Dana
"Since you cannot do good to all, you are to pay special attention to those who, by the accidents of time, or place, or circumstances, are brought into closer connection with you" Saint Augustine I love the language communicated in my jeep. Today was a beautiful day, clouds moving, blue skies as a backdrop against brown rolling hills, windows zipped down, music loud, my mind was free to wonder. Driving down the road, at least two jeep owners reciprocated with the unspoken greeting from a fellow jeep owner. Not everyone makes the gesture but 7 out of 10 times, guys do. My eyes gravitate towards jeeps; I notice them on the road, the highway or parked on the side of the road. Jeeps are cool and usually the people that drive them are cool too. Time alone in my jeep precipitates reflection and prayer. I have a regular prayer spot and a not so regular routine where I spend time with God. Having gone there after work today, I opened my bible. This scripture immediately caught my eye and although I have read it many times, one sentence seeped into my heart more than it ever had before: "I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am." Hope is the word that came to mind. Hope. "Do not let your hearts be troubled." Trust in God. Trust also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going." John 14:1-4 Deliberate action. Deliberate love. Deliberate reunion. Aside from hope, these were the words strung together that created the meaning for me.
I softly, lovingly brush my fingers back and forth across the name at the bottom of a bible. There is something meaningful and important about a name. Although I own many bibles, only one bible has my named monogramed across the bottom. I bought the bible myself many years ago and had the letters engraved into the book after recognizing the value in other people's names. A name; love seeps in. Accidents of Time: Story I Inclusion and distraction. If I close my eyes, I can visualize each room. Chippendale chairs in the dining room, a thirteenth century cabinet from Hong Kong in the entry way, large mahogany dressers, American made, in the master bedroom. Each room in their home was exquisitely styled with an element of aristocracy; rooms were deliberately put together, lovingly sewn. The beds were of particular importance. Needing to be "inviting", every detail was planned. From crisp white ironed sheets to military style corners to piles of fluffy white feather/down pillows, every detail reminded you that, if you were a guest in their home, you were of great importance. The magazine, Architectural Digest was stacked and placed in the living room. I loved looking through them. I was drawn to the crisp, clean lines of interior design alongside panoramic landscapes across the world. The people in the magazines seemed important and regal. Through my short, impressionable years of spending several days a week in their home, I began to believe their lifestyle was not only attainable but was mine; it was only a matter of time. Distraction: our judgements from the outside looking in might seem as though these material things held great weight and importance in their lives but one step into their home and an unusual amount of love, laughter, music and life was evident; it was vibrant and alive but not for the reasons you might assume. I started working there when I was only twelve years old. I was born just a few years ahead of my time and things were different than this generation. Loving children, I was babysitting several times a week for a family; the mom also had a catering business. Paula Crump- I will never forget her name. She asked me to help her one evening at a high-society party. Did I own a crisp white shirt and black skirt? That evening would forever change my life. It was love at first site. "Moles and Poles" were terms of endearment for my "adopted" grandparents and this was their home. Canon Rev John and Susan Yaryan. There was nothing official but because of circumstances and timing, they took me "under their wings" from the first moment they met me. You cannot believe the names and people I came into contact with; I was a sponge ready to be deeply absorbed into a belief. A belief that I was Cinderella working on the inside at the ball, knowing deep within my spirit, my adventure was about to begin; I was an apprentice carefully watching my master.
