What is the one thing you are least likely to do? Jump out of an airplane? Go camping? Run a marathon?
There is no skydive, no tent and definitely no 26.2 in my future, but if you had asked me this time last year what I’d be less likely to do than any of those … it would be get a tattoo.
So nearly a year ago, when my youngest daughter started talking about getting a tattoo for her 18th birthday, I tried to pretend I didn’t hear her. She already has about six ear piercings, so I’ve grown accustomed to her unconventional look and am far less concerned about her outer appearance that who she is on the inside. But a tattoo is so … permanent. And she’s only 18.
As I listened to her, I realized that she didn’t want it for the purpose of rebellion; she’s a lot of things, but rebellious isn’t one of them. She wasn’t interested in the impression it would make on others. She wanted a tattoo because she wanted a visible symbol of her faith in a place where she, and others, would see it every day.
So I began to warm to the idea, accept that her preferences and tastes may be just different than mine and respect the fact that her faith is something she wishes to carry with her in a visible way for the rest of her life.
Sara Ann’s dove, on her right wrist
Then the other shoe dropped.
“Mom,” she said. “For my 18th birthday, I want to get a tattoo and I want you to get one with me. I want it to be a mother-daughter thing. I want us to do it together.”
What? No way. You have got to be kidding.
But …
She kept asking. She was not joking.
And I realized something. This was not another hole in her ear. This was forever. Visible to all. For her, it was a profound moment. The moment she would put a symbol of her faith on her body in a way that all would see. Irrevocably. And she invited me into that moment.
One thing I’ve learned in 21 years of parenting: When your teenager asks you to be a part of a significant moment in their life, it’s a high honor, not to be taken lightly or scoffed at. So, at 51, this suburban housewife got inked.
It brings to mind this:
Love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads.* Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates. Deuteronomy 6:5-9 (*emphasis mine)
My cross, duplicated from a silver cross necklace Jim gave me years ago
In ancient days, observant Jews bound what is believed to be these verses to their bodies in leather boxes called tefilin, translated into Greek as phylactery, so the idea of having a visible reminder of the faith attached to the body is not a new one. Perhaps in the same way, the dove that will now always adorn her wrist will remind her of the Holy Spirit’s constant presence in her life.
I know that the cross on my left shoulder blade, the same side of the body as my heart, will ever remind me of the sacrifice of the Cross, the grace of the Cross and the glory of the Cross.
And a sacred moment between mother and daughter that took place late at night in a funky tattoo shop in downtown Jonesboro, Arkansas.
The last photo taken of us together – at an Easter egg hunt in my hometown, Jonesboro, Arkansas on April 10, 1993
About 17 years ago (June 13, 1993), my Daddy left this earthly life. Each year at this time I write about him and one or more of the qualities that made him the kind of man I want to write about 17 years after his death. This year, it’s idealism.
His idealism was best understood through the words of his favorite song, The Impossible Dream from his favorite story, Man of LaMancha. He first introduced it to me via the soundtrack recording on eight-track tapes on the way to our farm just outside the Jonesboro city limits.
At the time, I was too young to fully grasp the meaning, but I listened carefully and learned the words because I knew that for Daddy to let me listen to music that contained the words hell and whore, it must be very special.
Based on a book by Dale Wasserman, the play is about Miguel de Cervantes, an imprisoned novelist who defends himself by staging a play. The central character in the play is a country squire named Alonso Quijana, who might have rightly been called an early social justice advocate. His despair about oppression and evil in the world drives him to madness and in his mind he becomes Don Quixote of La Mancha, who fights to rectify society’s wrongs and bring about justice.
After losing a battle with a windmill, which he sees as a four-armed giant, he attributes his inability to conquer to the fact that he has never been properly dubbed a knight. As Don Quixote, he sets out with his servant, Sancho, on a journey in search of glory and knighthood so that he can fulfill his quest to conquer injustice. Along the way he finds himself at a small inn, in his eyes a castle. Here he encounters a band of rough, drunken men and several prostitutes, one of whom he comes to adore and admire as the fair maiden he see when he looks at her. The woman, Aldonza, is initially cynical but is won over as he sings to her of The Impossible Dream and joins him in his quest. (Read a full synopsis of the play here.)
Regardless of the writer’s intention, the message of the story communicated to me by my Dad was the beauty that Quixote sees in ordinary things and people devalued by society, the importance of fighting for truth and justice even when it seems impossible, and the idea that we are each called to do, sacrificially, what we can to improve the lives of others.
