Category: Faith and Wisdom (Page 2 of 6)

Aggressive ‘helicopter’ parents force egg hunt cancellation

Uncle said it best, “Jaaackieeee, EGGS DON’T MATTER!” ^[1]

It’s a perfect metaphor for what is wrong with our results-driven society where we claw and scrape and push and shove and lie and cheat to get what is ours.  Why do you want it?  Because others have it?  It is a gluttonous age when we have more than we have ever had, but are more worried than ever of going without.  When will we learn that these things don’t matter?

Whatever you believe, the message of this Easter season, the message of Jesus, is that these things don’t matter.  Practically nothing matters.  Even your life is transient, fleeting, superfluous.

What does matter is seeing others as yourself.  The achievement of one is an achievement of all.  The failure of one is a failure of all.  We are all in it together, pulling together, sharing, caring, and loving.  There is no “us vs. them,” because there is no “them.”  There is only we.

What I would have liked for this Easter season egg hunt with the grabbing and clawing and selfishness, would have been for those who had claimed an egg to have shared with those that had none, that everybody would have seen the pain of a child who had none and said, there but for the grace of God go I.

These eggs are meaningless, valueless, if they do not represent the gift of love that I give to you, my neighbor.

I just finished Nelson Mandela’s autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom, and throughout I kept asking myself, how did he stay true?  How did he persevere?  By his own admission, there were others who were smarter, bolder, and wiser.  So many of the things that he wrote about himself sketched an ordinary man, but there had to be something extraordinary and I wanted to find it.  And there is was on page 615, his secret weapon.

"I never lost hope that this great transformation would occur.  Not only because of the great heroes I have already cited, but because of the courage of the ordinary men and women of my country.  I always knew that deep down in every human heart, there was mercy and generosity.  No one is born hating another person because of the color of their skin, or his background, or his religion.  People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.  Even in the grimmest times in prison, when my comrades and I were pushed to our limits, I would see a glimmer of humanity in one of the guards, perhaps just for a second, but it was enough to reassure me and keep me going.  Man’s goodness is a flame that can be hidden but never extinguished.

Nelson Mandela hated apartheid, but he never hated its agents.

I was reading this article entitled: "Why Great Men like John Edwards Cheat"

It’s a great article and I think spot on as to why we see politicians cheat on their spouses.  Of course, it begs the question, who says John Edwards is "Great"… but I digress.

­In the course of reading this article I keep hearing my pastor, Fr. Vega, give variations on his favorite sermon: "You are not your job.  You are not a doctor, lawyer, politician.  You are not loved for your accomplishments.  You are you.  Be you, fully you and only you.  Know you are loved as you are."

The measure of how often and how far we are as a society from this ideal is revealed in the quantity of people who are miserable in their jobs, dead, bored, unhappy, yearning for something better, more meaningful, more important, more in line with what they think they deserve.  Sometimes it just takes someone to tell them them how meaningful they and their job really are.

I was visiting a cracker manufacturing plant for a local trade organization a while back, writing an article on products made in Puerto Rico.  My intent is always to always get a human angle on the thing, find a compelling story, simple and touching.  I surprised one of the cracker inspectors by asking him what the best part of his job was.  He looked a little confused, irritated, and put out by the question, like, what the hell do you mean, "best part.  It’s hot as hell in here and I’m looking at stupid crackers all day.  I’m a trained monkey."

"No, I mean, do you have kids?"

"Yes," he answered, "three boys."

"Oh, I bet they love what you do.  What are their favorite crackers or cookies?"  A smile cracked his face.  "They love the florecitas and -"  And on he went through the different products.

"My kids eat these too.  They love them," I replied. These simple adulations I think caused him to reconsider his position, his job, maybe himself.  I wasn’t telling him he was the greatest cookie inspector in the world or that being a cookie inspector was going to get him a mansion in the hills.  No, I simply reminded him of how he impacted and touched others in a meaningful way.  There was something of value in being a cookie inspector, and better yet, there were people who loved him for it – simple and honest.

When I was commanding an Army unit, a shower, laundry, and sewing quartermaster company of 120 or so soldiers, I was always combating this tendency.  "What do you do," someone would ask a solder. 

