregation something that I think is important. Just as was the case when our children lived at home and I kept conflicts with family dinners to a minimum, it is important that I live my commitment to my family in such a way that it is visible to the congregation. I believe that spending time with family is something we all should be doing. Taking a week to be with my family is something that I want the congregation to see. And when I am with my family, they deserve my full attention and energy.
I’m also modeling important values for our children and grandchildren. They see my commitment to them. They are reminded that their lives and concerns are priorities in my life. The reason for the timing of this particular trip is that our son will be traveling to a professional conference and although we’ll get to see him at the beginning and end of our trip, much of the time our role will be to support his wife and children in his absence.
That all sounds serious. But the truth is that I’m excited because I know this week is going to be just plain fun for me. “Grandpa, read me a story.” “Grandpa, let’s go for a walk.” “Grandpa, can I have a sweet treat?” These words are music to my ears. I hear them regularly as we stay in touch with Skype, but there is something especially wonderful about face-to-face contact.
After all, my grandson once declared, in front of his sister, parents and us, “I think that the best story readers are grownup men with beards.” And his father does not have a beard. And neither of his uncles has a beard. And his other grandfather does not have a beard. I’m the only one that fits into that category. Ever since I heard him say that I have resolved that when ever asked, I will make myself available to read a story. And I do read to him over Skype. But for a week, I’ll be ready with a story whenever asked.
I can’t think of anything that I’d rather do this week.
There are times when I can feel a twinge of envy for the grandparents who live in the same town as their grandchildren. I have a friend who has two granddaughters within a couple of blocks of his home. But envy isn’t a very appealing trait and the truth is that we raised our children to be strong and independent and to make their own decisions. I am incredibly proud of our children and I wouldn’t want to restrict their ability to choose their jobs and places of residence.
From time to time I read in the newspaper columns the stories of grandparents who are cut off from their grandchildren. We are so fortunate that our children want us to visit and they trust us with our grandchildren. And in those children I can see a legacy of love that had been passed down for generations before it got to their great-great-grandparents.
My father died after we had announced that we were expecting but before the birth of our first child. My mother died after the expectations were announced but before the birth of our first grandchild. These precious new generations of our family always bring bittersweet memories to my mind. But I know that I see the traits of previous generations in the youngest members of our family. That is worth celebrating.
So don’t expect my blog posts to always be on time for the next week. I’ll keep writing, but it won’t be my first priority.
Reading stories comes before writing for this grandpa this week.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
The fear of pain
11/05/16 05:17
“Peace is what I leave with you; it is my own peace that I give you. I do not give it as the world does. Do not be worried and upset; do not be afraid.” (John 14:27). It has been said that one of the major themes of the Bible is the simple advice to not be afraid. The prophet Isaiah wrote, “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” I quote the verses about fear a lot. One of the places where I quote them is when I visit in the hospital. I was at the hospital last night visiting with someone who has been in the hospital a lot in the past few years. The patient has suffered multiple intestinal disorders and bleeding, issues relating to congestive heart failure, and a variety of infections, some life-threatening. I’ve visited with this particular patient in some good times and in some very difficult times. There have been allergic reactions and times when we didn’t know whether or not the night would be survived. Last night started out with a near-panic phone call and the visit began with a lot of tears. There was more than a small amount of fear and I was quick to turn to familiar scriptures: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” “The Lord is my light and my salvation - whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life - of whom shall I be afraid?”
Last night we were granted the gift of peace in a relatively short amount of time. Twenty or thirty minutes after I arrived at the hospital the breathing rate, pulse and blood pressure were returning to normal levels. The nurse quietly slipped into the room and turned off the monitor for a few minutes to allow us quiet for visiting. As she did, I noticed that the patient’s blood oxygen level was at 96%. A wonderful level for this particular patient and a sign that the anxiety had eased. We continued to visit. I heard stories of the past year and of moments that were good times as well as some of the more challenging times.
This particular person has a strong faith and has been open and honest about faith and doubts with me for many years. Once again last night I clearly heard the assurance that he is not afraid of dying. It is something that makes his wife anxious, because she knows how difficult that would be.
Quite frankly, I have found that there are many people, especially those who have struggled with life-threatening conditions for a long time, who are not afraid of death. We can accept our mortality.
We are, however, afraid of pain. And it isn’t just us. The medical establishment - the doctors and nurses and pharmaceutical companies and insurers are afraid of pain as well. We have sophisticated tools for managing and avoiding intense pain. Hospitals have access to pumps that automatically infuse medicines and a wide array of different pain-killing products.
The fear of pain has its societal costs, however.
I had my own run-in with pain medications when I was burned 15 years ago. After a negative reaction to morpheme, I began to realize that the problem was probably one of dosage. I was simply receiving too much. Armed with that awareness, I began to notice how pain medicine was prescribed. After a bit of dental surgery I went home with a prescription for a bottle of pills. One of the pills put me to sleep for six hours. I didn’t take any more. The same medicine was prescribed to me for back pain and after a conversation with my doctor I learned that lower dose pills were available. It didn’t surprise me in 2007 when Purdue Pharma pleaded guilty to misleading doctors and patients about the addictive properties of OxyContin and paid $600 million in fines.
from 1999 to 2014, a quarter of a million Americans died of opioid overdose. Today there are more Americans dying of drug overdoses than dying from automobile accidents. Dr. Andrew Kolodny wrote, “This is the worst drug addiction epidemic in US history. We have 10 to 12 million Americans on opioids chronically, so many that drug companies can now make money selling medicines to treat the side effects from being on opioids chronically.” As a nation we have become so addicted that we are now becoming addicted to the medicines that mask the side effects of our addiction.
We are afraid of pain so much that we are killing ourselves. Literally.
From a statistical standpoint, the problems are most evident in middle aged women in America. Life expectancy has declined sharply. Between 1990 and 2010, life expectancy of low-educated white women declined by 1.2 years. US women are at the bottom in terms of other high-income countries when it comes to life expectancy. This sustained increase in mortality is unprecedented. It has never happened in the history of modern medicine. This increase in mortality cannot be directly linked to the increase in opioid addiction, but I am sure that it is one factor.
What we know from several major studies is that prayer and meditation are effective methods of managing pain. Not every medical problem has a chemical solution. And some non medical interventions are more effective than more medicines. That is why I was at the hospital last night when I would otherwise have been sleeping. I’m not a doctor. I am not trained in medical care. But I know that when I pray with people I can be an effective partner with those who provide medical care.
I have learned that there are occasions when the pain is not as bad as the things that are done to treat it. It is the fear of pain that is disabling. Learning to live with pain can be liberating.
It isn’t me that makes the difference, however: “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” (Psalm 46:1)
Last night we were granted the gift of peace in a relatively short amount of time. Twenty or thirty minutes after I arrived at the hospital the breathing rate, pulse and blood pressure were returning to normal levels. The nurse quietly slipped into the room and turned off the monitor for a few minutes to allow us quiet for visiting. As she did, I noticed that the patient’s blood oxygen level was at 96%. A wonderful level for this particular patient and a sign that the anxiety had eased. We continued to visit. I heard stories of the past year and of moments that were good times as well as some of the more challenging times.
This particular person has a strong faith and has been open and honest about faith and doubts with me for many years. Once again last night I clearly heard the assurance that he is not afraid of dying. It is something that makes his wife anxious, because she knows how difficult that would be.
Quite frankly, I have found that there are many people, especially those who have struggled with life-threatening conditions for a long time, who are not afraid of death. We can accept our mortality.
We are, however, afraid of pain. And it isn’t just us. The medical establishment - the doctors and nurses and pharmaceutical companies and insurers are afraid of pain as well. We have sophisticated tools for managing and avoiding intense pain. Hospitals have access to pumps that automatically infuse medicines and a wide array of different pain-killing products.
The fear of pain has its societal costs, however.
I had my own run-in with pain medications when I was burned 15 years ago. After a negative reaction to morpheme, I began to realize that the problem was probably one of dosage. I was simply receiving too much. Armed with that awareness, I began to notice how pain medicine was prescribed. After a bit of dental surgery I went home with a prescription for a bottle of pills. One of the pills put me to sleep for six hours. I didn’t take any more. The same medicine was prescribed to me for back pain and after a conversation with my doctor I learned that lower dose pills were available. It didn’t surprise me in 2007 when Purdue Pharma pleaded guilty to misleading doctors and patients about the addictive properties of OxyContin and paid $600 million in fines.
from 1999 to 2014, a quarter of a million Americans died of opioid overdose. Today there are more Americans dying of drug overdoses than dying from automobile accidents. Dr. Andrew Kolodny wrote, “This is the worst drug addiction epidemic in US history. We have 10 to 12 million Americans on opioids chronically, so many that drug companies can now make money selling medicines to treat the side effects from being on opioids chronically.” As a nation we have become so addicted that we are now becoming addicted to the medicines that mask the side effects of our addiction.
We are afraid of pain so much that we are killing ourselves. Literally.
From a statistical standpoint, the problems are most evident in middle aged women in America. Life expectancy has declined sharply. Between 1990 and 2010, life expectancy of low-educated white women declined by 1.2 years. US women are at the bottom in terms of other high-income countries when it comes to life expectancy. This sustained increase in mortality is unprecedented. It has never happened in the history of modern medicine. This increase in mortality cannot be directly linked to the increase in opioid addiction, but I am sure that it is one factor.
What we know from several major studies is that prayer and meditation are effective methods of managing pain. Not every medical problem has a chemical solution. And some non medical interventions are more effective than more medicines. That is why I was at the hospital last night when I would otherwise have been sleeping. I’m not a doctor. I am not trained in medical care. But I know that when I pray with people I can be an effective partner with those who provide medical care.
I have learned that there are occasions when the pain is not as bad as the things that are done to treat it. It is the fear of pain that is disabling. Learning to live with pain can be liberating.
It isn’t me that makes the difference, however: “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” (Psalm 46:1)
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
More than one day for mothers
10/05/16 05:22
I know that Mother’s Day was Sunday and it is a little bit late to be writing on the topic, but I’ve been reflecting on the holiday and how we celebrate it.
A young reporter wrote a piece for our local newspaper that was published on Mother’s Day. I know that the reporter is young because I have been interviewed by her. In her piece, she profiled a 33-year old with two daughters; a 25-year old with four children; a 22-year old with four children; and a 39-year old with three children. Each has an interesting story and was worthy of a newspaper interview. I remember thinking when I read the article, however, that the reporter had been a bit lazy. She had simply interviewed her friends. The women in the article were all in her age range. They were all of the same ethnic and racial background. There are a lot of other mothers in our community whose nurturing is worthy of celebrating.
So, I’d like to reflect on the stories of other mothers whom I was able to greet on Mother’s day.