Story II Inclusion and distraction. I loved UCSB (University California Santa Barbara) the moment I set foot on the border of it's steps. Actually, the first time I went there was to attend one of the "infamous" Isla Vista parties. The youngest in my class, I graduated high school at seventeen. I enrolled at UNR (University Nevada Reno) in Sept, attended college for eighteen months and left for a weekend get-away with a friend to Santa Barbara. It was Halloween; I was nineteen. I arrived, alongside hundreds of other people my age, into an atmosphere of inclusion. Laughter, music, costumes, people... dancing and beer, it was the largest party I had ever been to. Crowds of people, arm in arm, strolling through streets of bikes and people. I quit college and moved six weeks later. Having moved suddenly brought a myriad of difficulties but I eventually graduated from UCSB with an undergraduate degree in Sociology. I was the first generation in our family to graduate from college and except for the 18 months at U.N.R., paid for college myself. Inclusion: that sense of belonging along with the intellectual challenge made U.C.S.B. the perfect fit for me. Stretching my muscles, I learned to grow as I wrestled with the ideology and cultures of various people groups. From cultures around the world to life on the campus, dialog always revolved around the inclusion and exclusion of large numbers of people. Situated on the Pacific Ocean, UCSB is breathtakingly beautiful. Isla Vista, the adjacent town, is filled with college students; the sense of community is palatable. Most student's mode of transportation is by foot, skateboard or bicycle and as such, the campus is adorned with bicycle paths through and around the circumference. Difficult to maneuver in peak seasons, summer is the perfect time to ride your bike around UCSB. Often bringing our son to ride his bike there, his love of U.C.S.B also grew. In fact, I laugh saying he was the youngest student enrolled there. I went into labor during an Anthropology final and six months later, packed him in a front baby carrier and sometimes took him to class. He was so quiet and easy, I could. From the time he was a little guy, getting off of his bike, exclaiming, "this is where I am going to college" to a young man graduating in four years with an undergraduate degree in Global Studies and a minor in Italian, U.C.S.B. was the perfect fit for him too. He took full advantage of all it had to offer, from study-abroad programs to athletics, academics and parties. The friendships he made as a freshman in the dormitories are still strong. That same sense of inclusion that welcomed me before him, was the same sense of community that reinforced his belief that he had made the right decision; years of hard work had prepared and equipped him to succeed.
Accidents of Place: "You don't have to swing hard to get a home run. If you've got the timing, it will go" Yogi Berra I count myself among a generation that is inpatient. Longing for immediate gratification, i remind myself of the larger goal, my character. My daughter graduated from college last weekend and in the process of being challenged intellectually, emotionally and spiritually, I too, have been challenged in those same areas. A year ago, she asked me how old I was when I learned that as a female I was not treated the same as a male. She asked me to site particular examples and extend my experience to the church. Exclusion. Jesus was all about the people standing on the outside of acceptance. He provides an open hand of compassion through the sacrifice made on a cross but few accept the invitation. I thought back to Junior High School. As I stood on the perimeter, I wrestled with who I was in contrast to who people needed me to be; I still do. As I sat in a "Home Economics" class (when they offered such classes) in Junior High School, I knew I really wanted to be in Wood Shop. I baked and sewed but really, I would have rather worked with my hands. I secretly wanted to be a contractor which is why the stacks of Architectural Digest magazines intrigued me. Things were changing and In ninth grade, I was enrolled in wood shop. There might have been other girls enrolled but I don't remember any. I fumbled for one of the tall metal stools that first day of class. High ceilings, industrial room, metal chairs and wooden work surfaces; there were saws and tools amid the scent of freshly cut wood. Yep- this is where I needed to be. Everything now seems a fuzzy haze of memory and imagination but I remember making a cutting board (see above picture). I remember designing, cutting, sanding, gluing, clamping AND I remember a boy named Dana. I don't remember his last name nor could I recognize his face or his voice but I remember he, symbolically, extended his hand of friendship. We worked on our projects alongside each other. He was my friend and I looked forward to seeing him. I also remember he liked the song Led Zeppelin's, "Stairway to Heaven". Maybe he was even learning it on the guitar but again, the memory is distant. The memory was retrieved when my daughter asked me about growing up as a young girl in a culture, in her opinion, that valued women less than their male counterparts. Fast forward many years of accumulating stuff. I have moved too many times to count. My parent's divorce when I was a teenager, my mother's re-marriage, college, moving to Santa Barbara, living on my own, college again, marriage and children and somehow.... this broken cutting board remains. A broken cutting board. Why?