"We are in direct support of the infantry," they would respond.  If further questions were asked, they would reluctantly admit, that yeah, it was a laundry and shower unit, but that we had powerful weapons.  I, myself, was guilty of this too.  You can see people’s inward snicker when they find out you are a shower and laundry unit.  Cue Korean dry-cleaning jokes, how they want their clothes folded, starched, etc.

The basic problem is this: we don’t really respect ourselves and what we do.  With pride, I tried to say, "I wash clothes for and shower the hard fighting combat troops of the infantry.  You have never seen gratitude until you’ve taken a miserable son-of-a-bitch covered from head to toe in dust and grime and gotten him a hot shower and clean clothes."  In that moment, there are no laundry jokes, no snickers about sewing machines and fashion shows.  He knows how much it means to him, and you know it from the humble thank you.  They all thank you, with deep respect – every last one – for a simple shower.

And personally, even though I’m staring down the barrel of 40, I still have to do intern level tech support such as: crawling under desks, messing with cabling in server closets, and telling people how to use Outlook.  Sometimes it’s damn humiliating.  There have been times when, I overhear the following: "El muchacho está aquí ahora mismo y está bregando con eso."  "The boy (unimportant technician not worthy of having a name) is here now dealing with it."  When did I become the "boy" or the "tech" or some other easily replaceable low level drone?  I have a name, damnit.

But then I remember – because I have learned this lesson many times – and because I write it down for myself in this blog to read later, that I am more than my job, or what I do.  In that moment when I am helping a person, I know that there is nothing more important.  If it was not for me, they would not have email, or a workstation, or an internet connection.  In that moment, I am doing something for them, only for them.  If they are not grateful, and they never are, it smarts, but I know of some truths to which they may not be privy.  I smile an inward smile knowing that I have helped someone. They had a need and I fulfilled it.

I am not my job, but a servant  We would do well to remember that we are all servants.  To serve is divinity itself.

I was on my way to the office when I passed an older man working to change a flat tire.  He looked to be in his sixties and drove a modest car.  My first inclination was to stop and help him out.  Here is a recap of my internal dialog.

I should stop.  He looks like he could use a hand.

Oh, there’s no real place to stop.  Oops, I just passed him.  The traffic is heavy, there’s no space.  Should I turn around? 

Would I want someone to help me?  

But I’m dressed for the office.  I’ll get all sweaty and dirty if I stop.

It looks really dangerous.  He’s got only 1 or 2 feet of clearance parked where he is in the middle of the road. 

It’s too dangerous.

If I stop to help help this man, what will happen to me?  I shook my head, and then it hit me.  I was on the road to Jericho.  No, I think, if I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him? 

He is in the middle of the road, there is traffic all around.  If he slips, if a car passes too close… what would happen to him if I’m not there to help?

I wheeled around and pulled up in where he was.  I stepped out of the car and asked him if he needed a hand.  He didn’t really, but "Thank you," he said. 

He was finishing up, but I told him I’d stand and watch for cars.  I’m tall and hard to miss.  I’ll make sure that the cars see you here.

Again, he thanked me.  I said I wished I could have gotten there sooner to help, because this thing has happened to me many times.  He tightened the lugs and stood up.  I shook his hand and wished him a good day.  We got into our cars and drove off.

I know I didn’t really do anything physically helpful.  Would that I had arrived earlier, but I suppose, with all the cars passing by barely noticing a fellow, my presence was lifting.  You’re not alone, hermano.  If anything, there was someone today looking out for you on the road to Jericho. 

Jesus Loves You.

This one takes a bit of doing, but here it is. I would rephrase it as: You are loved.

By whom, you ask?

The universe that birthed you, I reply.

That’s not love.

Okay, how’s this: You are loved, by the universe that birthed you, and your fellows are its surrogate. Those fellows are most closely your family, perhaps your friends, and maybe your neighbors. In the absence of any of these, I will love you.

Who are you?

He who was sent to love you.

So my friends, even in these desperate times, when so many feel so unloved, know that you are lovely, lovable, and that you are loved. All you have to do is open yourself to it, let yourself be loved, even when you don’t feel worthy, even when you feel unlovable. Laura continues to remind me, so I remind you.