One mother who always has a hug for me, lingered a bit longer and we both were fighting back a tear or two on Sunday. She had a mother’s flower, presented by children as women left our sanctuary, in her hand. Just the day before she and I had been working together at our annual Front Porch Coalition Survivors of Suicide walk. It has been just over 22 years since her son, her only child, died by suicide. She has worked tirelessly since that time in suicide prevention work and at the process of providing support to others who have lost loved ones to suicide. She has received extensive training in leading support groups and is the main facilitator of the support group at our church. I know a little of the dynamics of mothers who lose children because two of my siblings preceded our mother in death. I remember the somewhat awkward pause that used to occur, after our sister died, when mother was asked how many children she had. She wasn’t quite sure how to answer the question. Mother was a stickler for the truth, but our sister wasn’t any less her child because she had lost her life at a young age. Our mother was much older when our brother died and by then she had lost her hesitation. When asked about the number of her children, she reported all of them. How bittersweet Mothers Day must be for a mother who has outlived her only son. He was a graduate school educated professional and it isn’t difficult to imagine him as a respected colleague serving our community. Instead we grow quiet and sometimes can’t find the words when we talk of him. The depth of her grief doesn’t make his mother any less of a mother, however and she has fond memories of his childhood and growing up years. There is much that is good to remember and we speak of him often. Hers is a story worth telling
Another mother became a mother by first becoming a stepmother. Her first marriage was her husband’s second and there were children present in their relationship from the beginning. Soon there were children born to the marriage as well. The raised all of those children together and in a very real sense she became mother to all of them. Then, when the children were raised and off on their own lives, her husband asked for a divorce. It was a painful journey for her and there were varying reactions from the children when they learned the news. Years of transition followed. Not long after the divorce she had the joy of welcoming her children for a visit and the awkwardness of knowing they had come for the marriage of her ex husband to another woman. Several years later they all assembled again when she remarried and became a step mom of one more adult child. The various reconfigurations of family have in no way altered the fact that she is a mother. Her faithfulness to her children shows in nearly ever conversation I have with her. The love of family is strong despite so many changes in primary relationships. Hers is a story worth telling.
I think of another mother who is balancing work and home life, putting in incredibly long days to make sure that the youngsters in her household have their physical, emotional and spiritual needs met. She is pouring out her heart and all of her energy into the youngsters and her husband is fully participating in work and home and child rearing as well. This is not their first time at this complex set of tasks. The children in their household were born to one of their children. They are grandchildren whose parents, for reasons too complex for this blog, cannot care for them. There have been court proceedings where grandparents testified in the best interests of their grandchildren while internally questioning their roles as parents because of the failure of their own child’s parenting. Emotions have run deep and there has been plenty of pain along with the joys of family. Despite all of the challenges the children are doing well. They are healthy and happy and attending school. They have the loving support of adults in their lives every day. They have a grandmother who would sacrifice all for them. Hers is a story worth telling.
Another mother has a child who has been gripped by a powerful addiction that he cannot overcome. There have been interventions and treatment centers, and plans made and failed. There have been nights of anguish wondering whether or not the child is alive. There have been fights and threats of violence and more family resources invested and lost than can be counted. This is not her only child, yet there have been times when she has been consumed by the results of the addiction to the point she wonders if she is giving enough attention to the healthy child. Hers is a story worth telling.
There are thousands more stories of mothers: mothers with children with major disabilities, single moms struggling to survive and sacrificing deeply for their children, mothers themselves gripped by disabling diseases, mothers who have to make plans for the care of their children as they face their own premature deaths, and so many more.
A single day is insufficient to celebrate all of the mothers.
A young reporter wrote a piece for our local newspaper that was published on Mother’s Day. I know that the reporter is young because I have been interviewed by her. In her piece, she profiled a 33-year old with two daughters; a 25-year old with four children; a 22-year old with four children; and a 39-year old with three children. Each has an interesting story and was worthy of a newspaper interview. I remember thinking when I read the article, however, that the reporter had been a bit lazy. She had simply interviewed her friends. The women in the article were all in her age range. They were all of the same ethnic and racial background. There are a lot of other mothers in our community whose nurturing is worthy of celebrating.
So, I’d like to reflect on the stories of other mothers whom I was able to greet on Mother’s day.
One mother who always has a hug for me, lingered a bit longer and we both were fighting back a tear or two on Sunday. She had a mother’s flower, presented by children as women left our sanctuary, in her hand. Just the day before she and I had been working together at our annual Front Porch Coalition Survivors of Suicide walk. It has been just over 22 years since her son, her only child, died by suicide. She has worked tirelessly since that time in suicide prevention work and at the process of providing support to others who have lost loved ones to suicide. She has received extensive training in leading support groups and is the main facilitator of the support group at our church. I know a little of the dynamics of mothers who lose children because two of my siblings preceded our mother in death. I remember the somewhat awkward pause that used to occur, after our sister died, when mother was asked how many children she had. She wasn’t quite sure how to answer the question. Mother was a stickler for the truth, but our sister wasn’t any less her child because she had lost her life at a young age. Our mother was much older when our brother died and by then she had lost her hesitation. When asked about the number of her children, she reported all of them. How bittersweet Mothers Day must be for a mother who has outlived her only son. He was a graduate school educated professional and it isn’t difficult to imagine him as a respected colleague serving our community. Instead we grow quiet and sometimes can’t find the words when we talk of him. The depth of her grief doesn’t make his mother any less of a mother, however and she has fond memories of his childhood and growing up years. There is much that is good to remember and we speak of him often. Hers is a story worth telling
Another mother became a mother by first becoming a stepmother. Her first marriage was her husband’s second and there were children present in their relationship from the beginning. Soon there were children born to the marriage as well. The raised all of those children together and in a very real sense she became mother to all of them. Then, when the children were raised and off on their own lives, her husband asked for a divorce. It was a painful journey for her and there were varying reactions from the children when they learned the news. Years of transition followed. Not long after the divorce she had the joy of welcoming her children for a visit and the awkwardness of knowing they had come for the marriage of her ex husband to another woman. Several years later they all assembled again when she remarried and became a step mom of one more adult child. The various reconfigurations of family have in no way altered the fact that she is a mother. Her faithfulness to her children shows in nearly ever conversation I have with her. The love of family is strong despite so many changes in primary relationships. Hers is a story worth telling.
I think of another mother who is balancing work and home life, putting in incredibly long days to make sure that the youngsters in her household have their physical, emotional and spiritual needs met. She is pouring out her heart and all of her energy into the youngsters and her husband is fully participating in work and home and child rearing as well. This is not their first time at this complex set of tasks. The children in their household were born to one of their children. They are grandchildren whose parents, for reasons too complex for this blog, cannot care for them. There have been court proceedings where grandparents testified in the best interests of their grandchildren while internally questioning their roles as parents because of the failure of their own child’s parenting. Emotions have run deep and there has been plenty of pain along with the joys of family. Despite all of the challenges the children are doing well. They are healthy and happy and attending school. They have the loving support of adults in their lives every day. They have a grandmother who would sacrifice all for them. Hers is a story worth telling.
Another mother has a child who has been gripped by a powerful addiction that he cannot overcome. There have been interventions and treatment centers, and plans made and failed. There have been nights of anguish wondering whether or not the child is alive. There have been fights and threats of violence and more family resources invested and lost than can be counted. This is not her only child, yet there have been times when she has been consumed by the results of the addiction to the point she wonders if she is giving enough attention to the healthy child. Hers is a story worth telling.
There are thousands more stories of mothers: mothers with children with major disabilities, single moms struggling to survive and sacrificing deeply for their children, mothers themselves gripped by disabling diseases, mothers who have to make plans for the care of their children as they face their own premature deaths, and so many more.
A single day is insufficient to celebrate all of the mothers.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Random thoughts on a day off
09/05/16 04:42
Here in the hills we’ve been breathing a lot of smoke lately. The fires in Canada, primarily the 387,000-acre blaze at For McMurray, Alberta have been sending smoke all across Saskatchewan and Manitoba as well as most of the central United States. Compared to the problems that the fires are causing for the folks in northern Alberta a little smoke in our skies is a small inconvenience, so I won’t be complaining about it. With at least 20% of the city of Fort McMurray now lost to fire and its 88,000 residents still under an evacuation order, it is clear the things will not be returning to normal any time soon. Up in the oilseeds north of Fort McMurray, the evacuations continue with over 25,000 people safely evacuated.
I think it is important that we understand that the reason there are so many people in that remote part of the world is that our demand for petroleum products drives the market. We want to have inexpensive gasoline for our cars and lots of plastic products manufactured from petroleum. In a way we share responsibility for the scope of the problem.
Fire has been a part of the ecology of the forests from the earliest days of plants on the planet. I don’t know if the size and scope of these fires bear any relationship to human activity, but the number of people affected by the fires is definitely the product of our demand for inexpensive petroleum.
The numbers describing the impact of the fire are staggering. More than 1,600 structures are known to have been destroyed. The cost to the the insurance companies covering those structures is estimated at up to $9 billion. Fortunately casualties have been low, but two people have died during the evacuations. There are currently 27 air tankers involved in the battle in addition to more than 15 helicopters. Coulson Aviation’s monstrous C130 Hercules tanker is among the aircraft engaged in firefighting operations.
The response from concerned people around the world has been significant. More than $44 million has been received by the Red Cross for fire relief. Doctors, nurses and cooks have been streaming into Edmonton to provide additional support for the displaced people. Insurance companies have set up makeshift offices to serve those who need to begin the process of filing claims. People have donated clothing, toiletries and other essential items to support those who were forced to flee in a hurry from the advancing flames.
A couple of smoky days down here is nothing compared to the experiences of those who are directly affected by the fire.
As hot as the flames in Fort McMurray are, however, it’s nothing compared to the weather on Mercury. Mercury is orbiting very close to the sun at the moment and the surface of the planet is heating up to 427 degrees Celsius. That is hot enough that sodium atoms are burned right off of the surface of the planet and leaving a long, thin gaseous tail behind the planet like a comet.
Scientists hope to get a good look at the planet and its tail tomorrow when it makes a rare transit of the sun. The planet will pass in front of the Sun. From our perspective it looks pretty small against the face of the Sun, and the sun is far too bright to allow direct observation with your eyes. You should never stare directly into the Sun. However, the planet passing across the surface of the sun from the perspective of the earth does give scientists with their instruments an opportunity to make observations that are not possible when Mercury is viewed against the dark background of space.
There are ways to make pinhole projectors to view the transit, but I’ll be simply using my computer to view the pictures made by others who know what they are doing. The next opportunity to view a transit of Mercury will be in 2019.
Whether thinking about the flames of the intense Alberta forest fires or the heat of the planet Mercury as it passes across the face of the Sun, there are places where the intensity of the heat make human habitation impossible. When you think about it, it is quite remarkable that there is a place like this planet where people can live in relative comfort. We are fortunate just to have this place to live.
