A crazy man came into our office the other day. This isn't completely unusual; I work at United Way, after all. People from all walks of life come through our doors, many of them looking for assistance of one kind or another.
The day he walked in was a busy one for me. It was around noon, and I was getting some documents ready for a Board member who would be coming at 1:30 to review them. Walking back through our office kitchen from the printer, fresh papers in hand, a tall man suddenly approached me from the hallway and said, "Excuse me, I'm looking for someone who can help me."
At first there was no sign things were out of the ordinary. He looked normal: late-40s, thinning hair and a hint of stubble on his face. He wore jeans, new-looking shoes, a green v-neck sweater and a woolen coat.
He'd obviously come in through the magnetically sealed back door, which we occasionally prop open when expecting guests. When people enter our building that way, nine times out of ten they are trying to find the Red Cross, which operates a utility assistance program. So I was a little surprised when he asked, "Is this United Way?"
So he's looking for help, and wants United Way. That's the hard part, see. At United Way, we're all about helping people, but we're not a direct-service organization. Our mission is to strategically and financially support non-profits in the community -- especially those who are placing an emphasis on education, income and health. Sadly, it's hard to explain that to people who come through our doors with personal problems. We're always happy to refer them to our partner agencies, but it still feels a bit like turning people away, and that's hard.
So I was getting ready to explain this to the gentleman, when he began -- at first gently -- to explain how he'd lost everything and had been staying at a local homeless shelter that United Way supports. As he described how he'd been all across the country and stayed in many shelters, he became more animated and his anger began to bubble up. First it started with how this particular shelter only feeds homeless men one meal a day - lunch. For breakfast and dinner, they're on the own. (While that might sound harsh, it's a decision their Board has made, for one thing to conserve badly needed funds, but for another to encourage these men to get out of doors and seek employment and other assistance toward becoming self-sufficient.)
It went from anger over the one meal to indignation that all homeless men had to line up outside to wait for lunch, and after being admitted, leave their personal belongings on a rack near the door. He claimed his backpack had been robbed as a result, and it's more than possible he was telling the truth. (This practice is a protection for the shelter, however, to prevent weapons or drugs from entering the premises, which also houses families and single women.) Why would United Way fund such an agency, he wanted to know?
Though he was angry and speaking loudly, I couldn't help but be impressed with his vocabulary and articulateness. He was obviously well-educated, with a solid background and upbringing. He'd mentioned losing employment and "a lot of money" and I thought to myself, "Here is a true victim of the Great Recession."
And that's when the crazy talk began.
Before I knew it, he was talking about the "lost scrolls" that he needed to recover, and how all these obstacles he faced were part of a conspiracy to prevent him from fulfilling his "calling" from God to travel to the middle East and find them before the Syrians did. You see, these lost scrolls were written by an ancient king who was given a secret language from God -- a language of power and great authority, and he wrote great secrets upon the scrolls that would endow those who found them with the same language and power. So it was a matter of national security for him to get these scrolls and protect the interests of the United States.
That's when I started to get worried. A lot of emotions flooded through me, and I'm embarrassed to admit that fear for my personal safety was the strongest one, at first. Before long a co-worker came to my side and we listened to his story together. One of us must have smiled once or twice, and we probably exchanged a knowing glance or two. Not that we were laughing at him, per se, but sometimes an unstable situation makes you laugh. It's like when you reach the top of the giant hill of a roller coaster and get your first glimpse at the gaping drop-off below, which is now too late to stop yourself from plummeting into.
But as I watched and listened to this man, I was struck by his eyes. Green-gray, clear and shining with passion and light. And I thought, "Wow, I can almost believe this story... because HE believes it. He believes in every word."
I asked his name -- Jeremiah Jackson Bell III. (OK, I don't actually recall if that was his last name, but it was very close to that.)
Jeremiah. The persecuted Old Testament prophet who was attacked by family, scorned by his people, and authored the Book of Lamentations. Here was a modern Jeremiah standing before me, preaching his crazy gospel of lost scrolls (NOT the Dead Sea scrolls, as I made a point of asking). And I, the apostate son of Israel, who had turned to idolatry, did not believe his message.
But there were his eyes. Clear. Desperate. Shining. And inside them I saw a son of God, my brother, who was suffering from a malady not of his choosing, and doing the best he could with it. He was being true to his calling and his message, and I thought that perhaps he does have God's favor.
