In Memory of Jim Banning

            I once taught some English language students the difference between “limits” and “limitations” – not a monumental difference nor one to even elicit laughter when the words are used incorrectly, like when Ruth told us that her husband wasn’t “domesticated”. But a difference that matters.

            The two words came to mind today as I sat here, feet tucked underneath the couch cushion for warmth, looking at the rare beauty of fallen and still-falling snow, thinking of Jim. The snow no doubt conceals the recently upturned earth of his grave. No one just looking at his burial site would know he was alive this day a week ago, dead on Tuesday, buried on Friday.

            But for those of us who knew him, even casually as I did, the memory is like the snow, pure and striking, bringing a sting to the eyes, a longing for what is fleeting and beautiful to last.

            I saw from the obituary that Jim and I were the same age, born a month apart. I saw from the photographs of him in his twenties that he’d once had a head of California-blonde hair, belying the fact that underneath the shining waves a tumor was growing to the size of a baseball. The surgery would be successful in that Jim would go on to graduate from nursing school and work as a nurse for years until the debilitating effects of having such violence done to his brain would render him no longer able to work, then drive, then even live alone.  Last year, another, different kind of tumor would take the place of that first one, taking Jim’s body hostage, taking his life at age 56.

            It’s hard to believe, but it was said by so many, and then again by his cousin David from the pulpit at the memorial service, so I know it was true: “Jim never complained.” Epileptic seizures, cancer, diminished physical strength and agility in one who was clearly athletic, and possibly the most frustrating of all, the ability to communicate as quickly as the rest of us do---but he never complained.

            The slowness of his speech was a limitation, but I wonder if the limitations of Jim’s body led to self-imposed limits that resulted in this remarkable quality in Jim. You could see him gathering the sentence in his brain, and when finally delivered, it was perfect, often something funny because Jim had a tremendous wit, but always something positive. Never negative.

            We who can say whatever we want as fast as we want (while often thinking of something else at the same time), don’t find it necessary to choose what to express. It took a long time for Jim to say anything, and whether what he chose to struggle to say was a conscious choice to reserve speech for blessing or the product of an inner reality, or both, all I know is that when Jim spoke, it was either to inquire from genuine interest about others or to respond with an upbeat or funny comment.

            “He never complained.” Limitations leading to limits leading to an extraordinary life.  I, who have nothing to complain about but do so readily, hope to honor Jim and our God by trying to follow his example.  

               Ode to Tiffany

There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who carefully select their dogs, and those who take whatever shows up, usually the dog who looks pitiful and neglected.  Most of my family members are in the second group.

About ten years ago my parents’ toy poodle Kiki passed away. He was my mother’s dog, an annoying dog who peed religiously on upholstery, barked incessantly, and bit people, even my father when he got into bed at night.  But he was my mother’s companion, at her side, next to her on the bed. She loved him. We tolerated him. We understood what a loss it was to her when he died.

My father and I discussed getting another dog for Mama, and since it was near Christmas, we thought it’d be special to find one and surprise her. The secret lasted about five minutes; no one in our family can keep secrets. But Mama agreed that she would like another dog, felt lonesome without one. She wasn’t particular about what kind, as long as it was small.

I began looking online at rescued dogs.  I knew nothing about the subculture of animal rescuers, the drastic lengths these people go to in order to “rescue” dogs. One woman told me that she spent several hours every day driving around looking for stray animals. And spent most of her money taking them to the vet, putting ads in the paper, and more time trying to find them homes.  I should have known not to trust anyone like that.

The picture was blurred, just a head-shot of a dog named Sweetie. A Pomeranian mix. Small. The magic word. I called the woman and told her it was for my mother, but that I would like to look first. I was determined this time NOT to just take any dog, but to really try and get a good dog for her.

I should have known something was up when the woman insisted on bringing the dog for me to see right as I got off work. I told her I’d be waiting in my car in the parking lot. A woman drove up with a dog sitting on her lap whose head touched the roof of her car. Small dog, right.

But I’m a sucker. I looked at her anyway. Then I fell under the spell of the rescuer who got me to agree to take her home, just for one night, to let my mother see.

 I called my mother and found myself parroting what the rescuer had said, “She’s really sweet, a Pomeranian mix.”

“But is she little?”

“Uh, well, sorta.”

“But she’s homeless right?  Oh, go ahead and bring her.” My mother is the worst sucker in the world when it comes to animals.