My little boat is loaded up and I’ll be leaving shortly for the lake to do some rowing. The forecast says I have about a 30% chance of getting rained on. A little rain isn’t a problem for me. I’ve discovered that I am, for the most part, waterproof. And a little cool rain is really a blessing when you consider the circumstances in other parts of our solar system. I’m especially grateful that the forest has received enough precipitation over the past few weeks. I know that by July the rains will have stopped and we’re in for some hot and dry weather. I’ll try to keep that in mind if I become frustrated with the rain or if I feel a bit chilly.
But it is nearly impossible to remember the sensation of being too hot on a cold day just as it is nearly impossible to remember the feeling of being too cold on a very hot day in the middle of the summer. We can remember intellectually, and even report the temperatures, but to really keep the sensation in mind is a different matter entirely.
I hope that I will simply be able to enjoy what comes, knowing that it is a privilege to experience the temperate weather and comfortable climate of our home. Each day is a unique gift filled with moments that are worth remembering and worth savoring. I pray that I will discover the grace to offer my gratitude for this place and for this day as I row my small boat across the lake and back. Indeed we are blessed.
I think it is important that we understand that the reason there are so many people in that remote part of the world is that our demand for petroleum products drives the market. We want to have inexpensive gasoline for our cars and lots of plastic products manufactured from petroleum. In a way we share responsibility for the scope of the problem.
Fire has been a part of the ecology of the forests from the earliest days of plants on the planet. I don’t know if the size and scope of these fires bear any relationship to human activity, but the number of people affected by the fires is definitely the product of our demand for inexpensive petroleum.
The numbers describing the impact of the fire are staggering. More than 1,600 structures are known to have been destroyed. The cost to the the insurance companies covering those structures is estimated at up to $9 billion. Fortunately casualties have been low, but two people have died during the evacuations. There are currently 27 air tankers involved in the battle in addition to more than 15 helicopters. Coulson Aviation’s monstrous C130 Hercules tanker is among the aircraft engaged in firefighting operations.
The response from concerned people around the world has been significant. More than $44 million has been received by the Red Cross for fire relief. Doctors, nurses and cooks have been streaming into Edmonton to provide additional support for the displaced people. Insurance companies have set up makeshift offices to serve those who need to begin the process of filing claims. People have donated clothing, toiletries and other essential items to support those who were forced to flee in a hurry from the advancing flames.
A couple of smoky days down here is nothing compared to the experiences of those who are directly affected by the fire.
As hot as the flames in Fort McMurray are, however, it’s nothing compared to the weather on Mercury. Mercury is orbiting very close to the sun at the moment and the surface of the planet is heating up to 427 degrees Celsius. That is hot enough that sodium atoms are burned right off of the surface of the planet and leaving a long, thin gaseous tail behind the planet like a comet.
Scientists hope to get a good look at the planet and its tail tomorrow when it makes a rare transit of the sun. The planet will pass in front of the Sun. From our perspective it looks pretty small against the face of the Sun, and the sun is far too bright to allow direct observation with your eyes. You should never stare directly into the Sun. However, the planet passing across the surface of the sun from the perspective of the earth does give scientists with their instruments an opportunity to make observations that are not possible when Mercury is viewed against the dark background of space.
There are ways to make pinhole projectors to view the transit, but I’ll be simply using my computer to view the pictures made by others who know what they are doing. The next opportunity to view a transit of Mercury will be in 2019.
Whether thinking about the flames of the intense Alberta forest fires or the heat of the planet Mercury as it passes across the face of the Sun, there are places where the intensity of the heat make human habitation impossible. When you think about it, it is quite remarkable that there is a place like this planet where people can live in relative comfort. We are fortunate just to have this place to live.
My little boat is loaded up and I’ll be leaving shortly for the lake to do some rowing. The forecast says I have about a 30% chance of getting rained on. A little rain isn’t a problem for me. I’ve discovered that I am, for the most part, waterproof. And a little cool rain is really a blessing when you consider the circumstances in other parts of our solar system. I’m especially grateful that the forest has received enough precipitation over the past few weeks. I know that by July the rains will have stopped and we’re in for some hot and dry weather. I’ll try to keep that in mind if I become frustrated with the rain or if I feel a bit chilly.
But it is nearly impossible to remember the sensation of being too hot on a cold day just as it is nearly impossible to remember the feeling of being too cold on a very hot day in the middle of the summer. We can remember intellectually, and even report the temperatures, but to really keep the sensation in mind is a different matter entirely.
I hope that I will simply be able to enjoy what comes, knowing that it is a privilege to experience the temperate weather and comfortable climate of our home. Each day is a unique gift filled with moments that are worth remembering and worth savoring. I pray that I will discover the grace to offer my gratitude for this place and for this day as I row my small boat across the lake and back. Indeed we are blessed.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Practicing Compassion
08/05/16 05:16
Many years ago we had a friend and church member whose body was crippled by rheumatoid arthritis. She was able to walk independently when we first met her, but we knew her long enough to witness the days when she was no longer able to do so. She used a wheelchair in the final few years of her life. The way the illness manifested in her body was to be present in many of her joints, but especially affected were her hands. She experienced constant pain from them and they had been deformed by the effects of the disease to the point where grasping something became a two-handed task. It is impossible to know how another person experiences pain, but being with her was a constant reminder that pain was her companion in all the moments of her life.
It amazed me how she kept such a bright and sunny attitude. She greeted us with genuine warmth and affection and her whole body radiated joy. Those who knew her were aware that they had met a remarkable person. She kept a positive attitude in the midst of chronic pain.
By comparison, most of us have encountered a person whose attitude was angry, gruff, and sometimes just plain mean. The person might be short tempered, or a constant complainer or just have a bad attitude. I’ve known several folks who were that way whose lives didn’t seem to have nearly as many challenges as our friend with arthritis.
I used to just believe that some people had bad characters - that they had nurtured the wrong aspects of their personality for so long that they were incapable of being pleasant with others. I interpreted their attitude as a kind of character flaw and learned to avoid them when possible.
A poem by Miller Williams was recently reprinted in a blog by the educator Parker Palmer and it got me to thinking:
Have compassion for everyone you meet
even if they don't want it. What seems like conceit,
bad manners, or cynicism is always a sign
of things no ears have heard, no eyes have seen.
You do not know what wars are going on
down there where the spirit meets the bone.
Reading the poem reminded me of two previous life experiences.
When we were kids we knew an old man. In reality he was probably younger than I am at present, but to us he seemed old. He was gruff and short tempered and snarled at us in such a way that we avoided him whenever possible. We learned to listen to his barked commands and to spring into action to avoid what seemed to us to be verbal abuse. He was known to use words we weren’t allowed to use and seemed to us to be the kind of person you wouldn’t want to have in your family. In those years hip replacement surgery was brand new and we didn’t know many people who had experienced such a procedure. We learned that the old man was a candidate for the surgery. He had experienced a bad fall and an injury when crossing a raging river to fight a forest fire when he was a few decades younger and the injury was such that they could replace the deteriorated bone with a new mental joint. I believe that his new hip was made of stainless steel, though other materials are used in contemporary surgery. At any rate, the surgery was successful and after a half of a year of therapy and recovery he returned to our community a totally different person. He was kind and gentle and earned a reputation for being one of the elders that kids loved. My mother was quick to point out that the old man we used to know was wracked with pain and when the pain was gone he became the person he wanted to be but was unable to be due to the intensity of his hurt. It was a good lesson for my tendencies to judge others. As the poet wrote, “You do not know what wars are going on down there where the spirit meets the bone.”
A second, more recent experience was less dramatic. 5 years ago I was experiencing a lot of grief in my life. In the span of a single year I experienced the death of a brother, my mother and my father-in-law. It was also a year of some significant deaths in the congregation I serve and I officiated at a lot of funerals. It was also the year of the birth of our first grandchild and the wedding of our daughter. There was a lot going on in my life. We had agreed to take our sabbatical in an unconventional manner in order to free up sabbatical funds to contribute to the salary of an associate. the off-again-on-again nature of our break was challenging and I fell behind in my work. I simply was unable to keep up with the demands of the congregation. At one point in the year conflict arose between me and the chair of one of the committees in the church. I thought I was handling the conflict as well as I was able, but things got expressed in ways that affected the overall operation of the church.
I kept wanting to say to the other person, “Hey! Cut me some slack! I’m having a really rough year!” What I was failing to do was to take a look at the circumstances in the other person’s life. I was failing to cut that person some slack. I wasn’t the only one who was experiencing grief and the overwhelmed feelings that can come from real life.
When we experience pain, sometimes the first thing that goes is our compassion.
There are some disabilities that we can see because they are manifested in crutches or wheelchairs or other special devices. There are other disabilities that are much less visible from the outside. Wounded or broken compassion can injure relationships and cause isolation and even threaten the health of the community.
Our church is a place that is intentional about creating safe space where people can get the support they need. Part of that process begins when I remind myself that there is always more going on than meets the eye. The poet Williams’ advice is really important: “Hav compassion for everyone you meet even if they don’t want it.”
It amazed me how she kept such a bright and sunny attitude. She greeted us with genuine warmth and affection and her whole body radiated joy. Those who knew her were aware that they had met a remarkable person. She kept a positive attitude in the midst of chronic pain.
By comparison, most of us have encountered a person whose attitude was angry, gruff, and sometimes just plain mean. The person might be short tempered, or a constant complainer or just have a bad attitude. I’ve known several folks who were that way whose lives didn’t seem to have nearly as many challenges as our friend with arthritis.
I used to just believe that some people had bad characters - that they had nurtured the wrong aspects of their personality for so long that they were incapable of being pleasant with others. I interpreted their attitude as a kind of character flaw and learned to avoid them when possible.
A poem by Miller Williams was recently reprinted in a blog by the educator Parker Palmer and it got me to thinking:
Have compassion for everyone you meet
even if they don't want it. What seems like conceit,
bad manners, or cynicism is always a sign
of things no ears have heard, no eyes have seen.
You do not know what wars are going on
down there where the spirit meets the bone.
Reading the poem reminded me of two previous life experiences.
When we were kids we knew an old man. In reality he was probably younger than I am at present, but to us he seemed old. He was gruff and short tempered and snarled at us in such a way that we avoided him whenever possible. We learned to listen to his barked commands and to spring into action to avoid what seemed to us to be verbal abuse. He was known to use words we weren’t allowed to use and seemed to us to be the kind of person you wouldn’t want to have in your family. In those years hip replacement surgery was brand new and we didn’t know many people who had experienced such a procedure. We learned that the old man was a candidate for the surgery. He had experienced a bad fall and an injury when crossing a raging river to fight a forest fire when he was a few decades younger and the injury was such that they could replace the deteriorated bone with a new mental joint. I believe that his new hip was made of stainless steel, though other materials are used in contemporary surgery. At any rate, the surgery was successful and after a half of a year of therapy and recovery he returned to our community a totally different person. He was kind and gentle and earned a reputation for being one of the elders that kids loved. My mother was quick to point out that the old man we used to know was wracked with pain and when the pain was gone he became the person he wanted to be but was unable to be due to the intensity of his hurt. It was a good lesson for my tendencies to judge others. As the poet wrote, “You do not know what wars are going on down there where the spirit meets the bone.”