The prophecies of old will be fulfilled, he told me. And it didn't matter if I was religious or not, or whether I believed him or not, or whether he got to the middle East or whether his body crumbled to dust before he got that opportunity. God is real, whether we believe him Him or not. His purposes will be accomplished.
I was struck then -- still am struck -- by the similarity of his "crazy" beliefs and the things I believe in. No wonder the world thinks my church is weird. We believe that a 14-year-old boy saw and talked with God and Jesus, and that they showed him where to find a set of gold plates written in a forgotten language, and that this language was translated and now lends spiritual power to those who will read it with a believing heart and accept its message.
But then again, your beliefs are "strange" to some people too. I don't care what they are -- to someone else, they're strange.
We calmed Jeremiah down, mostly by listening and by showing him some kindness. A can of Coke, some Nutri-grain bars, and a plastic bag to keep his stuff dry as he went back out into the rain to preach his message to the world.
I have no idea where Jeremiah will go next. But I know this -- he'll stay true to his crazy message, and I have to admire him for it.
Good luck, Jeremiah. And God bless.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
How I Called an Office Intervention for...
Me. Yes, I’m calling an intervention for myself. I have an addiction, and while it might not be the worst addiction in the world, it’s still an addiction that could have bad consequences… and I need to overcome it.
Sugar.
Go ahead and laugh, but it’s true. It comes in so many tempting forms – and so far about the only form I can actually resist is the pure white grainy stuff. (Who knows how long before I start spooning it down like that, though?) But if you put it into pies, cakes, cookies, brownies, sweet bread, M&M’s or any other form, I am almost helpless before it.
This is probably amusing to many of you (and I don’t take myself so seriously that I can’t smile about it, too), but I am actually quite serious about kicking this addiction. So I am just putting you all on notice that I’m going to be avoiding all forms of sugar for the next 30 days, including most kinds of carbohydrates. After that I hope to be much more moderate about my sugar intake.
I am embarrassed to share this, but I think it will help me to avoid sugar if you are all aware of what I’m trying to do. Go ahead and mock me – it will probably help.
Your encouragement and support is appreciated. Don’t feel bad about eating sugar in front of me, though – this is my mountain to climb, as they say.
(Sent the above email to my office on 4/10/12)
Sugar.
Go ahead and laugh, but it’s true. It comes in so many tempting forms – and so far about the only form I can actually resist is the pure white grainy stuff. (Who knows how long before I start spooning it down like that, though?) But if you put it into pies, cakes, cookies, brownies, sweet bread, M&M’s or any other form, I am almost helpless before it.
This is probably amusing to many of you (and I don’t take myself so seriously that I can’t smile about it, too), but I am actually quite serious about kicking this addiction. So I am just putting you all on notice that I’m going to be avoiding all forms of sugar for the next 30 days, including most kinds of carbohydrates. After that I hope to be much more moderate about my sugar intake.
I am embarrassed to share this, but I think it will help me to avoid sugar if you are all aware of what I’m trying to do. Go ahead and mock me – it will probably help.
Your encouragement and support is appreciated. Don’t feel bad about eating sugar in front of me, though – this is my mountain to climb, as they say.
(Sent the above email to my office on 4/10/12)
Monday, November 8, 2010
Do not mock the huckleberry
We huckleberry hounds take the sport of huckleberrying very seriously. (By the way, the "sport" includes every aspect, including the hunt, the preservation, the prepartion, the consumption and -- grudgingly -- the sharing.) Take this recent email to my co-workers, for example:
Subject line: Cheesecake!
And not just any cheesecake, my lucky co-workers. This is homemade Lindy’s-style cheesecake with huckleberry topping! Yes, finally, and after much cajoling and entreating on your part, I have been persuaded to bring you all an indulgence made with real, hand-picked-from-the-Idaho-forests huckleberries.
The cheesecake is chilling in the fridge and will be ready for consumption by lunch time!
A word of caution: Please understand that huckleberry aficionados like me can be easily offended if, when they share their purple gold, the recipients do not simply RAVE about the superiority of huckleberry flavor. We spend countless hours in the mountains hunting down these precious beauties, after all. So even if you do have inferior-quality taste buds and do not think huckleberries are the world’s most amazing berry, and favored by the gods, you’d darn well better convince me otherwise, or you will be cut off from future huckleberry offerings for all time. No forgiving. No forgetting.
