Searching for a starfish

You probably know some version of Loren Eiseley's story, the one where a child is throwing starfish into the ocean one by one, only to have an adult chide him for wasting his time. After all, he will never save them all, right? The child, however, has the last word, that his efforts do matter to each starfish he saves. 

It's a good story, albeit beaten to death by motivational speakers slightly overused, and it's not a bad response to November 2016, a month I generally think of as follows:

I am not just talking about THAT day. I might have been able to withstand that. Doubtful, sure, but it's what I'd like to believe. 

No, my fracture came a few days later when Vesbo, subject of Why are they always orange?, crossed the Rainbow Bridge. "I just really needed to save him," I sobbed on the phone to my parents. "And I failed."

Eventually, I cried (most) of the tears I had to cry. In their place, nothing. Yes, I had my friends, my family, my students, and they all held me together more than they will ever know. But deep down inside? That's where that big dark space was born.

Then I opened yesterday’s mail. One of the envelopes, larger than the others, bore the return address Open Arms India. I eagerly opened it, and there I saw her. Our sponsored child, holding a picture of… I looked closer…us. There we were, my family grasped in the hands of a child with a phenomenal smile. 

Something in me started to spark, a piece of my inner power grid coming back on line. I looked at that smile and thought maybe, just maybe, we were playing some small part in making that light shine. For the first time in weeks, I felt something like belief. 

I don't know what the future holds, and that thought scares me half to death. So does the fact that no matter what I want or what I try, I won't be able to save every cat or every child. But maybe, every once in a while, one of them will be my starfish. 

Yeah, this is real too

A child, maybe 12, moves across the parking lot. Progress is slow, weighed down as he is by a leg cast and bulging backpack. He places his crutches carefully, looking up every so often, only to drop his eyes again when he sees how much parking lot remains.

The other parents stare, first at him, then at his mother, waiting alone by her car. 

"How long has he been crossing this lot, anyway?"

"I'd never let my kid get away with that."

"Bless him. That'd stop if he just got a little extra attention and love."

"That kid needs a good whipping. Then he'd move!"

If you are horrified, you should be.

If you think this cannot possibly be real, you are probably right. At least I hope you are. After all, what kind of person would criticize a child so obviously in pain? What kind of jerk would blame his parents because a broken leg had slowed him down?

Yet thousands of families endure something similar every day. Every. Single. Day. Not because of something visible, something obvious like a broken leg, but because their child suffers from wounds unseen, some of which were inflicted literally from the very first. Some combination of hunger, abuse, trauma, and neglect caused the child's brain to develop in unexpected ways, with a broad range of maladaptive behaviors to match. 

For parents of these kids, the phrase "pick your battles" takes on a whole new meaning. They have to pick so often and so quickly –yet somehow also carefully–, that I can just about guarantee they're not picking the ones you want. Yet trust me, they believe in love and discipline and everything else that goes into making a family work. It's just that their normal looks way different from yours. They can't waste time apologizing for something that isn't their fault. Like the mom whose son is wobbling around with cast and crutches, they have bigger fish to fry.

Please give them benefit of the doubt, accept that they are actually doing the best they can, however imperfect that may be.  

Remember, the support you give the family is love you show the child.

Wait, WHAT?! I agree with Glenn Beck?!

It was early one fall semester, a few years ago. My elementary French class and I were still getting to know each other when the ballplayer in the front row piped up with something straight out of Glenn Beck. My reaction was swift, and to me, predictable.

"I prefer to think for myself." 

"He just asks questions," came the reply, faintly tinged with what I perceived as aggression.

"Great," I thought. "One of those. Let's just get through this semester. It's not like I'll ever see him again."

I was wrong, and thankfully so. The student went on to minor in French and remains one of the best and brightest I have ever had. Mind you, there were plenty of things about which we never could agree, but we kept talking and learning from each other all the same. Those conversations became one of the highlights of my week, and even now remind me why I became a professor. Idealistic and cliched as it may sound, I want to open minds, including especially my own.

Time passed. Seasons changed. My opinion of Glenn Beck, however, did not. That is, until the other day, when in the New York Times I read his Op-Ed, Empathy for Black Lives Matter. Here's the part that got me:

After the massacre, I invited several Black Lives Matter believers on my show. I got to know them as people — on and off air — and invited them back again. These individuals are decent, hardworking, patriotic Americans. We don’t agree on everything, certainly not on politics; but are we not more than politics? I refuse to define each of them based on the worst among them. No movement is monolithic. The individuals I met that day are not “Black Lives Matter”; they are black Americans who feel disenfranchised and aggrieved; they are believers; they are my neighbors and my fellow citizens.

We need to listen to one another, as human beings, and try to understand one another’s pain. Empathy is not acknowledging or conceding that the pain and anger others feel is justified. Empathy is acknowledging someone else’s pain and anger while feeling for them as human beings — even, and maybe especially, when we don’t necessarily agree or understand them.

I haven't followed the story much since, but I can easily imagine Beck was excoriated on all sides. In his camp because our heroes are supposed to be unchanging monoliths; in camps closer to my own, because, well, he's Glenn Beck. Never mind what he actually said, right? He's just another one of them. Others near my camp may have read, even liked it, only to dismiss it as too little, too late. 