A second, more recent experience was less dramatic. 5 years ago I was experiencing a lot of grief in my life. In the span of a single year I experienced the death of a brother, my mother and my father-in-law. It was also a year of some significant deaths in the congregation I serve and I officiated at a lot of funerals. It was also the year of the birth of our first grandchild and the wedding of our daughter. There was a lot going on in my life. We had agreed to take our sabbatical in an unconventional manner in order to free up sabbatical funds to contribute to the salary of an associate. the off-again-on-again nature of our break was challenging and I fell behind in my work. I simply was unable to keep up with the demands of the congregation. At one point in the year conflict arose between me and the chair of one of the committees in the church. I thought I was handling the conflict as well as I was able, but things got expressed in ways that affected the overall operation of the church.
I kept wanting to say to the other person, “Hey! Cut me some slack! I’m having a really rough year!” What I was failing to do was to take a look at the circumstances in the other person’s life. I was failing to cut that person some slack. I wasn’t the only one who was experiencing grief and the overwhelmed feelings that can come from real life.
When we experience pain, sometimes the first thing that goes is our compassion.
There are some disabilities that we can see because they are manifested in crutches or wheelchairs or other special devices. There are other disabilities that are much less visible from the outside. Wounded or broken compassion can injure relationships and cause isolation and even threaten the health of the community.
Our church is a place that is intentional about creating safe space where people can get the support they need. Part of that process begins when I remind myself that there is always more going on than meets the eye. The poet Williams’ advice is really important: “Hav compassion for everyone you meet even if they don’t want it.”
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
An ancient text in modern times
07/05/16 05:28
In the time between Easter and Pentecost our lectionary focuses on the stories of the book of Acts in place of its usual first lesson from the Hebrew Scriptures, also known as the Old Testament. For seven weeks we continue to read from the Psalms, but step away from our usual first reading for a reading from the founding days of the church. Acts is filled with narrative stories that are exciting and fun to read and teach and I enjoy sharing them with the congregations I serve.
Some stories seem interesting while I remain distant from the actual events. They are about things that occurred long ago and far away and about lives lived in a culture that is different from our own in many ways. Although I can imagine being present, I know that my own experiences are vastly different from those of the characters in the stories.
Other stories cut closer to home.
The two interconnected stories in this week’s text are in the “close to home” category.
The text is Acts 16:16-40. It begins with Paul and Silas going to the place of prayer, which is on the outskirts of the city of Macedonia. The story of how they ended up in Macedonia and of how they find a place to stay in their new destination was the focus of last week’s reading. As they are going back and forth, they encounter a young girl who was displayed as a soothsayer and making a lot of money for her owners. On the outskirts of the city, the circumstances of the young girl were ignored by many of the city’s proper residents. They avoided the activities that were going on at the fringe of their city. They ignored the people whose lives were lived in that setting. Nonetheless, the circumstance remained. Human trafficking is the phrase we use to describe modern slavery: using the services of another person against her or his will to profit.
We have human trafficking in our community. We like to pretend that it doesn’t exist, but every year around the time of the annual motorcycle rally, traffickers bring young prostitutes into the area in search of money that is too freely spent by rally goers. This isn’t the legitimate activity that is taking place in the parking lot of the local Harley Davidson dealer. It isn’t what is going on in downtown Sturgis. It is taking place on the fringes of the gathering, in the places where there is less attention given to the illegal activity.
The slave girl wasn’t the focus of the ministry of Paul and Silas. They weren’t especially paying attention. According to the story as it has been preserved by our people they didn’t even notice her until she followed them crying out day after day. What she said was the truth: “These men are servants of the Most High God, who proclaim to you the way of salvation.” Still it seemed to get in the way of the main focus of Paul and Silas’ ministry. It was only after a lot of repetition that Paul became annoyed and in his annoyance called forth the spirit that possessed the girl.
Within an hour the girl’s usefulness at making profits for her owners had vanished. She was no longer a soothsayer, but just another young woman about to be discarded by her owners: used up and soon to be forgotten. Except her owners were mad because they had lost the earning potential. They were so much in love with the money their slave brought that they valued it over her health and well being. They wanted compensation.
I don’t know the nuances of the law back then. I don’t understand modern laws against the alienation of personal services income. It might be a topic which is of interest only to tax accountants and lawyers. What our story reports is that Paul and Silas ended up in jail, a process that usually involved a public beating on the way in those days.
It is in jail that the second part of the story unfolds. Paul and Silas spent the evening praying and singing when suddenly an earthquake caused the prison to tremble and the doors to swing free from their locks.
It terrified the jailer, who wasn’t so much afraid of the damage and devastation of the earthquake, but rather the loss of income and potential punishment by the Roman authorities. We know nothing of the jailer before this scene, so his overall mental health is simply not known. What we do know is that he is on the verge of suicide when Paul cries out to report that the prisoners have not escaped.
I’ve been there, suddenly having a conversation with someone who has decided to kill himself and not knowing the story of what proceeded the events, not knowing the circumstances that brought us to this point, not knowing whether or not the words of the person can be trusted. All I knew was that the person was threatening suicide and had the means to pull it off. My obligation was clear. I needed to do what I could to prevent a death and I was obligated to share the information with others who could get help for the suicidal individual. I don’t know how Paul and Silas felt when they found out the jailer literally had a sword to his own throat. I know that I had to struggle to maintain my calm. It seems that Paul understood that such an act would have an impact not only on the jailer, but on his entire household, and he acts to save not just the individual but the family system.
It is high drama in the midst of scripture that bears a stark resemblance to high drama in the lives of contemporary people. It wasn't just a one-time event.
Today I will once again walk with sisters and brothers to remember those who have died by suicide and to once again pledge our commitment to doing what we can to prevent future suicides. I’ve walked so many times that I literally have a drawer full of t-shirts from prior walks. I walk again for the same reasons that tomorrow I will once again preach on the text from our scriptures.
There still remains a lot of work to be done to save the lives of real people in our world.
Some stories seem interesting while I remain distant from the actual events. They are about things that occurred long ago and far away and about lives lived in a culture that is different from our own in many ways. Although I can imagine being present, I know that my own experiences are vastly different from those of the characters in the stories.
Other stories cut closer to home.
The two interconnected stories in this week’s text are in the “close to home” category.
The text is Acts 16:16-40. It begins with Paul and Silas going to the place of prayer, which is on the outskirts of the city of Macedonia. The story of how they ended up in Macedonia and of how they find a place to stay in their new destination was the focus of last week’s reading. As they are going back and forth, they encounter a young girl who was displayed as a soothsayer and making a lot of money for her owners. On the outskirts of the city, the circumstances of the young girl were ignored by many of the city’s proper residents. They avoided the activities that were going on at the fringe of their city. They ignored the people whose lives were lived in that setting. Nonetheless, the circumstance remained. Human trafficking is the phrase we use to describe modern slavery: using the services of another person against her or his will to profit.
We have human trafficking in our community. We like to pretend that it doesn’t exist, but every year around the time of the annual motorcycle rally, traffickers bring young prostitutes into the area in search of money that is too freely spent by rally goers. This isn’t the legitimate activity that is taking place in the parking lot of the local Harley Davidson dealer. It isn’t what is going on in downtown Sturgis. It is taking place on the fringes of the gathering, in the places where there is less attention given to the illegal activity.
The slave girl wasn’t the focus of the ministry of Paul and Silas. They weren’t especially paying attention. According to the story as it has been preserved by our people they didn’t even notice her until she followed them crying out day after day. What she said was the truth: “These men are servants of the Most High God, who proclaim to you the way of salvation.” Still it seemed to get in the way of the main focus of Paul and Silas’ ministry. It was only after a lot of repetition that Paul became annoyed and in his annoyance called forth the spirit that possessed the girl.
Within an hour the girl’s usefulness at making profits for her owners had vanished. She was no longer a soothsayer, but just another young woman about to be discarded by her owners: used up and soon to be forgotten. Except her owners were mad because they had lost the earning potential. They were so much in love with the money their slave brought that they valued it over her health and well being. They wanted compensation.
I don’t know the nuances of the law back then. I don’t understand modern laws against the alienation of personal services income. It might be a topic which is of interest only to tax accountants and lawyers. What our story reports is that Paul and Silas ended up in jail, a process that usually involved a public beating on the way in those days.
It is in jail that the second part of the story unfolds. Paul and Silas spent the evening praying and singing when suddenly an earthquake caused the prison to tremble and the doors to swing free from their locks.
It terrified the jailer, who wasn’t so much afraid of the damage and devastation of the earthquake, but rather the loss of income and potential punishment by the Roman authorities. We know nothing of the jailer before this scene, so his overall mental health is simply not known. What we do know is that he is on the verge of suicide when Paul cries out to report that the prisoners have not escaped.
I’ve been there, suddenly having a conversation with someone who has decided to kill himself and not knowing the story of what proceeded the events, not knowing the circumstances that brought us to this point, not knowing whether or not the words of the person can be trusted. All I knew was that the person was threatening suicide and had the means to pull it off. My obligation was clear. I needed to do what I could to prevent a death and I was obligated to share the information with others who could get help for the suicidal individual. I don’t know how Paul and Silas felt when they found out the jailer literally had a sword to his own throat. I know that I had to struggle to maintain my calm. It seems that Paul understood that such an act would have an impact not only on the jailer, but on his entire household, and he acts to save not just the individual but the family system.
It is high drama in the midst of scripture that bears a stark resemblance to high drama in the lives of contemporary people. It wasn't just a one-time event.
Today I will once again walk with sisters and brothers to remember those who have died by suicide and to once again pledge our commitment to doing what we can to prevent future suicides. I’ve walked so many times that I literally have a drawer full of t-shirts from prior walks. I walk again for the same reasons that tomorrow I will once again preach on the text from our scriptures.
There still remains a lot of work to be done to save the lives of real people in our world.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Stability and change
06/05/16 05:27
The pace of change is not a steady process. Change comes in fits and starts and often follows long periods of stability. Sometimes there are dramatic events that change the course of the story of our people. Here in Rapid City we still think in terms of before and after the dramatic flood of 1972. A lot of years have gone by, but those dramatic and traumatic summer weeks reshaped our community’s appearance and its attitude. There are some who remember the power of community and the strength of everyone pulling together with a common cause as a positive part of an event that was also filled with loss and grief. Our community still makes a bit of distinction between those who were here and survived the flood and those of us who came after the flood. It isn’t very conscious and it doesn’t involve any lack of welcome or any discrimination, it is just a reality. Some people shared tragedy and rebuilding and others came after that event.
The people of New Orleans fall into several categories more than a decade after Hurricane Katrina devastated their city. Some perished. Some survived the hurricane but never returned to the city. Some came back. Some have moved in since the hurricane. Everyone can acknowledge that the event shaped the entire city and the present is in part the product of dramatic changes that occurred in a single week in August of 2005.