My mother was waiting at the door. “That’s not a little dog!  Pomeranian, my foot. Oh well, bring her in, poor thing.”

I relayed the saga to my parents, telling them that they had no obligation to keep that dog, that I knew that’s not what they wanted, that I didn’t know how I got roped into bringing her home. My mother started laughing, saying, “That’s the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen! I wanted a cute little dog.”

 We both ended up laughing so hard we cried, one of those long laughing fits that makes you feel wonderful.

“Whoo. I haven’t laughed that hard since before I got diagnosed with cancer,” said my mother.

Sweetie walked over to my father sitting on the couch and gently and quietly put one paw on his leg and stared at him with love.

“You don’t have to keep her,” I said.

“She needs a home, right?” said my mother. “I don’t see how we could turn her away. Look, see how she loves George. And she’s probably been abused.” (I found out later from a vet friend that people are always saying that about dogs who have a certain look. Sweetie had that look.)

Sweetie stayed. They changed her name to Tiffany. We found out she was an Australian sheepdog that shed copious wads of fur year-round. After a few days she developed an ear-piercing bark whenever someone came to the door, so the signature greeting in the Gresham household became, “Shut up, Tiffany!! Hush!!”

My parents both agreed they wouldn’t feed her anything but dog food, but each confided to me that they snuck her treats behind the other one’s back. She got fat.

 Tiffany attached herself to my father like no pet we’ve ever had. And my father responded in kind. Who wouldn’t fall in love with an animal that stared at you adoringly for hours on end?

Almost ten years passed. My father took that dog for walks every day at specified times,  leaving social functions early, saying,  “We’ve got to go home. Tiffany needs her walk.” In the last year she developed diabetes, then cataracts, so my father spent thousands of dollars on vet visits, special dog food, insulin shots that he gave her himself.

My mother cleaned up the pee. “Tiffany can’t help it, poor thing,” she’d say.

Yesterday they had to put her down. We’re all sad, but I’m sure no one will miss her as much as the one she spent her days gazing at with love…my father.

The Golden Years

My parents play bridge at the senior citizens center. I picture them seated with other octogenarians at square tables covered in plastic tablecloths, a food table on the wall filled with store-bought cookies, candy, nuts, a Bundt cake. The women wear jewelry and makeup and perfume, a polyester pantsuit with a jacket or sweater in case it's too cold. The men are dressed likewise in no-iron shirts tucked into dress pants, their belts rest above their bellies, a line where chest meets stomach.

They sit with rounded backs and feet planted for stability, careful with every movement whether it's laying down a card, taking a sip of weak coffee, or picking up crumbs off the table.  One would think what a peaceful scene this: in the final years of life, sweet old retirees finding friendship and enjoyment in a little healthy competition.

But my mother says it ain't so.  "Those old people act like a bunch of kindergarteners. Just the other day Jolene said Chuck called her a bitch, so she complained to the Director who put up a sign that says Profanity Will Not Be Tolerated. But then some others got into it and Norma went over there and ripped the sign down saying that's against freedom of speech."

In My Own Backyard

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZdJfxDxETw&feature=related

Sunday night Pat and I were at the Southern Folklore Center in downtown Memphis attending their free annual music festival.  Darrell Petties and members of his congregation were one of the featured bands. They sang a portion of this song to a crowd that included people from Japan, New Zealand, and Australia.  One of the New Zealanders told me, "There's just nothing like Southern Black Gospel. Nowhere in the world."

Sometimes when something's in your own backyard, you fail to appreciate it.

Complainers Anonymous

Achy and tired, wanting to sleep so much longer, I took pen to paper anyway this morning and began with "Achy, tired, want to sleep. " I then began to muse about why I felt so tired. My diet has been lousy lately, comprised mostly of crunchy, salty, cheesy things - my go-to now instead of sugar.

Or perhaps the culprit is a thousand accumulated worries. Children in far-off places both geographically and situationally. Places where they ALONE hash it out, choose good or ill, draw close to God or not, are happy, content, loved, fulfilled, or are insecure, lonely, anxious, suffering.

Then I wrote, "And what of today? What about me? The day is here, my schedule in place. Forty bright faces will greet me and I'll either fulfill their trust by giving 100% or go through the motions. May it not be the latter.

And please help me not to succumb to complaining, to accept the schools' requirements (however ridiculous and counterproductive) as from Your hand - "tests to pass", to be done without murmering or complaining."

That prayer led me to an insight, which is the reason I share this today.