Now that last part, I get. I really do. I almost went there myself. After all, how many times have I felt that way? How many times have I caused others to feel that way about me? 

But...

But...this. "Too little, too late" implies there is no chance for growth or change. There are no second chances, no mercy, no grace. And that, I cannot accept. It goes against everything I believe as a Christian, parent, teacher, friend. As humans are we not gifted with the ability to transcend our limitations, especially those that are self-imposed?

Am I the newest member of the Glenn Beck fan club? Nope. I don't even agree with everything he wrote here. But I have to admire his bravery in extending a hand, knowing full well that many would just as soon slap or even sever it, anything but risk a stranger's touch.

Surely each of us, in our own little corners of the world, can do the same. 

Think differently, part II

When I moved to Kentucky 15 years ago, I thought I knew a whole lot of things. Among others, I knew that coal was king, but the climate was changing and our addiction to non-renewable energy was driving the massacre of God's creation. Therefore, mining had to go.

Then the stories came, and not just the ones in novels. I listened to the retired miner who reinvented his life, leaving a good chunk of his health underground. I heard the engineer who fights tooth and nail for permits so the crews under her can feed their families. I got to know the security guard who works crazy hours so he can pursue his true vocation of ministry and service to others. Stories like these have turned my tidy, privileged worldview on its head.

Don't get me wrong. Climate change is still real. I believe with all my heart that we should not be blowing the tops off mountains or poisoning our water supply to satisfy our desire for more, more, more. But we need a better plan. You cannot end a chapter as big as coal without making a solid start on the next one. And you certainly can't expect individuals to walk away without giving them a place to go.

There are no satisfactory answers, not even in the 65-plus million dollars meant to create jobs and diversify our mountain economy. It might be a start, but is it enough? Did it get here in time? Why didn't we do that part first, before people got scared and began to lose hope? How can we bring one story to a satisfactory end without destroying the conclusion of so many others?

I wish I knew.

Think differently

I sat across the table, looked at our pastor, and said it again.

"You know I'm the wrong person to ask. We're both way too Lutheran.* Ask the others." Then I sat back and shut my mouth, for a few minutes, anyway.

There was a time I would have not have thought this possible. Indeed, I bet many, when asked to describe me, would say "opinionated" is the understatement of the century! What's more, my comfort zone, like most people's, lies mainly with those who share my thoughts and beliefs.


Yet our comfort zone is not always our best zone. If I stay in my comfort zone, those outside it stay just there, outside. And that is not okay, especially not in a worship setting.  My pastor and I could plan a service that would knock our own socks off, but if it has no meaning for the congregation, what use would that be? Heavenly music is rarely made from two similar voices hitting the exact same note.

I really started learning this fifteen years ago, when I moved to the Bible belt. A liberal Yank if ever there was one, I had two choices. One was to dig in my heels and tell anyone who didn't agree with me where they could go. Not being a fan of lonely defeat, I went for the second option and opened my ears, my mind, and my heart. It has not been always easy, and sometimes I fail on a pretty epic scale, but my life is the richer for it.

On the hardest days, especially in this time of vitriol known as an election year, it helps to realize that those with whom I disagree want the same things I do: love, respect, a better world for our children. It also helps to think about their stories. What is it about their story that brought them to this point? How has my story shaped and guided me? What if, instead of seeing these as competing narratives, we saw them as a counterpoint to which the concluding notes are not yet written?

This has been on my mind this week due to the recent passing of Justice Anthony Scalia. I can see some of you now, especially those who know me outside this blog. You are shaking your heads as you wonder, "our left-leaning, feminist, tree-hugging Northerner is inspired by him?" To which I respond, "yep, sure am." I can't agree with most of his conclusions, but I have to admire how deliberately he thought his way there. I tend to process new perspectives when they cross my path; he went out of his way to make those encounters happen. What if more of us followed that example?

I leave you with this:  just try it. Think differently. You'll be glad you did.

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*"too Lutheran" is not meant to be derogatory; it is simply code for two Lutherans who have found a spiritual home in the United Methodist Church

What if...?

What if, instead of giving the screaming kid's family filthy looks or nasty comments, we remembered that our kids were once the ones pitching fits in the middle of Walmart? Maybe then we could offer to help. Or at least an encouraging word. A smile. Something.

What if, instead of ignoring the man with his rattling box of coins, we remembered a time when we had to go without? Then we might go back to the sub shop, get the two-for-one deal, and give one of them away. Heck, we might give both. After all, we know when our next meal is coming.

What if, instead of listening to fear-mongering pundits and "leaders" undeserving of the name, we actually looked into a refugee's eyes? We might see overwhelming fear and loss. We almost might see a spark of something like hope, a spark that we could nurture with our compassion.

photo from The New York Times

What if, instead of seeing those with opposing views as cloven-hooved red beasts with horns and tails, we peeked underneath the mask? Yes, we might find another devil, but we might also find another soul who wants what we do: a world that is safe and happy and prosperous for those we love. We just get caught up in the particulars of how to make that happen.

And what if, rather than nursing grudges against those who have hurt us, we remember that someone surely has hurt them too? Maybe it was even us. Maybe empathy for their pain is the first step in letting go of our own.

All I'm asking is what if we walked a mile in another's shoes? Or ten feet? That may be enough. Or it might take ten miles. However long it takes, just think. What a marvelous gift that would be.