I suspect that the fires of 2016 will be part of the stories of the people of Fort McMurray in Alberta. Some will choose not to return after losing everything in the uncontrollable wildfires.Others will rebuild. The fire has already left divisions in its wake as some homes escaped the flames while others are only smoldering piles of rubble. There are still plenty of people who don’t know which category their home falls into.
Some events take a few more years, and perhaps even centuries to occur, but when you look back you can determine periods of rapid change and periods when things were pretty much the same.
Around the Aleutian Islands and up the Western shore of what is now Alaska, people lived a subsistence lifestyle hunting their food from skin-on-frame kayaks, constructing simple shelters to protect themselves from harsh winters, and living off of a land that is extreme in many ways. That basic style of life was going on thousands of years ago. While the people of Israel were slaves in Egypt, employed in the construction of gigantic pyramids, indigenous peoples of the north took to the seas in human-powered boats and hunted seals and walrus. As the Roman Empire rose and fell the people were surviving with the same tools and ways of living. Europeans spent centuries at war with each other while Inupiaq and Unangan raised their children to paddle and hunt from hand-made boats. Then the big change came for those people. In a matter of 200 years - a long time for an individual, but a short time in the span of history, the culture has been transformed into one where kayaks are very rarely the means of obtaining subsistence. The people are no longer isolated from the rest of the world. They are connected by television and Internet and cell phone. They have access to tools and cultural influences from other parts of the world. Their culture has shifted dramatically and, from what is currently observable, will never go back to the way things were for thousands of years.
History does not follow a steady line. Change does not come at a measured pace.
Those of us who work with institutions that began before our arrival and will continue after our departure need to keep reminding ourselves that there are at once forces that require change and forces that desire stability. Change for the sake of change can become meaningless, but the refusal to change can cause decline. Periods of dramatic change need to be mixed with periods of relative calm. The changes we desire sometimes come at a predictable pace and other times occur in timescales different from our own.
I’ve been watching change in the church for all of my adult life. There are many things that I take for granted these days that I could not have imagined 30 or 40 years ago. I can be surprised by the changes, but I am also surprised by the things that have remained the same. Many of the changes are the result of the institutional church going in directions that I did not expect. Choices of leadership have gone differently than I predicted. I am still mystified that the first denomination to ordain a woman as a full minister back in 1853 still has never elected a woman as general minister and president of the denomination. I expected such a decision decades ago. I don’t think I could have imagined the consolidation of governance and the formation of hierarchical structures in the national setting of the church when I was beginning my service as a pastor.
I know the institutional church still holds surprises for me as I live my history within the wider story of the life of the church.
Still, when I prepare my weekly sermons I am deeply aware that I am studying the same texts that pastors have studied for centuries. I am trying to explain the same concepts that others have struggled to explain before me. I belong to traditions that are far bigger than the span of my life. Although I am not sure that the people I serve always are aware of it, I work hard to make sure that my message is consistent with the teachings of our people.
As such it can be frustrating to encounter others who seem to be unaware or uneducated about the history of our faith. I know that I should welcome them as part of the change that I cannot yet perceive, but I resist because I see in them stories that are being repeated that do not need to be repeated.
And so I witness the unfolding story of our people. I tell the story in the language that I know. I understand that we are adding our own chapter to that story. It is, after all, a story that will continue for generations after our time.
The people of New Orleans fall into several categories more than a decade after Hurricane Katrina devastated their city. Some perished. Some survived the hurricane but never returned to the city. Some came back. Some have moved in since the hurricane. Everyone can acknowledge that the event shaped the entire city and the present is in part the product of dramatic changes that occurred in a single week in August of 2005.
I suspect that the fires of 2016 will be part of the stories of the people of Fort McMurray in Alberta. Some will choose not to return after losing everything in the uncontrollable wildfires.Others will rebuild. The fire has already left divisions in its wake as some homes escaped the flames while others are only smoldering piles of rubble. There are still plenty of people who don’t know which category their home falls into.
Some events take a few more years, and perhaps even centuries to occur, but when you look back you can determine periods of rapid change and periods when things were pretty much the same.
Around the Aleutian Islands and up the Western shore of what is now Alaska, people lived a subsistence lifestyle hunting their food from skin-on-frame kayaks, constructing simple shelters to protect themselves from harsh winters, and living off of a land that is extreme in many ways. That basic style of life was going on thousands of years ago. While the people of Israel were slaves in Egypt, employed in the construction of gigantic pyramids, indigenous peoples of the north took to the seas in human-powered boats and hunted seals and walrus. As the Roman Empire rose and fell the people were surviving with the same tools and ways of living. Europeans spent centuries at war with each other while Inupiaq and Unangan raised their children to paddle and hunt from hand-made boats. Then the big change came for those people. In a matter of 200 years - a long time for an individual, but a short time in the span of history, the culture has been transformed into one where kayaks are very rarely the means of obtaining subsistence. The people are no longer isolated from the rest of the world. They are connected by television and Internet and cell phone. They have access to tools and cultural influences from other parts of the world. Their culture has shifted dramatically and, from what is currently observable, will never go back to the way things were for thousands of years.
History does not follow a steady line. Change does not come at a measured pace.
Those of us who work with institutions that began before our arrival and will continue after our departure need to keep reminding ourselves that there are at once forces that require change and forces that desire stability. Change for the sake of change can become meaningless, but the refusal to change can cause decline. Periods of dramatic change need to be mixed with periods of relative calm. The changes we desire sometimes come at a predictable pace and other times occur in timescales different from our own.
I’ve been watching change in the church for all of my adult life. There are many things that I take for granted these days that I could not have imagined 30 or 40 years ago. I can be surprised by the changes, but I am also surprised by the things that have remained the same. Many of the changes are the result of the institutional church going in directions that I did not expect. Choices of leadership have gone differently than I predicted. I am still mystified that the first denomination to ordain a woman as a full minister back in 1853 still has never elected a woman as general minister and president of the denomination. I expected such a decision decades ago. I don’t think I could have imagined the consolidation of governance and the formation of hierarchical structures in the national setting of the church when I was beginning my service as a pastor.
I know the institutional church still holds surprises for me as I live my history within the wider story of the life of the church.
Still, when I prepare my weekly sermons I am deeply aware that I am studying the same texts that pastors have studied for centuries. I am trying to explain the same concepts that others have struggled to explain before me. I belong to traditions that are far bigger than the span of my life. Although I am not sure that the people I serve always are aware of it, I work hard to make sure that my message is consistent with the teachings of our people.
As such it can be frustrating to encounter others who seem to be unaware or uneducated about the history of our faith. I know that I should welcome them as part of the change that I cannot yet perceive, but I resist because I see in them stories that are being repeated that do not need to be repeated.
And so I witness the unfolding story of our people. I tell the story in the language that I know. I understand that we are adding our own chapter to that story. It is, after all, a story that will continue for generations after our time.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Words of health
05/05/16 05:26
Our mother was a registered nurse and we were raised with a healthy respect for scientific medicine. Mother had definite biases about what now is termed “alternative medicine.” She was outspoken in her belief that physicians trained in medical schools were superior to others. She took us to an ophthalmologist and not an optometrist because the ophthalmologist had more eduction. We were taught to respect and regularly visit medical professionals. Her children don’t share all of her biases, but we have grown into adults who have enjoyed fairly good health and have been responsible consumers of health care.
When I was young the two words that came up most commonly in a physician visit were “accident” and “illness.” Other than a routine school sports physical, I didn’t see a physician all that often. Usually a doctor’s visit was the result of an accident. I fell off of the scaffolding when preparing a large fuel tank for painting and hit by elbow hard. The doctor examined me and determined that there was no fracture. I received a short pep talk about being more careful about accidents. A similar experience occurred when I fell while climbing on rocks in the mountains and bruised my heel. We weren’t sick much as children and when we did contract a cold or other illness our mother’s treatments were generally sufficient, but I was taken to the doctor a couple of times when my symptoms were mysterious to our mother or when she felt a dose of antibiotics were required.
As I grew older, I became a pilot, which required an active medical certificate and regular examinations by an authorized physician.
Although doctors continued to ask me about seat belt use and other risk factors, somewhere along the line “accident” and “illness” were replaced by “diet” and “exercise” as the most common words in my visits to the doctor’s office. “Diet” and “exercise” have been the theme for the majority of my life. As a minister, our insurance plan pays for an annual wellness examination and with a few exceptions, I have taken advantage of that to undergo routine diagnostic and lab tests. I have been blessed with excellent health, though I have plenty of relatives, including my mother, who suffered from diabetes and I know well the effects of diet and exercise on my overall health. My intentions have been good and I have not suffered from a lack of information about diet and exercise. In fact I once commented to a physician that the reason I am overweight is not because of a lack of information. It became a kind of a joke with that doctor because of the habit of doctors of providing patient information and education. I’ve left the doctor’s office with plenty of pamphlets and articles about various diet and exercise programs.
I expected “diet” and “exercise” to be the main topics of conversation with my physicians until the end of my life unless a major illness took over.
I have been surprised, however, to discover that just recently in my visits to the doctor “diet” and “exercise” have now been replaced by “age” and “gender.” It isn’t exactly a welcome change in vocabulary. This year my doctor spent a few minutes reporting to me that my biggest risk factors for disease were my age and gender. I replied that I didn’t think that there was anything I could do about either of those things. Accident, illness, diet and exercise were all things for which I could take responsibility and make lifestyle changes to influence. I’m committed when it comes to age and gender. One seems to be going in the “wrong” direction and the other seems to be permanently fixed.
Of course I’m exaggerating a bit. I’ve had very positive relationships with doctors over the years and I’ve been fortunate to have been served by practitioners who are genuinely committed to my health and who have given me high quality care. They have not been prone to giving long lectures or making insensitive remarks.
It is, however, simply true that I am mortal. At some point, I will die. In the meantime I am aging and the effects of my age will continue to be a factor in my overall health. A student of life insurance actuarial tables will quickly discover that the life expectancy for men in my age is shorter than that for women. Statistics, however, are predictive only for groups of people, not for individuals. My doctor can look up my risk factors and say that some percentage of people my age and gender will experience a heart attack in the next year. A small percentage of risk, however, doesn’t say anything specific about what will or will not occur to me. As a result, much of modern medicine is reactive. We go to the doctor after a health event has occurred.
Modern medical practitioners deal primarily with responding to illness or injury rather than maintaining overall wellness. It reminds me of the French proverb, plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose: the more things change the more they stay the same. Accidents and illnesses remain the major threats to my health and wellness. Preventing them seems to be the best way to life a healthy and productive life.
I have no desire to live forever. I’m at home with my mortality. I would, however, like to remain fully capable for all of my life. This may be an unrealistic expectation. Virtually every person experiences some period of disability toward the end of life. Unless one dies as the result of a sudden and traumatic event, there is usually a bit of disability. So far the minor disabilities that I have experienced of less clear eyesight and some loss of hearing have been easily addressed by eyeglasses and learning to listen more carefully. I’ll probably end up with a hearing aid at some point, but I’d prefer to keep my disabilities at a minimum.