I have bcc’d certain members of my family, and at a moment’s notice they can be called upon to give you examples of how friends, neighbors and even in-laws have been “black-listed” from ever again receiving so much as a single huckleberry. Even the most innocuous-sounding comments such as, “Hmm. Not bad.” or “These are pretty good.” can land you on that dreaded list. Tread carefully; you have been warned.
Now, enjoy!
-Bruce
You see, this is a serious business, and to prove my point, I am going to call upon my family members to provide stories of their black-listed friends in the form of comments to this blog. Check back soon.
Subject line: Cheesecake!
And not just any cheesecake, my lucky co-workers. This is homemade Lindy’s-style cheesecake with huckleberry topping! Yes, finally, and after much cajoling and entreating on your part, I have been persuaded to bring you all an indulgence made with real, hand-picked-from-the-Idaho-forests huckleberries.
The cheesecake is chilling in the fridge and will be ready for consumption by lunch time!
A word of caution: Please understand that huckleberry aficionados like me can be easily offended if, when they share their purple gold, the recipients do not simply RAVE about the superiority of huckleberry flavor. We spend countless hours in the mountains hunting down these precious beauties, after all. So even if you do have inferior-quality taste buds and do not think huckleberries are the world’s most amazing berry, and favored by the gods, you’d darn well better convince me otherwise, or you will be cut off from future huckleberry offerings for all time. No forgiving. No forgetting.
I have bcc’d certain members of my family, and at a moment’s notice they can be called upon to give you examples of how friends, neighbors and even in-laws have been “black-listed” from ever again receiving so much as a single huckleberry. Even the most innocuous-sounding comments such as, “Hmm. Not bad.” or “These are pretty good.” can land you on that dreaded list. Tread carefully; you have been warned.
Now, enjoy!
-Bruce
You see, this is a serious business, and to prove my point, I am going to call upon my family members to provide stories of their black-listed friends in the form of comments to this blog. Check back soon.
Friday, October 22, 2010
A few short days... A whole new life
The events of just a few days can completely can your life. On October 7th, Christy gave birth to little Calvin Henry, our fourth boy, at home. Yes, by choice but not without the assistance of a certified nurse midwife.
When Christy went into labor at 3:30 in the morning, it was close to the pattern of our previous three boys, all of whom were born around mid-morning after eight or nine hours of labor. So when our midwife arrived, just after 5:15 a.m., I was just beginning to settle in for a solid four or five hours of labor. And then Calvin was born. At 5:35 a.m.
His birth, of course, changed our lives as all births do. The usual routine changed, but the change was by now itself routine, since we'd gone through this three times previously. Naming him took a little longer than last time (he was "Gus Gus" to his brothers for the first two days before we settled on Calvin.
Not long before Calvin was born, we began to notice that Riley was exhibiting some unusual behavior. His mood swings were noticeable to Christy, who has to deal with the boys all day long, but even I took notice of how frequently he had the urge to pee, and how he had suddenly reverting to night-time bed-wetting, which had been a very rare occurrence for him before.
On Monday night, Oct. 18th, I took the three oldest boys to Chuck E' Cheese for Sammy's soccer team party. And of course, all three boys ate pizza and drank a lot of punch and soda. By the time I got them home and in bed, it was 9:30pm. An hour later, I went to get Riley up to use the bathroom (which I'd been doing for several nights in a row, to prevent him from wetting the bed). But it was already too late -- his sheets, pajamas and even bedspread were thoroughly soaked. I got him up anyway, led him to the toilet, and was shocked to see how much he still peed. Something was definitely wrong. Christy and I agreed we'd try to get him into the doctor the next day, but the night didn't pass without Riley getting up at least twice more (that we know of) to use the bathroom.
It was four o' clock on Oct. 19th, the first available appointment, that Christy got Riley in to see Dr. Cook, our family practitioner. I was home with Sammy and Zeke, when Christy finally called. Riley was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes, with a blood sugar level so high their meter (which tops out at 600) couldn't read it. We were told we had to take him immediately to Primary Children's Medical Center for admission.
My heart broke. Our little Riley. Diabetes... an incurable, lifelong disease. It wasn't fair. He didn't deserve this. But it was happening, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.
Riley's endocrinologist, Dr. Rob Lindsay, was waiting the moment we stepped off the elevator on the third floor of Primary Children's Medical Center. At first he seemed a bit gruff, but that impression soon changed. His manner with Riley, and with us, was simply perfect, as he calmly explained the facts of the disease, answered questions, and talked us through our agenda for the next two days at the hospital. With his longish white hair and beard, glasses and eyes, I couldn't help thinking that with a red suit and hat, he could pass as Santa Claus -- not a jolly Santa -- but a wise and compassionate one with a twinkle of humor behind those narrow spectacles.