To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go …
And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star.
— Lyrics by Joe Darion, full lyrics here
Earlier this week, I volunteered at Manna House (more about Manna House here,here and here) as I often do. There is never a time that I leave there without some new insight, but on this day I left with a book in hand as well.
The book, Radical Compassion, Finding Christ in the Heart of the Poor, (Amazon link*) is by Gary Smith, S.J., a Jesuit priest who lived and worked among the poor of Portland, Oregon for nearly 10 years. It is a journal of his ministry to them and their ministry to him, a collection of personal stories about his relationships with people who have been neglected, abused, beaten down and have endured struggles and hardships that are painful to read.
But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame* the strong. He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things — and the things that are not — to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him.
I Corinthians 1:27-29
Note: King James Version uses the word confound — to perplex or amaze, especially by a sudden disturbance or surprise; bewilder; confuse — instead of shame. But I think both are applicable.
Some of the stories are funny, some sad, some are agonizing to read, but the story of a man named Robert is particularly poignant — the kind of poignant that makes it difficult to see the pages through the tears. Father Smith met Robert, 38, depressed, addicted to drugs and HIV positive and for the next two years or so, walked with him through his illness and death. Toward the end of his life, Robert asked to be baptized and during that holy moment, Father Smith shared the story of the good Samaritan. His reflections on that passage are profound:
You are the good Samaritan, Robert, because you have pulled all of us out of the safe trenches of our lives. And your love — so squeezed out of you by life and history — you have claimed again and given back to us a hundredfold. What a grace it is to be present to see you commit your life to the one who is the author of your love. Your faith is healing oil for our wounds.
And so the weak shame, confound — teach, nurture, edify — the strong. May we all know a good Samaritan.
*The only thing I get if you buy and read this book is a bit of satisfaction.
Early one morning last week I checked Facebook and saw this status:
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.” — Washington Irving
I’m a crier. Weddings, funerals, books, movies, songs. The groom’s face at first glimpse of his bride. Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus. The book of Psalms. The Notebook. It’s embarrassing at times, but overall I count it as a blessing; I’d rather cry than not feel at all.
I’ve seen some tears this week. A few days ago at Manna House: a mother in raw, anguished grief on the morning after her daughter’s violent death. Later that day, a daughter’s agony as she searched for her missing parents and feared the worst.
Those moments took my breath away.
The women’s tears opened the door for comfort; an outward sign of need and vulnerability that would perhaps not otherwise have been expressed. An opportunity for others to empathize and walk with them through the grief, even if only for a moment or two. And an honor for me to be invited onto the sacred ground of another’s tears.
I’m comforted by Psalm 56:8:
Record my lament; list my tears on your scroll (or in your wineskin); are they not in your record?
In ancient times, tear bottles (or wineskins) were used to catch the owners’ tears in times of grief. King David wrote this Psalm as he was being pursued by enemies who sought to kill him. Some scholars say David believed that God has a tear bottle of His own in which He collects our tears.
I love that thought. That He sees each tear as it falls and keeps them in His bottle. That every tear I shed is known to Him. And that He comes, with tear bottle in hand, into to those raw, vulnerable moments when the tears will not be contained any other way.
I just left a business networking event with accomplished entrepreneurs, consultants and more CPAs than I’ve ever seen in one place in my entire life. Although as a general rule, financial people scare me to death, these were gracious and welcoming folks and I enjoyed the event immensely.
The speaker for the evening was attorney Cary Schwimmer, who specializes in employment law. Though I’m a freelancer with no employees, there were still valuable takeways. Schwimmer outlined the top ten employer mistakes, which ranged from poor documentation of performance and disciplinary problems to the tax implications of employees vs. independent contractors. Information I won’t use tomorrow, but have definitely filed away for the future.
The top mistakes shared a common thread — a lack of integrity. Failure to treat people with dignity, fairness and respect, lack of appreciation and nonexistent or dishonest communication. In an age where technology advances almost daily, I’m reminded that there is still nothing new under the sun.
My Christmas tree doesn’t look like much anymore. In fact. there are no gifts under the tree at all. There isn’t even a tree skirt; the dogs just keep playing with it and doing their business on it, so what’s the use?
These days, the girls’ Christmas lists just include money and gift cards so they can shop for themselves. I don’t fight mall traffic or stand in line for Beanie Babies, Tickle Me Elmo or Furby. There are no packages hidden under drop cloths in the garage. I haven’t wrapped one single gift this year. No reason to charge the video camera to record the excited faces on Christmas morning.