Complainers aren't necessarily complainers at heart.  I have tended to think they are, relegating them to that category in much the same way I peg people as optimists or pessimists. (Notice I say, "they" - not identifying myself with either complainers or pessimists, although lately I've been guilty of complaining.)

But complainers have legitimate things to complain ABOUT. Things their trained eye is smart enough to figure out are not being done right. It's not just that they are miserable Eeyore sorts; they grumble and murmur because something hurts, something is wrong, unfair, lost or missing, broken, gone.

And yet, we're told not to complain. Moses' complainers in that desert were severely judged for doing so, although clearly one could say they were only pointing out the facts as they saw them. There WASN'T any water. They HAD been eating the same thing for a long time. Pharoah's army WAS pursuing them.

So what was the problem for them? What am I neglecting to do when I complain? I think it's this: I complain when I focus in on the irritant and fail to gaze elsewhere. I forget to look at points past, points future, on things unseen, putting myself at the mercy of my own immediate circumstances, cauterizing my ability to endure, to wait, to hope. "Stuck in a moment" to borrow a phrase from U2.

I need a bigger view:  the hopeful one, the trusting one, the "set on a wide place" one, that knows that whatever happens, whatever IS happening, all is well. All is well. All is well.

And Then There Were None - Our Empty Nest

There was a time when we made sure they were never too cold or too hot, swaddling them in blankets, putting them in a cold bath to take a fever down. More than anything, we wanted them comfortable and happy, clean and dry with their bellies full. Stimulated, free to grow and fail but still safe, protected. We wanted them to believe that the world is a good place to be, that they were loved, loved supremely.

And this was something we could do. It really wasn't that difficult. In fact, the tending to their needs was its own reward. Success was tangible, fairly immediate. They burped. They smiled.  They gained weight, crawled, walked, talked. They loved us like mad. No, the job was never done. It could be boring and tiring, but the goals and the outcomes were mostly in our hands. At first.

Then they grew up and moved away. They still needed to eat, take their medicine, get their rest, have their minds stimulated, feel loved, behave properly, do all the things that make for health and wholeness. But it was no longer our job; it was not really any of our business. And we could no longer "make it all better."

But I can't stop wanting to. I can't stop my mind from thinking about them - worrying, wondering, guessing, forecasting. As parents, our job is over, but our hearts don't know it.

I don't think they ever will.

That Foot-Washing Scene

 Think about a man on death row with an hour left before his execution.  Or King Louis XIV awaiting the guillotine. He paces, he moans, he prays, he's totally quiet; his heart must feel as if it would burst. He's terrified.

Then, picture the room where Jesus met with his friends for that last time.  Jesus knows what's coming, the men do not. They have won the lottery, are dividing the spoils. They're IN. The whole city has welcomed them; they're famous, about to have a major part in the long-awaited revolution. Two brothers fight over who should get the best assignment.

Jesus tells them they've got it all wrong, but they don't understand.

Do his hands shake as he breaks the bread, pours the wine? Does he see his own blood in that glass? Is he white-cold with fear? Doesn't he want to scream to his friends to listen to him? How can he even speak?

He does speak. He tells them they will rule some day. He talks about betrayal, about safety. Then he does something very strange.

Without speaking, he gets a bowl and a towel, removes his coat, and gets on his knees before one of them. He removes a sandal; with one hand he dips the towel into water, with the other he cradles the mud-encrusted foot. He washes feet. Twenty-four of them.

 Breathe in the smells of men and dust and wine and roasted lamb. Feel the humidity, the warmth of friends who love each other deeply. See the men's confusion when Jesus says that one will betray, another will deny, all will be scattered. A night of victory and celebration, anticipation of glory turned so solemn, dreadful. And now this outrageous act.

What was he doing?  Meeting a need? Not really. They could have washed their own feet. Something symbolic? Not merely. (Surely he didn't do this so future believers would have foot-washing ceremonies.) I don't claim to know what he was really doing here. I'm trying to understand, and so I welcome any insights. But here's what I hear Jesus saying and doing:

 You've been vying for position, for advantage. I'm telling you that life with me doesn't work that way. Here's the kind of person I want you to be.

 Then he showed them what he wanted by performing a lowly job. He placed himself beneath their gaze, not saying a word. With only hours left to live, with his heart no doubt pounding, he took feet into his hands and washed them with water, dried them with a towel.

 And I chafe, balk, and even refuse to wipe off the countertop after someone else.