I stayed with Riley that night, but couldn't get to sleep, and so I began an email to my co-workers and some key campaign people to explain why I wouldn't be in for the next two days. As I wrote, I began to see more clearly the blessings of God in our experience, and my pain and fear slowly evaporated as rays of gratitude began to shine through the dark clouds. Here is an excerpt:
"Today our 5-year-old son Riley was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. I am writing this from Primary Children's Medical Center, where he admitted this evening. The good news is that we caught fairly and he's doing well, although discouraged that he faces lifetime of daily insulin shots and an abrupt curtailing of sugar. (And Halloween just around the corner, poor guy!)
They're going to keep him here for a couple of days but anticipate releasing him Thursday morning. Christy and I will need to be here because there is a thorough education process they need to take us through, and of course we both want to be here with him as we start this journey together.
I hope this doesn't sound perverse, but amid all my sadness and trepidation for Riley, I also feel a strong sense of gratitude--not that he has to suffer through this difficult disease, of course, but that the medical care and treatment for diabetes has come such a long, long way.
I'm grateful for a world-class facility and practitioners who treat children with life-threatening conditions and help them to overcome, in most cases... and it's right here in our backyard! (Little did I know when I posted the Facebook submission for Primary Children's Medical Center on the Intermountain CFC page this morning that our own family would be relying on PCMC the very same night!) Most of all, I'm grateful that I have the opportunity to work for a cause that provides services like this to the community, because you never know--I certainly didn't-- when you may need them yourself.
True, I have medical insurance and a job, but to me that's hardly the point. The point is these services only exist in the first place because of caring people who give, and give generously, and repeatedly, from the heart. Even if we couldn't pay, we'd still be cared for. If people hadn't given over the years, if they had all stopped believing in good causes, if they had allowed skepticism and cynicism to override the "better angels of their nature" as Lincoln put it, I have to wonder,
would we be saying farewell to Riley tonight instead of planning a future where he has every prospect of leading a very normal and active life?
Okay, it's late and maybe I'm a little sentimental, but I can't help but believe that untold thousands, millions of people have incrementally made our son's future possible. I wish I could thank every one of them tonight. Thank YOU for believing."
Riley's home now. He still hates his shots and finger pokes, and will for quite some time to come. Christy and I are slowly adjusting to life as parents of a diabetic little boy (our first night included three trips to Walgreens and frantic calls to the on-call diabetic nurse when Riley's blood sugar dropped dangerously low) but the blessings haven't stopped, and we take joy in counting them.
Here are just a few:
--We have four fabulous boys who are helpful, kind, polite, and cheerful. They are even responsible when they know they need to be.
--My parents came home from a trip to Washington state hours before we needed them to watch our other boys so we could take Riley to the hospital.
--We have each other.
--Calvin was born and I was mostly recovered by the time we found out about Riley.
--We have a wonderful, comfortable home whee we can relax and feel the Spirit
--God listens to our prayers.
--We have testimonies of God's love for us.
--We have the best doctors, nurses, and kid-friendly hospital in the state. And we don't live all that far away from it.
--We have a strong extended family support system
--Neighbors and church friends who will drop everything for the chance to serve
--We are already benefiting from the countless hours/years of research and hard work to provide treatment and help for diabetes
I know in the long run this experience will be a big blessing to me and my family. It won't be easy, but it's going to do us a world of good.
When Christy went into labor at 3:30 in the morning, it was close to the pattern of our previous three boys, all of whom were born around mid-morning after eight or nine hours of labor. So when our midwife arrived, just after 5:15 a.m., I was just beginning to settle in for a solid four or five hours of labor. And then Calvin was born. At 5:35 a.m.
His birth, of course, changed our lives as all births do. The usual routine changed, but the change was by now itself routine, since we'd gone through this three times previously. Naming him took a little longer than last time (he was "Gus Gus" to his brothers for the first two days before we settled on Calvin.
Not long before Calvin was born, we began to notice that Riley was exhibiting some unusual behavior. His mood swings were noticeable to Christy, who has to deal with the boys all day long, but even I took notice of how frequently he had the urge to pee, and how he had suddenly reverting to night-time bed-wetting, which had been a very rare occurrence for him before.