I do, however, have on advantage over some of my peers. I have spent a lot of time with people who live with a wide variety of disabilities and I know what meaningful lives are possible with disabilities.
Whatever words my doctor uses the most, I know that I remain responsible for my attitude and my approach to life. I am not able to limit myself to two words only, so I’ll go with three words, directly from the Bible: “faith, hope and love . . . and the greatest of these is love.”
When I was young the two words that came up most commonly in a physician visit were “accident” and “illness.” Other than a routine school sports physical, I didn’t see a physician all that often. Usually a doctor’s visit was the result of an accident. I fell off of the scaffolding when preparing a large fuel tank for painting and hit by elbow hard. The doctor examined me and determined that there was no fracture. I received a short pep talk about being more careful about accidents. A similar experience occurred when I fell while climbing on rocks in the mountains and bruised my heel. We weren’t sick much as children and when we did contract a cold or other illness our mother’s treatments were generally sufficient, but I was taken to the doctor a couple of times when my symptoms were mysterious to our mother or when she felt a dose of antibiotics were required.
As I grew older, I became a pilot, which required an active medical certificate and regular examinations by an authorized physician.
Although doctors continued to ask me about seat belt use and other risk factors, somewhere along the line “accident” and “illness” were replaced by “diet” and “exercise” as the most common words in my visits to the doctor’s office. “Diet” and “exercise” have been the theme for the majority of my life. As a minister, our insurance plan pays for an annual wellness examination and with a few exceptions, I have taken advantage of that to undergo routine diagnostic and lab tests. I have been blessed with excellent health, though I have plenty of relatives, including my mother, who suffered from diabetes and I know well the effects of diet and exercise on my overall health. My intentions have been good and I have not suffered from a lack of information about diet and exercise. In fact I once commented to a physician that the reason I am overweight is not because of a lack of information. It became a kind of a joke with that doctor because of the habit of doctors of providing patient information and education. I’ve left the doctor’s office with plenty of pamphlets and articles about various diet and exercise programs.
I expected “diet” and “exercise” to be the main topics of conversation with my physicians until the end of my life unless a major illness took over.
I have been surprised, however, to discover that just recently in my visits to the doctor “diet” and “exercise” have now been replaced by “age” and “gender.” It isn’t exactly a welcome change in vocabulary. This year my doctor spent a few minutes reporting to me that my biggest risk factors for disease were my age and gender. I replied that I didn’t think that there was anything I could do about either of those things. Accident, illness, diet and exercise were all things for which I could take responsibility and make lifestyle changes to influence. I’m committed when it comes to age and gender. One seems to be going in the “wrong” direction and the other seems to be permanently fixed.
Of course I’m exaggerating a bit. I’ve had very positive relationships with doctors over the years and I’ve been fortunate to have been served by practitioners who are genuinely committed to my health and who have given me high quality care. They have not been prone to giving long lectures or making insensitive remarks.
It is, however, simply true that I am mortal. At some point, I will die. In the meantime I am aging and the effects of my age will continue to be a factor in my overall health. A student of life insurance actuarial tables will quickly discover that the life expectancy for men in my age is shorter than that for women. Statistics, however, are predictive only for groups of people, not for individuals. My doctor can look up my risk factors and say that some percentage of people my age and gender will experience a heart attack in the next year. A small percentage of risk, however, doesn’t say anything specific about what will or will not occur to me. As a result, much of modern medicine is reactive. We go to the doctor after a health event has occurred.
Modern medical practitioners deal primarily with responding to illness or injury rather than maintaining overall wellness. It reminds me of the French proverb, plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose: the more things change the more they stay the same. Accidents and illnesses remain the major threats to my health and wellness. Preventing them seems to be the best way to life a healthy and productive life.
I have no desire to live forever. I’m at home with my mortality. I would, however, like to remain fully capable for all of my life. This may be an unrealistic expectation. Virtually every person experiences some period of disability toward the end of life. Unless one dies as the result of a sudden and traumatic event, there is usually a bit of disability. So far the minor disabilities that I have experienced of less clear eyesight and some loss of hearing have been easily addressed by eyeglasses and learning to listen more carefully. I’ll probably end up with a hearing aid at some point, but I’d prefer to keep my disabilities at a minimum.
I do, however, have on advantage over some of my peers. I have spent a lot of time with people who live with a wide variety of disabilities and I know what meaningful lives are possible with disabilities.
Whatever words my doctor uses the most, I know that I remain responsible for my attitude and my approach to life. I am not able to limit myself to two words only, so I’ll go with three words, directly from the Bible: “faith, hope and love . . . and the greatest of these is love.”
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Looking forward
04/05/16 05:24
Canadian hockey player Wayne Gretzky once said, “A good hockey player plays where the puck is. A great hockey player plays where the puck is going to be.” Like a lot of other sports sayings, it is incredibly difficult to turn those words into meaningful action. A hockey puck moves across the ice at a rapid speed with lots of momentum and its direction is easily diverted with the stroke of a stick or the edge of a skate. With ten active skaters on the ice plus two goaltenders, there are a lot of variables in the movement of the puck.
I’ve been pondering that phrase lately as I’ve invested some of my driving time in thinking about the future of the congregation I serve. We are a collection of people who have gotten to know each other fairly well and we have discovered some things about how to be a church in this time and place. We have a leadership team that works well together and has learned to play off of one another’s strengths. We have a style of worship that fits our congregation and is welcoming to visitors and newcomers. We have educational programs that are appealing and a surge in young children in our nursery. We have discovered how to enable grassroots mission in ways that engages our people in service to others.
We like the way things are going. We are happy and content. We are a good church. We know where the puck is.
Now we need to teach ourselves the art of anticipation, without losing our connections to the present.
We are, after all, disciples of Jesus who said, “ . . . do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.”
I don’t want my congregation to be worried about the future. I don’t want us to fail to live fully in the present because we are overcome with anxiety.
It is a balance that Gretzky found in his sport. He was a fluid skater who appeared to not be working too hard, not too overcome with worry. He simply lived in the midst of the game in a way that allowed him to focus his attention on what was coming.
All analogies have limitations and sports analogies are not the best for a somewhat nerdy philosophical thinker like me.
Of course I know almost nothing about the game of hockey.
And running a church is not very much like to getting a hockey puck to go into a goal.
The church moves more at the pace of baseball than hockey. When considering the entire history of the Christian church, I’m more likely to use a quote that you sometimes hear applied to the Chicago Cubs baseball organization, “Anybody can have an off century.” God is engaged with the church for the long term and many of the great discoveries and revelations of the church have come not in the flash of an instant, but through the passing of generations.
The key to the future is faithfulness in the present.
The Buddhist concept of presentness, practiced by many other world religions, has much to offer to those who contemplate faithfulness in any religion. If one truly succeeds in focusing one’s attention fully on the here and now, there is a peacefulness that opens the possibility of a different kind of connection to time. The past and future indeed become present.
I’ve blogged many times about the limitations of our perception of time and how viewing time as linear is only one way of seeing. Our people have long treasured the stories of times when past and present meet in conversation. We can spend hours in discussion of a nearly two-thousand year old vision of an as yet unrevealed future. We have some sense that an intersection of different times is another way of perceiving the world. Those glimpses of the unity of time, however, remain fleeting. Something in the way our rational minds works limits our capacity to view time as a single burst of simultaneity. Intersections of past, present and future are viewed as anomalies, not as a sustainable worldview.
For our congregation the question is not one of planning. It can be useful to ask the question, “Where do we want to be five years from now?” It makes sense to develop goals and strategies to achieve those goals. And we are fairly good at that process. Our challenge, however, is deeper than just a matter of making plans.
We are trying to discern where God is calling us. How do we develop the flexibility and resiliency to be able to respond to our vocation, which is about God’s future, not about our own desires?
One thing that my years in the church has taught me is that it can be very difficult to determine the difference between what I want and where God is calling me to be. I’m very adept at convincing myself that my desires are the same as God’s. Sorting out that difference is not something that I can do by myself. I need groups of faithful people with whom to consult and pray. Discerning God’s call requires life in the midst of the community of God’s faithful people. More often than not, the call contains surprises.
It is that sense of surprise that I know is part of our story. To return to the hockey analogy, it isn’t just being able to anticipate where the puck will be, it is being able to respond to an unexpected change in velocity or direction. The puck won’t always go where you think it is going to go. There are plenty of surprises in every minute of play in a game of hockey.
The surprises in the life of a church are part of the joy of life in community. Not all surprises bring delight, but there is joy in knowing that we have so much more to learn. There is joy in newness that was unanticipated. The words of John Robinson to the passengers on the Mayflower continue to inspire and call us forward: “I am verily persuaded that the Lord hath more truth yet to break forth out of His Holy Word.”
Maybe the art of skating to where the puck will be involves being willing to be constantly surprised.
I’ve been pondering that phrase lately as I’ve invested some of my driving time in thinking about the future of the congregation I serve. We are a collection of people who have gotten to know each other fairly well and we have discovered some things about how to be a church in this time and place. We have a leadership team that works well together and has learned to play off of one another’s strengths. We have a style of worship that fits our congregation and is welcoming to visitors and newcomers. We have educational programs that are appealing and a surge in young children in our nursery. We have discovered how to enable grassroots mission in ways that engages our people in service to others.
We like the way things are going. We are happy and content. We are a good church. We know where the puck is.
Now we need to teach ourselves the art of anticipation, without losing our connections to the present.
We are, after all, disciples of Jesus who said, “ . . . do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.”
I don’t want my congregation to be worried about the future. I don’t want us to fail to live fully in the present because we are overcome with anxiety.
It is a balance that Gretzky found in his sport. He was a fluid skater who appeared to not be working too hard, not too overcome with worry. He simply lived in the midst of the game in a way that allowed him to focus his attention on what was coming.
All analogies have limitations and sports analogies are not the best for a somewhat nerdy philosophical thinker like me.
Of course I know almost nothing about the game of hockey.
And running a church is not very much like to getting a hockey puck to go into a goal.
The church moves more at the pace of baseball than hockey. When considering the entire history of the Christian church, I’m more likely to use a quote that you sometimes hear applied to the Chicago Cubs baseball organization, “Anybody can have an off century.” God is engaged with the church for the long term and many of the great discoveries and revelations of the church have come not in the flash of an instant, but through the passing of generations.
The key to the future is faithfulness in the present.
The Buddhist concept of presentness, practiced by many other world religions, has much to offer to those who contemplate faithfulness in any religion. If one truly succeeds in focusing one’s attention fully on the here and now, there is a peacefulness that opens the possibility of a different kind of connection to time. The past and future indeed become present.