As both Dana and I stood on the outskirts of acceptance, I wish I could tell him now how things changed. Just a few years from wood shop my life would take a dramatic turn... acceptance in a new school, dates to dances and parties, cheerleading in Football, Song leading in Basketball, college... good roads and rocky roads but a journey, none the less. It was ninth grade. It was a Monday. I think I had wood shop in the afternoon. Dana wasn't there that day. As the class continued, I wondered and searched and then the hushed whispers... hadn't I heard? A boy accidentally shot himself in the head cleaning his gun. dead? gone? ... Nobody seemed to know his name but I knew his name. It was Dana and he liked the song, "Stairway to Heaven". No school guidance counselors to combat grieving. A "stiff upper lip" and "take it like a man", and a whisper that said, "get out on the field and play ball" Football players were tough, weren't they? and I knew about football. In hind site, I think Poles must have consoled me (but I don't remember shedding a tear) during one of the many times he drove me home from his house. Accident of place? maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe God sees the whole story (past, present and future) and whispers a song of hope deep within our hearts nobody else can see... through people. He did then and he does today. Accidents of Place: Exclusion: Last month, during one of the best conversations with my biological father about basketball and life, I made the mistake of using the phrase "black and white" to express emotion. He quickly corrected me suggesting I was using a racially offensive sentiment; it was not my intention and in an exhale of breathe, I was ten again and I think he was right. Then... as I was writing this post (after midnight), it dawned on me why my phrasing was painful and how our judgements and words hurt. Last weekend my daughter graduated from college. Because of redemption and too many stories to tell, I extended my open invitation to my two brothers I haven't seen in many, many years (My father's sons) to breakfast in Los Angeles before the graduation ceremony later that day. Both sons are only a few years older than my son. As I sat mesmerized in the conversation, I asked what the words on a small tattoo on his forearm meant... the words: "until we meet again." It was in honor of Anthony. My brother, Michael was the quarterback for a CIF winning football team. Anthony was his teammate and the only black kid in an all white school. My dad volunteered his time in helping coach the team and loved Anthony like a son. Anthony called dad "Pops" and would always suggest to my bother that they go see Pops. My brother played football through broken bones and too many concussions to count which tells me he grew up tough. My guess was Anthony grew up tough too. I know because I, too was raised to be tough. But when the season of high school ended, Anthony grew weary of living life as the only black kid in an affluent white community and got into trouble; he landed in jail. The pain seemed too great and the conversation was vague. I only got that there was an incident in jail and the guards did not seek medical assistance for Anthony. Dead; he was gone too soon. "Until we meet again" is in honor of Anthony. Knowing this now, I could see how my words of speaking "black and white" could hurt. Unintentionally opening a wound too painful to speak. Accidents of Place? Maybe. Maybe not. I would like to think God knew the fate for Anthony and used my dad and brothers to speak unconditional love into his heart. I would like to think that in his final days on earth he marinated in not only the tough plays of life but in the love of people who knew his name. Was he even twenty years old when life called his number? I don't know; I only recently learned of his name. Peace "Success or failure, ultimately have little to do with living the gospel. Jesus just stood with the outcasts until they were welcomed or until he was crucified - whichever came first." GB, Gregory Boyle I don't know when my cutting board broke in half but it did. I intentionally took this picture on the bench in my living room. There are three important things about this picture: 1) the broken board sits upon two planks of wood. Abandoned lumber from a high school stadium, it is worn from use and sun. The initials carved in the sun-bleeached wood hint to stories untold, forgotten, hidden. What were the names? Games won and lost, friendships made and broken remind us there are stories. 2) there is a spot on the cutting board where the wood appears to be richer in color. At a Monday night bible study, a friend of mine who loves to work with wood heard my story and retrieved out of his truck, a wood conditioner and suggested mending this broken piece of wood. It is a reminder that each of us are not beyond the reach of being made new. Although we bare the scars of brokenness, with love and affection, the worn, weathered conditions of our souls may be mended. 