On Monday night, Oct. 18th, I took the three oldest boys to Chuck E' Cheese for Sammy's soccer team party. And of course, all three boys ate pizza and drank a lot of punch and soda. By the time I got them home and in bed, it was 9:30pm. An hour later, I went to get Riley up to use the bathroom (which I'd been doing for several nights in a row, to prevent him from wetting the bed). But it was already too late -- his sheets, pajamas and even bedspread were thoroughly soaked. I got him up anyway, led him to the toilet, and was shocked to see how much he still peed. Something was definitely wrong. Christy and I agreed we'd try to get him into the doctor the next day, but the night didn't pass without Riley getting up at least twice more (that we know of) to use the bathroom.
It was four o' clock on Oct. 19th, the first available appointment, that Christy got Riley in to see Dr. Cook, our family practitioner. I was home with Sammy and Zeke, when Christy finally called. Riley was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes, with a blood sugar level so high their meter (which tops out at 600) couldn't read it. We were told we had to take him immediately to Primary Children's Medical Center for admission.
My heart broke. Our little Riley. Diabetes... an incurable, lifelong disease. It wasn't fair. He didn't deserve this. But it was happening, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.
Riley's endocrinologist, Dr. Rob Lindsay, was waiting the moment we stepped off the elevator on the third floor of Primary Children's Medical Center. At first he seemed a bit gruff, but that impression soon changed. His manner with Riley, and with us, was simply perfect, as he calmly explained the facts of the disease, answered questions, and talked us through our agenda for the next two days at the hospital. With his longish white hair and beard, glasses and eyes, I couldn't help thinking that with a red suit and hat, he could pass as Santa Claus -- not a jolly Santa -- but a wise and compassionate one with a twinkle of humor behind those narrow spectacles.
I stayed with Riley that night, but couldn't get to sleep, and so I began an email to my co-workers and some key campaign people to explain why I wouldn't be in for the next two days. As I wrote, I began to see more clearly the blessings of God in our experience, and my pain and fear slowly evaporated as rays of gratitude began to shine through the dark clouds. Here is an excerpt:
"Today our 5-year-old son Riley was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. I am writing this from Primary Children's Medical Center, where he admitted this evening. The good news is that we caught fairly and he's doing well, although discouraged that he faces lifetime of daily insulin shots and an abrupt curtailing of sugar. (And Halloween just around the corner, poor guy!)
They're going to keep him here for a couple of days but anticipate releasing him Thursday morning. Christy and I will need to be here because there is a thorough education process they need to take us through, and of course we both want to be here with him as we start this journey together.
I hope this doesn't sound perverse, but amid all my sadness and trepidation for Riley, I also feel a strong sense of gratitude--not that he has to suffer through this difficult disease, of course, but that the medical care and treatment for diabetes has come such a long, long way.
I'm grateful for a world-class facility and practitioners who treat children with life-threatening conditions and help them to overcome, in most cases... and it's right here in our backyard! (Little did I know when I posted the Facebook submission for Primary Children's Medical Center on the Intermountain CFC page this morning that our own family would be relying on PCMC the very same night!) Most of all, I'm grateful that I have the opportunity to work for a cause that provides services like this to the community, because you never know--I certainly didn't-- when you may need them yourself.
True, I have medical insurance and a job, but to me that's hardly the point. The point is these services only exist in the first place because of caring people who give, and give generously, and repeatedly, from the heart. Even if we couldn't pay, we'd still be cared for. If people hadn't given over the years, if they had all stopped believing in good causes, if they had allowed skepticism and cynicism to override the "better angels of their nature" as Lincoln put it, I have to wonder,
would we be saying farewell to Riley tonight instead of planning a future where he has every prospect of leading a very normal and active life?
Okay, it's late and maybe I'm a little sentimental, but I can't help but believe that untold thousands, millions of people have incrementally made our son's future possible. I wish I could thank every one of them tonight. Thank YOU for believing."
Riley's home now. He still hates his shots and finger pokes, and will for quite some time to come. Christy and I are slowly adjusting to life as parents of a diabetic little boy (our first night included three trips to Walgreens and frantic calls to the on-call diabetic nurse when Riley's blood sugar dropped dangerously low) but the blessings haven't stopped, and we take joy in counting them.
Here are just a few:
--We have four fabulous boys who are helpful, kind, polite, and cheerful. They are even responsible when they know they need to be.