I’ve blogged many times about the limitations of our perception of time and how viewing time as linear is only one way of seeing. Our people have long treasured the stories of times when past and present meet in conversation. We can spend hours in discussion of a nearly two-thousand year old vision of an as yet unrevealed future. We have some sense that an intersection of different times is another way of perceiving the world. Those glimpses of the unity of time, however, remain fleeting. Something in the way our rational minds works limits our capacity to view time as a single burst of simultaneity. Intersections of past, present and future are viewed as anomalies, not as a sustainable worldview.
For our congregation the question is not one of planning. It can be useful to ask the question, “Where do we want to be five years from now?” It makes sense to develop goals and strategies to achieve those goals. And we are fairly good at that process. Our challenge, however, is deeper than just a matter of making plans.
We are trying to discern where God is calling us. How do we develop the flexibility and resiliency to be able to respond to our vocation, which is about God’s future, not about our own desires?
One thing that my years in the church has taught me is that it can be very difficult to determine the difference between what I want and where God is calling me to be. I’m very adept at convincing myself that my desires are the same as God’s. Sorting out that difference is not something that I can do by myself. I need groups of faithful people with whom to consult and pray. Discerning God’s call requires life in the midst of the community of God’s faithful people. More often than not, the call contains surprises.
It is that sense of surprise that I know is part of our story. To return to the hockey analogy, it isn’t just being able to anticipate where the puck will be, it is being able to respond to an unexpected change in velocity or direction. The puck won’t always go where you think it is going to go. There are plenty of surprises in every minute of play in a game of hockey.
The surprises in the life of a church are part of the joy of life in community. Not all surprises bring delight, but there is joy in knowing that we have so much more to learn. There is joy in newness that was unanticipated. The words of John Robinson to the passengers on the Mayflower continue to inspire and call us forward: “I am verily persuaded that the Lord hath more truth yet to break forth out of His Holy Word.”
Maybe the art of skating to where the puck will be involves being willing to be constantly surprised.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Not a typical day at the office
03/05/16 05:14
For me, coming to this place always has the flavor of a trip down memory lane. It is where we spent our summers as children and as soon as school was out we wanted to spend as much time as possible here, playing in the river, fishing, exploring and experiencing things that weren’t possible with the schedule of the school year. At the very beginning of my career as a minister my mother was widowed and most years I made trips to assist with getting the place ready for her to move in for the summer and to button it up for the winter. As she grew older and we moved to Rapid City, there were several years when I would come to the river, open the place up, turn on the water and then make a trip to Portland, Oregon to bring her back to her summer place in Montana. Then in the fall, I’d take a few days to take her back to her winter home and close up the place.
I’ve had a wonderful visit to the home of my childhood. We cut and stacked wood, mowed grass, put up a new light fixture, and took care of the animals. But, as when I was a child, there was time for exploring, looking for mushrooms, checking out the river, and looking at the birds. The sandhill cranes are making a fuss across the river and I saw and osprey fishing. The trees are full of song birds and the mountains are looking their best still covered in snow. High water is still several weeks away. It is still cold in the high country.
Meanwhile, as I was enjoying a day off, our son also had a day off from his usual work. Although he usually works Monday through Friday he has the ability for some flexibility in his work schedule and can do some of his work remotely with his computer from his home or other locations. Most of his time away from work is time focused on his family. With young children there are lots of demands on an active father. He enjoys his role as a father and invests lots of time caring for his children and helping them explore the world. Like me, he has learned that from time to time doing something that breaks up the routine spurs creative thoughts and helps to increase productivity at work. It is counter intuitive that taking a break from work would enable you to get more done, but that is often the case. It appears that our son has learned this at a younger age than his father and I’m very proud of the balance that he has achieved.
In the evening I received a text message and some pictures of his day. While my day included pictures of lambs and tractors and mushrooms growing on the side of a cottonwood tree, his were quite different.
When I was a child my parents were both pilots and getting into an airplane was a very natural experience for me. I loved flying and enjoyed it when I tagged along with my dad on a flight. The love of flying was instilled in me in such a way that it was something that was important for me to pass on. We were partners in an airplane when our children were little and the grew up flying with me. Our son has some fond memories of airplane adventures and I can see a bit of his grandparents’ love of flying in him. This is especially meaningful for me as he was born after my father passed away.
It was not a typical day at the office for either of us!
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
A philosophical reflection
02/05/16 05:15
I’ve had a bit more windshield time in the past few days and when I drive alone, I tend to allow my mind to do a little philosophical thinking. Those of you who fine my philosophical rantings to be boring might want to skip today’s blog and wait for something more practical.
The German philosopher Martin Heidegger wrote a treatise entitled “Being and Time.” The work, written in haste to meet a publisher’s deadline is really only the first part of the project as outlined in the introduction. The argument, however, is fairly simple. He argues that being and time are the same. At least for the human experience. We exist in time. We have no experience of timelessness. To understand that we are is to understand that we are temporal. We are finite. The book is considered to be one of the masterpieces of 20th Century philosophical thought.
The theological discussion that is not contained in the book is whether or not human experience is the only way of assessing reality. I realize that we are human and that we carry a uniquely human perspective. There is a growing body of evidence, however, that we are a part of a larger existence. People who have survived strokes and other forms of traumatic brain injury that affected primarily the left hemisphere of their cerebral cortex report a euphoric sensation of timelessness. One theory to explain this is that there is, within the human brain, the evolutionary remnants inherited from previous generations. Jungian psychologists refer to this as our “collective unconscious.” Within each of us is a connection with a shared history.
While Heidegger may be right in his observations about being and time from the perspective of our current life, his description may not be adequate for the whole of reality. There may simply be more to the story than Heidegger was able to observe.
Theologians, especially those of monotheistic religions, begin with the assumption that the eternal exists as an objective reality. In addition to the temporal, which is perceived and experienced by humans, there is also a realty that exists beyond time. From that perspective there is no past, present or future, but a reality in which all is simultaneously present. To simplify the larger argument for the sake of the brief form of the blog it might be helpful to separate being from doing. This takes us away from Heidegger’s perspective, but from a philosophical point of view one of the ways of recognizing a deep truth is that it opposite is also true. Doing is action that takes place in time. It is initiated and concluded. Being reaches beyond time. From the eternal perspective existence is not defined by action. For that which always exists there is no distinction between then and now. There is no distinction between here and there. All is simultaneously experienced.
We, however, are temporal - at least most of our perception is temporal.
Christian theology introduces a dramatic element into the discussion. It isn’t unique to Christianity and there were elements of the concept in other more ancient religions, but the concept is central to Christian thought and Christianity is responsible for the widespread dissemination of the concept in the contemporary world. The thought is this: there is an intersection between the eternal the the temporal. There is a meeting point between being and doing. In Jesus of Nazareth the eternal becomes human and humans are endowed with a spark of the divine.
Although very few modern brain scientists would chose to use theological language, contemporary brain research has discovered that in the complex networks of communication between the two hemispheres of the human brain there is a semblance of this intersection. Logical, memory-based brain processing organizes human experience along a timeline and we experience a progression through linear time, with some memories taking place prior to other ones. The part of our brains that experiences time is in constant contact and communication with other areas of the brain that process experience in an entirely different manner. In those regions the brain has no need to organize or order. Things simply are.
Most of us experience the dominance of the logical, orderly processing of our brains most of the time. But when we dream we get a glimpse of other ways of arranging our experiences. In a dream imagination mixes with experience, story is shaped by speculation, elements are reordered and reorganized. In a dream things are connected whose connections aren’t seen by the orderly processing of our logical memory centers. In some cases where brains have been injured, either by trauma to the logical processing centers or by damage to the neurological connections between the brain’s hemispheres, human existence is perceived without the limitations of time. While this would be dramatically disorienting for those of us who think in terms of time and order, it does open the window slightly on a completely different human perception of time.
In a world with no time, there is no loss and no grief. That which is past is also present. All that ever was currently is. Pain, if it exists at all, is not associated with loss. Brain scientists would never use the word, but theologians call this experience heaven.
The realities of our temporal existence, however, present most of us from anything like a complete experience of that which is not bound by time. We get glimpses, in injuries, or in dreams or in moments at the edges of consciousness. Our experiences are incomplete and our perceptions are partial. As a result, when we attempt to discuss the eternal, like this particular blog post, our discussions are tiny fragments of a much larger reality. We know enough to say that there is more that is, but we often lack common language to determine whether or not our understandings are common.
Scientists accuse theologians of speaking of that which is not real. Theologians accuse scientists of observing only a tiny fragment of the whole of reality. And a few of us, especially when left with enough time by ourselves, speculate on the intersection of the two realms of thought.
The German philosopher Martin Heidegger wrote a treatise entitled “Being and Time.” The work, written in haste to meet a publisher’s deadline is really only the first part of the project as outlined in the introduction. The argument, however, is fairly simple. He argues that being and time are the same. At least for the human experience. We exist in time. We have no experience of timelessness. To understand that we are is to understand that we are temporal. We are finite. The book is considered to be one of the masterpieces of 20th Century philosophical thought.
The theological discussion that is not contained in the book is whether or not human experience is the only way of assessing reality. I realize that we are human and that we carry a uniquely human perspective. There is a growing body of evidence, however, that we are a part of a larger existence. People who have survived strokes and other forms of traumatic brain injury that affected primarily the left hemisphere of their cerebral cortex report a euphoric sensation of timelessness. One theory to explain this is that there is, within the human brain, the evolutionary remnants inherited from previous generations. Jungian psychologists refer to this as our “collective unconscious.” Within each of us is a connection with a shared history.
While Heidegger may be right in his observations about being and time from the perspective of our current life, his description may not be adequate for the whole of reality. There may simply be more to the story than Heidegger was able to observe.
Theologians, especially those of monotheistic religions, begin with the assumption that the eternal exists as an objective reality. In addition to the temporal, which is perceived and experienced by humans, there is also a realty that exists beyond time. From that perspective there is no past, present or future, but a reality in which all is simultaneously present. To simplify the larger argument for the sake of the brief form of the blog it might be helpful to separate being from doing. This takes us away from Heidegger’s perspective, but from a philosophical point of view one of the ways of recognizing a deep truth is that it opposite is also true. Doing is action that takes place in time. It is initiated and concluded. Being reaches beyond time. From the eternal perspective existence is not defined by action. For that which always exists there is no distinction between then and now. There is no distinction between here and there. All is simultaneously experienced.
We, however, are temporal - at least most of our perception is temporal.
Christian theology introduces a dramatic element into the discussion. It isn’t unique to Christianity and there were elements of the concept in other more ancient religions, but the concept is central to Christian thought and Christianity is responsible for the widespread dissemination of the concept in the contemporary world. The thought is this: there is an intersection between the eternal the the temporal. There is a meeting point between being and doing. In Jesus of Nazareth the eternal becomes human and humans are endowed with a spark of the divine.
Although very few modern brain scientists would chose to use theological language, contemporary brain research has discovered that in the complex networks of communication between the two hemispheres of the human brain there is a semblance of this intersection. Logical, memory-based brain processing organizes human experience along a timeline and we experience a progression through linear time, with some memories taking place prior to other ones. The part of our brains that experiences time is in constant contact and communication with other areas of the brain that process experience in an entirely different manner. In those regions the brain has no need to organize or order. Things simply are.