Sound kinda depressing?
Not at all. I’ve traded frenzied shopping, lists and lines for time. More time with loved ones, especially my girls, whose time with us slips away too quickly. More time to relax and enjoy the season, to pause and reflect on why we celebrate Christmas.
Yesterday I did nearly half of my shopping in about 15 minutes’ time. That must be some sort of record, right? There are a couple of gifts to buy, but I won’t be stressed, hurried or frazzled. I’ll enjoy the cool weather, the decorations and the Christmas carols on the radio.
I’ve learned to embrace the changes that come with each new season of life, even as I look back misty-eyed on years past. It’s not like that anymore, but it is like this. And this is amazing.
How have your holiday celebrations changed through the years?
Today would have been my Daddy’s 75th birthday. I always write about him on his birthday and reflect on his impact on my life. One of the qualities he lived and taught by example is giving.
Many times after he visited, we would find a $100 bill tucked away in some random place with his business card attached, usually bearing a bad money-related pun. We would find it days — in some cases, weeks — later. The last one I found in the freezer, and it said hard, cold cash. Groan.
A year or so before he died, Daddy decided we needed a piano and asked my mom, who sold real estate, to split the cost. He contacted a musician friend of ours who knew my preferences and swore him to secrecy. One Saturday morning, after my parents had spent the night with us, a man in a large truck came to the door and asked where I wanted my piano. As much as I had wanted a piano, I thought it was cruel irony. Until I saw the devilish grin on my Daddy’s face.
His lesson for us was that the kind of pure giving that the Christian life calls us to does not depend on the gratitude or perceived worthiness of the recipient; it does not require — and often avoids — recognition and seeks no reward other than the sheer joy of the giving.
My first experience humbled and overwhelmed me. With regret for the assumptions I have made. Shame for my complacency. Anger at my own indifference while I lead a comfortable life as others suffer. I ignored them. I dismissed them. I cared, but not enough.
What changed from the me-centeredness, the casual, detached concern? Caring only because I knew I should?
Faces.
Eyes.
Voices.
Of people not so different from me after all. Children of God, my equals, who happen to be homeless. Some of whom can read and speak fluently in two languages, write poetry that expresses deep emotion and pain, beat me mercilessly at checkers and play a game of Scrabble that would challenge any wordsmith. Here’s an excerpt from a poem written by Tony, one of our guests:
The Manna House is a place where you can feel safe and get some rest,
Where help is offered through all they can do but keep in mind they’re only human too.
So if you ever come here please be thankful for this place
And at the end of every prayer you will always hear them say,
“Thank you, Lord for the coffee that’s hot, the sugar that’s sweet and the creamer that takes all life’s bitterness away.”
Scrabble games, soap, clean socks and coffee may not change a life. But maybe a few hours of peace, rest, companionship and love can change that day in a life. Manna.
Do not neglect hospitality, for through it some have unknowingly entertained angels.
Hebrews 13:2
Photo credit: PhilipPoon, Homeless Person in Front of Temple
Twice each year I get very sentimental about my Daddy; the week of the anniversary of his death and on his birthday, October 4. He died June 13, 1993, after a sudden, completely unexpected massive cerebral hemorrhage. Before that day his health was perfect, he was an active man, an avid golfer and led a life devoted to God, family and community.
An accomplished orthodontist, he was known for his research, admired by his students in the orthodontic department at the University of Tennessee in Memphis and loved by the patients he saw in his Jonesboro, Arkansas practice. As president of the Jonesboro Rotary Club, he was deeply involved in the community and after his death the Club named their most prestigious award after him, the James F. Gramling Service Above Self Award. He taught orthodontics in various places around the United States and abroad and published in professional journals. He had an impeccable sense of personal style, elegant and classic; much like a Brooks Brothers ad — blue blazer, well-cut gray slacks, starched white shirt and striped repp tie.
He was Dr. Gramling to some, Jim to many, Jimmy to my mom, Sonny to family and childhood friends and Dad to me. I remember him best driving the boat at the lake wearing this goofy baseball hat, which I still have. Though he taught hundreds of orthodontists in his career, I value the most the lessons less well-documented: the way he explained the early-morning dew on the grass to his granddaughter (my oldest daughter) Elizabeth, how he taught her to shop at Wal-Mart (never buy the one in front) and the grace, kindness and generosity he modeled for us all. He had the spiritual gift of wisdom and I cannot count how many times since he’s been gone that I’ve needed that wisdom.