--My parents came home from a trip to Washington state hours before we needed them to watch our other boys so we could take Riley to the hospital.
--We have each other.
--Calvin was born and I was mostly recovered by the time we found out about Riley.
--We have a wonderful, comfortable home whee we can relax and feel the Spirit
--God listens to our prayers.
--We have testimonies of God's love for us.
--We have the best doctors, nurses, and kid-friendly hospital in the state. And we don't live all that far away from it.
--We have a strong extended family support system
--Neighbors and church friends who will drop everything for the chance to serve
--We are already benefiting from the countless hours/years of research and hard work to provide treatment and help for diabetes
I know in the long run this experience will be a big blessing to me and my family. It won't be easy, but it's going to do us a world of good.
Friday, July 10, 2009
The Parable of the Trumpet Case
Written for United Way and the Combined Federal Campaign (CFC):
So I'm sitting at the computer reading email when a news link titled Astronomers Discover Oldest Supernova to Date lures me away from the page. The story gets me thinking about space, and before I know it I'm at hubblesite.org, browsing through the amazing photos taken from the Hubble telescope that orbits the Earth. Wow. The pictures are beyond beautiful, but the sheer size and distance of our expanding universe start making me feel dizzy. When I try to comprehend the distance of a galaxy "100 million light years away" and "50,000" light years across, I feel insignificant. I start thinking maybe my meager efforts to do something important -- leave my mark in the world -- don't mean much after all.
Even on our dust-speck of a planet, I'm little more than a molecule. How can anything I do matter in the long run? I can't change the world. If I feed one hungry person, ten more step in line behind him, and guess what? I just ran out of soup. Fresh paint ages, blisters, then finally cracks and peels. The universe is expanding, cooling and will eventually end up dead and iced-over, if it doesn't collapse back into itself first. "What is the point of it all?" I think.
Then I remember the parable of the trumpet case. It's an especially meaningful story, because it happened to me. Picture me, a skinny seventh grader fresh out of grade school and now the littlest fish in the big pond known as junior high. I'm in the band, and I play the trumpet. It's a really cool, silver-plated Olds model I have inherited from my uncle, but it's got one major drawback: the case. Unlike most easily identifiable instrument cases, my trumpet case is slim, tall and brown. It looks exactly like a briefcase -- the last thing you'd ever want to be seen carrying down the school hall. ("Hey look guys, there goes the nerd!)
So one day after school I'm already late for the bus when I remember I left my trumpet case in the band room. I'm carrying a bunch of books, notebooks stuffed with loose papers, homework etc. So when I get to the band room, I cram it all in with my trumpet and start running to catch the bus. But I forget one important detail: my trumpet case has the habit of popping open when too full.
As I emerge out of the building, I see my bus getting ready to depart the bus zone. With a burst of speed, I leap from the top of the steps down to the loading area. That's when my trumpet case explodes... vomiting books, papers, valve oil and trumpet parts at the feet of the entire student body. As I frantically gather up the mess, I am aware of loud laughter, searing heat in my face, and a pack of ultra-cool ninth graders standing nearby. And then something unexpected happens. One of those ninth-graders steps away from the crowd, bends over, and starts helping me get everything back in the case so I can catch the bus.
Just an insignificant thing, really -- stepping away from the laughing crowd, picking up a couple of books. I don't know his name. I don't remember his face, or if I managed to say thanks. I do know one thing -- he didn't save the world that day. But that day, he saved me... and it meant the world. It had nothing to do with the number of books he picked up. It had everything to do with restoring my dignity as a human being. He stepped away from the crowd. He shared my burden, and made sure I wasn't alone that day.
The world's a big place. The galaxy is huge. And the universe is enormous beyond comprehension. But the worth of a single person dwarfs them all. That unknown ninth grader taught me, is still teaching me, to step away from the crowd... because to the world I may be just one person, but to one person I may be the world.
So I'm sitting at the computer reading email when a news link titled Astronomers Discover Oldest Supernova to Date lures me away from the page. The story gets me thinking about space, and before I know it I'm at hubblesite.org, browsing through the amazing photos taken from the Hubble telescope that orbits the Earth. Wow. The pictures are beyond beautiful, but the sheer size and distance of our expanding universe start making me feel dizzy. When I try to comprehend the distance of a galaxy "100 million light years away" and "50,000" light years across, I feel insignificant. I start thinking maybe my meager efforts to do something important -- leave my mark in the world -- don't mean much after all.