Most of us experience the dominance of the logical, orderly processing of our brains most of the time. But when we dream we get a glimpse of other ways of arranging our experiences. In a dream imagination mixes with experience, story is shaped by speculation, elements are reordered and reorganized. In a dream things are connected whose connections aren’t seen by the orderly processing of our logical memory centers. In some cases where brains have been injured, either by trauma to the logical processing centers or by damage to the neurological connections between the brain’s hemispheres, human existence is perceived without the limitations of time. While this would be dramatically disorienting for those of us who think in terms of time and order, it does open the window slightly on a completely different human perception of time.
In a world with no time, there is no loss and no grief. That which is past is also present. All that ever was currently is. Pain, if it exists at all, is not associated with loss. Brain scientists would never use the word, but theologians call this experience heaven.
The realities of our temporal existence, however, present most of us from anything like a complete experience of that which is not bound by time. We get glimpses, in injuries, or in dreams or in moments at the edges of consciousness. Our experiences are incomplete and our perceptions are partial. As a result, when we attempt to discuss the eternal, like this particular blog post, our discussions are tiny fragments of a much larger reality. We know enough to say that there is more that is, but we often lack common language to determine whether or not our understandings are common.
Scientists accuse theologians of speaking of that which is not real. Theologians accuse scientists of observing only a tiny fragment of the whole of reality. And a few of us, especially when left with enough time by ourselves, speculate on the intersection of the two realms of thought.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Ted E. Huffman. If you would like to share this, please direct your friends to my web site. If you want to reproduce any or all of it, please contact me for permission. Thanks.
Beauty
01/05/16 05:25
Philosophers often occupy their brains with obscure thoughts. Here’s an idea that has been bouncing around in the back of my mind for years.
They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The actual origins of the quote go back to at least the third century BC, but a lot of people have had their own versions of the idea over the years. Ben Franklin wrote in Poor Richard’s Almanack in 1741: “Beauty, like supreme dominion is but supported by opinion.” Shakespeare wrote, “Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye.” The basic idea is that the perception of beauty is subjective.
Certainly there are a lot of different opinions about art and music and even personal items like clothing and appearance. Some things are attractive to some and not attractive to others.
There is a bit of a debate as to whether or not the perception of beauty is a uniquely human characteristic. Some argue that our ability to enjoy beauty is something that makes humans unique. Others argue that animals perceive beauty. They certainly are attracted to certain things and less attracted to other things. Animals “chose” mates, but it is not clear whether such is the product of cognitive reflection or simply a reaction to an instinct.
There are others who will argue that beauty is an entirely made up concept - that it is arbitrary and that there is nothing that is more or less beautiful than anything else. It is simply an arbitrary value assigned by human judgment.
It seems to me, however, that there may be an objective reality that is beauty. After all there is a kind of order to the universe. When things get out of balance, they tend to correct themselves without human intervention. The movement of stars and planets has a type of logic that makes them predictable to a keen observer. Modern scientific method is based on “laws” of nature.
I think that the idea of beauty as an objective reality began to stir in my consciousness back in my college days. I had a friend who was both a theologian and a mathematician. That particular combination of thought specializations is more common than one might think. Alfred North Whitehead is still revered for his contributions to both mathematics and philosophy. Whitehead wrote, “Art is the imposing of pattern on experience, and our aesthetic enjoyment is recognition of the pattern.”
At any rate, my friend was so delighted by the orderliness of a mathematical formula that there was a kind of euphoria that seized him when he solved a particularly difficult one. I was not particularly interested in calculus and other forms of higher math as a college student, but I couldn’t deny the joy that mathematical manipulations brought to my friend. As a philosophy and Christian thought major, I began to ask myself about whether or not there is something in the basic order of the universe that is by nature beautiful.
Another way to think about the issue is to recognize that there are some things that are nearly universally perceived as ugly. War is ugly. Those who are victims sense its ugliness. Those who fight will report that it is ugly. Those who commit nations to war will speak of it as a “necessary evil.” We humans are pretty consistent in our assessment that the muck and mayhem of killing people is not a pretty endeavor. Perhaps it would be easier for us to reach agreement that there are some things that are inherently ugly and that there is an objective reality that is the absence of beauty.
Except that we recognize beauty in the midst of the most horrific of circumstances. The famous orchestra in the main camp at Auschwitz and other musical groups formed in Nazi death camps have been lifted up as the triumph of beauty in the midst of human-caused ugliness. The cellist of Sarajevo is another example of beauty in the midst of tragedy. There are countless cases of truly beautiful deeds of heroism and sacrifice in places where ugliness and inhumanity seem to triumph. The fact that we recognize these events indicates that there may be a commonness in our recognition of beauty as well as a commonness in our recognition of its opposite.
If we return to Whitehead’s definition of beauty as order and the human perception of beauty as the recognition of order, certainly there is a basic sense of order that is inherent in the universe. Beauty does not exist only for human perception. Order exists where we have not yet perceived it. A tiny blossom deep in the forest that flourishes and withers without ever being noticed by a human being is still beautiful.
So I will argue with the old saying. Beauty exists even where it is not beheld. And I will even take a small issue with Whitehead. Order does not need to be perceived in order to give beauty to the universe. Our sense that humans are somehow necessary to the recognition of beauty is probably more a statement of our own inflated egos than of some objective truth.
We do, however, have a unique role in relationship to beauty. We have the ability to perceive and ponder its nature. We have the ability to be moved by music and art and mathematics. We have a sense of appreciation for beauty that may not be completely unique to humans, but of which we are, nonetheless deeply aware.
A life spent in the pursuit of beauty is a wise investment.
I have an album downloaded onto my phone of Yo-Yo Ma, “Inspired by Bach: The Cello Suites.” I play excerpts from that album when driving, but also when I’m feeling a bit down. I think that the music would be soothing if I were experiencing pain or grief. Sometimes it seems to me to be a fortunate thing that I simply was alive at the same time as the great cellist and have access to the technology to hear the beauty he produces. I’ll never be a cellist. I don’t have the skill to produce such beauty. But I feel fortunate to be able to recognize and enjoy it. More importantly, I realize that the beauty is larger than me. Bach died 200 years before I was born. The beauty of his music will continue for millennia after my time on this earth has come to its end.
Beauty, it seems, is more enduring than any of its beholders.
They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The actual origins of the quote go back to at least the third century BC, but a lot of people have had their own versions of the idea over the years. Ben Franklin wrote in Poor Richard’s Almanack in 1741: “Beauty, like supreme dominion is but supported by opinion.” Shakespeare wrote, “Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye.” The basic idea is that the perception of beauty is subjective.
Certainly there are a lot of different opinions about art and music and even personal items like clothing and appearance. Some things are attractive to some and not attractive to others.
There is a bit of a debate as to whether or not the perception of beauty is a uniquely human characteristic. Some argue that our ability to enjoy beauty is something that makes humans unique. Others argue that animals perceive beauty. They certainly are attracted to certain things and less attracted to other things. Animals “chose” mates, but it is not clear whether such is the product of cognitive reflection or simply a reaction to an instinct.
There are others who will argue that beauty is an entirely made up concept - that it is arbitrary and that there is nothing that is more or less beautiful than anything else. It is simply an arbitrary value assigned by human judgment.
It seems to me, however, that there may be an objective reality that is beauty. After all there is a kind of order to the universe. When things get out of balance, they tend to correct themselves without human intervention. The movement of stars and planets has a type of logic that makes them predictable to a keen observer. Modern scientific method is based on “laws” of nature.
I think that the idea of beauty as an objective reality began to stir in my consciousness back in my college days. I had a friend who was both a theologian and a mathematician. That particular combination of thought specializations is more common than one might think. Alfred North Whitehead is still revered for his contributions to both mathematics and philosophy. Whitehead wrote, “Art is the imposing of pattern on experience, and our aesthetic enjoyment is recognition of the pattern.”
At any rate, my friend was so delighted by the orderliness of a mathematical formula that there was a kind of euphoria that seized him when he solved a particularly difficult one. I was not particularly interested in calculus and other forms of higher math as a college student, but I couldn’t deny the joy that mathematical manipulations brought to my friend. As a philosophy and Christian thought major, I began to ask myself about whether or not there is something in the basic order of the universe that is by nature beautiful.
Another way to think about the issue is to recognize that there are some things that are nearly universally perceived as ugly. War is ugly. Those who are victims sense its ugliness. Those who fight will report that it is ugly. Those who commit nations to war will speak of it as a “necessary evil.” We humans are pretty consistent in our assessment that the muck and mayhem of killing people is not a pretty endeavor. Perhaps it would be easier for us to reach agreement that there are some things that are inherently ugly and that there is an objective reality that is the absence of beauty.
Except that we recognize beauty in the midst of the most horrific of circumstances. The famous orchestra in the main camp at Auschwitz and other musical groups formed in Nazi death camps have been lifted up as the triumph of beauty in the midst of human-caused ugliness. The cellist of Sarajevo is another example of beauty in the midst of tragedy. There are countless cases of truly beautiful deeds of heroism and sacrifice in places where ugliness and inhumanity seem to triumph. The fact that we recognize these events indicates that there may be a commonness in our recognition of beauty as well as a commonness in our recognition of its opposite.
If we return to Whitehead’s definition of beauty as order and the human perception of beauty as the recognition of order, certainly there is a basic sense of order that is inherent in the universe. Beauty does not exist only for human perception. Order exists where we have not yet perceived it. A tiny blossom deep in the forest that flourishes and withers without ever being noticed by a human being is still beautiful.
So I will argue with the old saying. Beauty exists even where it is not beheld. And I will even take a small issue with Whitehead. Order does not need to be perceived in order to give beauty to the universe. Our sense that humans are somehow necessary to the recognition of beauty is probably more a statement of our own inflated egos than of some objective truth.
We do, however, have a unique role in relationship to beauty. We have the ability to perceive and ponder its nature. We have the ability to be moved by music and art and mathematics. We have a sense of appreciation for beauty that may not be completely unique to humans, but of which we are, nonetheless deeply aware.
A life spent in the pursuit of beauty is a wise investment.
I have an album downloaded onto my phone of Yo-Yo Ma, “Inspired by Bach: The Cello Suites.” I play excerpts from that album when driving, but also when I’m feeling a bit down. I think that the music would be soothing if I were experiencing pain or grief. Sometimes it seems to me to be a fortunate thing that I simply was alive at the same time as the great cellist and have access to the technology to hear the beauty he produces. I’ll never be a cellist. I don’t have the skill to produce such beauty. But I feel fortunate to be able to recognize and enjoy it. More importantly, I realize that the beauty is larger than me. Bach died 200 years before I was born. The beauty of his music will continue for millennia after my time on this earth has come to its end.
Beauty, it seems, is more enduring than any of its beholders.