After 16 years, I can look at photos of him, like this one, and smile and remember. I can watch a video and hear his voice and it doesn’t rip me apart from the inside out. Though there are still tears, it’s not overwhelming grief, but gratitude that, for far too short a time I got to know him and be loved and mentored by him.
This day was different. My 16-year-old daughter, Sara Ann, five of her friends and I were in Atlanta for a church youth weekend. We left the church to get out into the city and learn about poverty and homelessness. Our first stop was an area near downtown Atlanta where the homeless live under the overpasses. We parked our cars on the street and scaled a steep, rocky hill under a bridge. At the top of the hill, we began to see piles of clothing, mattresses, furniture and blankets, all damp from the rain. My first impression was, ewww, trash; then I realized it is someone’s couch … bed … home.
We turned a corner and saw people who had made their home in the shelter of the concrete posts. Two guys named Bob and Willie, who work with a ministry called 7 Bridges to Recovery, showed us around and told us about their work. Willie, who only four months ago was homeless, pulled a few bags of food and some clothes out of the back of a minivan.
Bob explained that the mission of 7 Bridges is to get people off the streets and break the cycle of homelessness, alcoholism, drugs, sexual addictions, prostitution and abuse. I was surprised when he told us that few of the homeless accept their help. Perhaps they are afraid or maybe they have just come to accept their circumstances, or don’t want to leave the people they live with. As we walked and talked with them, it seemed that, much like the rest of us, some were angry, some had faith and some just seemed to feel hopelessly resigned to this life.
I don’t understand homelessness. I’ve never been without a warm bed or a good meal, never had to walk over rocks in worn-out shoes or put on a rain-soaked coat to keep warm. Our visit didn’t change any of their lives that day, but it did change me. It brought me face-to-face with the reality of a life that no one should have to live and reminded me that they are not so different from me, and most of all, that they are equal to me in God’s eyes.
‘ … For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’ “They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’” He will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’
— Matthew 25:42-45
Yesterday was not my best day behind the wheel; I made two really stupid driving mistakes in the course of about an hour. I wasn’t on the phone at the time, had consumed no alcohol; these was just stupid errors, the kind we all make from time to time when our minds are elsewhere.
Both times I realized my mistake and mutely apologized — threw my hand up and mouthed I’m so sorry — to the other drivers. And both times I was met with angry expressions, waving hands — that silent shout you see through the car window.
I don’t argue for a moment my culpability in the fender benders that nearly ensued. But I’d bet that both other drivers have made their share of dumb moves behind the wheel. And, given that both incidents took place in parking lots at very low speeds, it’s highly unlikely that lives would have been at stake.
Why are we so quick to become angry with one another and so slow to forgive? Why can’t we be as patient with others as we want them to be with us? Where is mercy?
One of the incidents occurred as I was meeting some Twitter friends for dinner. As there are often new faces at these dinners, I briefly wondered how awkward it would be if the other driver happened to be at our Tweetup as well. What a terrible way to start a relationship.
These are difficult times. Everyone is worried about jobs, mortgages, kids’ college funds. Our nation is in transition — a transition that frightens some and exhilarates others. Sometimes it’s hard not to let things get to us. And I don’t mean this in an I-love-you-you-love-me Barney the Dinosaur kind of way, but … can’t we all just try to be nicer to one another?
I promise to be much more careful in parking lots, and I promise to be merciful toward you if you aren’t.
Last week my daughter’s varsity cheer squad competed in a national competition. They are a highly-talented and experienced group with the potential to win or at least place very high in the competition. Unfortunately, Murphy’s Law ruled and they placed a miserable 18th (out of 20 in the division). They were devastated.
Since I believe that all things really do work together for good (Romans 8:28), I’ve been thinking about what kind of good can come of this defeat. We learned:
Our self-worth is not tied to our achievements and defeat does not take away our gifts, talents and abilities.
Those who truly count in our lives love and accept us despite our defeat.
Sometimes we are better for having tried that which is difficult, even if we fail.
They could have played it safe and won handily with a simple routine that didn’t stretch or push them in any way. But their coach, recognizing their talent and abilities, crafted one of the most creative — and difficult — cheer routines I have ever seen. It required amazing strength, endurance and confidence; and it pressed them to learn new things that they would otherwise never have known; they were stretched to (and perhaps beyond) their limits.
Though winning is much more fun, I’m kind of glad they shot for the moon; maybe we all need to try something that is far too difficult from time to time, instead of always going with what we know is safe.