Even on our dust-speck of a planet, I'm little more than a molecule. How can anything I do matter in the long run? I can't change the world. If I feed one hungry person, ten more step in line behind him, and guess what? I just ran out of soup. Fresh paint ages, blisters, then finally cracks and peels. The universe is expanding, cooling and will eventually end up dead and iced-over, if it doesn't collapse back into itself first. "What is the point of it all?" I think.
Then I remember the parable of the trumpet case. It's an especially meaningful story, because it happened to me. Picture me, a skinny seventh grader fresh out of grade school and now the littlest fish in the big pond known as junior high. I'm in the band, and I play the trumpet. It's a really cool, silver-plated Olds model I have inherited from my uncle, but it's got one major drawback: the case. Unlike most easily identifiable instrument cases, my trumpet case is slim, tall and brown. It looks exactly like a briefcase -- the last thing you'd ever want to be seen carrying down the school hall. ("Hey look guys, there goes the nerd!)
So one day after school I'm already late for the bus when I remember I left my trumpet case in the band room. I'm carrying a bunch of books, notebooks stuffed with loose papers, homework etc. So when I get to the band room, I cram it all in with my trumpet and start running to catch the bus. But I forget one important detail: my trumpet case has the habit of popping open when too full.
As I emerge out of the building, I see my bus getting ready to depart the bus zone. With a burst of speed, I leap from the top of the steps down to the loading area. That's when my trumpet case explodes... vomiting books, papers, valve oil and trumpet parts at the feet of the entire student body. As I frantically gather up the mess, I am aware of loud laughter, searing heat in my face, and a pack of ultra-cool ninth graders standing nearby. And then something unexpected happens. One of those ninth-graders steps away from the crowd, bends over, and starts helping me get everything back in the case so I can catch the bus.
Just an insignificant thing, really -- stepping away from the laughing crowd, picking up a couple of books. I don't know his name. I don't remember his face, or if I managed to say thanks. I do know one thing -- he didn't save the world that day. But that day, he saved me... and it meant the world. It had nothing to do with the number of books he picked up. It had everything to do with restoring my dignity as a human being. He stepped away from the crowd. He shared my burden, and made sure I wasn't alone that day.
The world's a big place. The galaxy is huge. And the universe is enormous beyond comprehension. But the worth of a single person dwarfs them all. That unknown ninth grader taught me, is still teaching me, to step away from the crowd... because to the world I may be just one person, but to one person I may be the world.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Review of Listening Woman (by Tony Hillerman)
You know you've found a good writer when you get a cultural education along with a good mystery, yet the education doesn't bother you because it's tightly interwoven with the fabric of the narrative itself. Though he doesn't write in first-person, Hillerman tells the story so believably from Joe Leaphorn's (the police detective protagonist) point of view that you almost feel like you're in the mind of the "slow-talking" Navajo as his story unfolds. You'll like the battle of wits between Leaphorn and the bad guy ("Gold Rims") in this one. Definitely a good read.
(Pasted from my Goodreads.com review)
(Pasted from my Goodreads.com review)
Thursday, April 9, 2009
My argument with a soft drink
Bruce's Head: Way to go, genius. I warned you not to have another diet soft drink and now you feel like crap for the third time in a row.
Bruce's Mouth: Sorry, I just felt like a soda, and...
Head: And now I can't tell my left brain from my right, thanks. The sodium in that beverage has sucked three-fourths of the water content out of our system, and I feel like someone is trying to squeeze me through the pupil of our right eye.
Mouth: It just tastes so good. I had this craving, you know?
Head: You had a craving? A craving! For a CAFFEINE-FREE diet Coke?? No sugar, AND no caffeine?!!?. What exactly is the POINT of that?
Mouth: Er...
Empty Coke can: Pardon me, and do excuse the interruption but I cannot help but feel somewhat responsible for the present predicament in which you find yourselves.
Head: I'm the only one in a predicament here. If mouth weren't so dry right now, he'd be whistling. How can you be responsible? Let me guess, you wriggled your way out of the fridge, hopped up onto the desk, opened and poured yourself down our protesting mouth and throat, right?
Coke can: Not quite, but I do come in an attractive package of crimson and gold.
Head: Wait 'til I get my hands on you... as soon as I can control them again... you won't be so attractive after we squeeze you into a twisted scrap of bent aluminum!
Headache: Hey, remember me? Still here! Party's been going on for three hours now! YEAH baby. Feel that beat! It's quite a job to throb!
Head: Ow. Go away.
Can: Perhaps I can help. You are obviously under-hydrated at present. Perhaps one of my brethren, this time poured in a glass container over three or four cubes of fresh, clear ice with that delightful spider-web cloud at the center. Our liquid refreshment does cause those cubes to pop and tinkle every so delightfully!
Mouth: Ooh ooh! Yeah, good idea!
Head: No!! Shut up! And definitely no tinkling in any glasses! Diet soda is not as nice as it sounds -- it's really on HIS side.
Mouth: Whose side?
Headache: Mine. YEAH baby! Still going strong! Boom boom boom buh-BAM a lamma ding dong...!!
Can: You might try taking me with a tablet or two of ibuprofen?
Head: (Shouting) What's that? Speak up! Pills, you say? Well, I was considering that option but I don't like to become too indebted to those things...
Headache: Wait! No, no -- bad idea. We don't need those guys. I'm doing great on my own, really. HEYYY JUUUUDE, let's make it bad...!!
Can: If I may...
Head: Ughh! How can I think straight with you two around? Let's see now...
Eyes: Sorry, no can do. Kinda busy here. You're squeezing us shut at the moment.
Headache: Heh heh heh.
Mouth: Mr. Can has a point - our friend Advil might want to help out.
Head: Save it. You just want more of... more of HIM! I'll never, never allow this to happen again, do you hear me!!?? NEVER!
Mouth to can: (Whispers) See you tomorrow morning? Say, 10 a.m.?
Can: Delighted, dear chap. I'd be simply fizzled!
Headache: Go, baby GO!!
Bruce's Mouth: Sorry, I just felt like a soda, and...
Head: And now I can't tell my left brain from my right, thanks. The sodium in that beverage has sucked three-fourths of the water content out of our system, and I feel like someone is trying to squeeze me through the pupil of our right eye.
Mouth: It just tastes so good. I had this craving, you know?
Head: You had a craving? A craving! For a CAFFEINE-FREE diet Coke?? No sugar, AND no caffeine?!!?. What exactly is the POINT of that?
Mouth: Er...
Empty Coke can: Pardon me, and do excuse the interruption but I cannot help but feel somewhat responsible for the present predicament in which you find yourselves.
Head: I'm the only one in a predicament here. If mouth weren't so dry right now, he'd be whistling. How can you be responsible? Let me guess, you wriggled your way out of the fridge, hopped up onto the desk, opened and poured yourself down our protesting mouth and throat, right?
Coke can: Not quite, but I do come in an attractive package of crimson and gold.
Head: Wait 'til I get my hands on you... as soon as I can control them again... you won't be so attractive after we squeeze you into a twisted scrap of bent aluminum!
Headache: Hey, remember me? Still here! Party's been going on for three hours now! YEAH baby. Feel that beat! It's quite a job to throb!
Head: Ow. Go away.
Can: Perhaps I can help. You are obviously under-hydrated at present. Perhaps one of my brethren, this time poured in a glass container over three or four cubes of fresh, clear ice with that delightful spider-web cloud at the center. Our liquid refreshment does cause those cubes to pop and tinkle every so delightfully!
Mouth: Ooh ooh! Yeah, good idea!
Head: No!! Shut up! And definitely no tinkling in any glasses! Diet soda is not as nice as it sounds -- it's really on HIS side.
Mouth: Whose side?
Headache: Mine. YEAH baby! Still going strong! Boom boom boom buh-BAM a lamma ding dong...!!
Can: You might try taking me with a tablet or two of ibuprofen?
Head: (Shouting) What's that? Speak up! Pills, you say? Well, I was considering that option but I don't like to become too indebted to those things...
Headache: Wait! No, no -- bad idea. We don't need those guys. I'm doing great on my own, really. HEYYY JUUUUDE, let's make it bad...!!
Can: If I may...
Head: Ughh! How can I think straight with you two around? Let's see now...
Eyes: Sorry, no can do. Kinda busy here. You're squeezing us shut at the moment.
Headache: Heh heh heh.
Mouth: Mr. Can has a point - our friend Advil might want to help out.
Head: Save it. You just want more of... more of HIM! I'll never, never allow this to happen again, do you hear me!!?? NEVER!
Mouth to can: (Whispers) See you tomorrow morning? Say, 10 a.m.?
Can: Delighted, dear chap. I'd be simply fizzled!
Headache: Go, baby GO!!
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