3) A white orchid "signify innocence, elegance and beauty - ideal for a christening or the birth of a baby. White also signifies reverence and humility." Jesus extends an invitation. It is not just about accepting the purchased ticket to a free game (heaven), it is also about being willing to "get out on the field and play ball." The hard work of stepping up your game 1) allowing somebody to hear your voice and 2) having the balls to reach out to others, requires sweat and a "I can make this shot" attitude. Lay-ups are quick advancements to the net but three point, all net, money shots require a teammate and timing. Sitting back and letting the play come to you, a quick response and an outreached shot before the buzzer rings, wins games. Easy? no. It requires game day strategies, experience, top physical and mental training and plain ol' courage and bravery. It takes a warrior such as David with a coach such as Jesus and friends such as the disciples. "Now as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and after blessing it broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, "Take, eat; this is my body." And he took a cup and when he had given thanks he gave it to them, saying, "Drink of it, all of you, for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. I tell you I will not drink again of this fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father's kingdom." Matthew 26:26
Accidents of Circumstance: It was a Sunday morning when I received a text message from my daughter; had I heard what happened at UCSB the evening before? Shock seeped through my veins as I texted my son about the massacre of seven students and the injury of nine others. He hadn't heard but from the sound in his voice, the pain in his heart equalled mine as our community of education was briefly shattered. My daughter, also said the social media blogs were blowing up as the word "entitlement" blasted through cultural divides. As the days unfolded, the horror unraveled. There was so much sadness in the community I love. Tears flowed in early pictures as I received Facebook posts of friends of one of the girls killed. Having been on the water polo team, it hit close to home as my high school friend's son also played on the USCB Water polo team at the time. In the time of sorrow, filters of hope were illuminating the darkness through pavements of flowers, stories, songs, words and art. Those loving arms were reaching far beyond the borders of U.C.S.B into candlelit vigils at UC Berkeley and U.C.L.A (U.C. Los Angeles). My sadness extended to the Chancelor at the school. He and his wife are renowned for their "open door" policy choosing to live on campus, inviting students into their home and hearts. Situated on campus directly across the lawn from the freshman dormitories, their actions speak louder than any curriculum. I immediately thought of the deep sorrow that must have been his in these early days of tragedy. Even today as I finish up this month's post, I see he has proactively and deliberately humbled his agenda to reach out to a community still in the process of healing. Henry T Yang is his name. The names of the fallen U.C.S.B students were George Chen- 19, Katherine Breann Cooper- 22, Cheng Yuan "James" Hong- 20, Christopher Ross Michaels-Martinez- 20, Weilhan "David" Wang- 20 and Veronika Elizabeth Weiss- 19 Inclusion... exclusion... a breathe in and a breathe out. It is the difference between life and death. I think now to Eleanor Robinson. Where I once began reading aloud to her from books amid the vintage rose gardens at her home to the last breath she took in her bedroom amid oxygen tanks and a body riddled with lung cancer. On that particular evening, I for the first time, saw what a last breath looked like. It was more subtle than I had imagined. Her breathing was slow... soft... quiet... the pace was getting slower until one last breathe in ... and a silence. There was no exhale of breathe out. It was finished in this final moment.
It was the Saturday before the big event I was helping to orchestrate in March of this year. The strings, percussion and horn sections were in place; the concertmaster and conductor stood ready for the music to begin. I was working alongside two other mothers cutting, gluing, assembling and hammering large wood frames used from the lumber of an abandoned floor. I volunteered to go to the local hardware store to retrieve additional wood moldings to secure the frames. Roaming through isles, I passed the garden section, passed the household goods, past the nuts and bolts and gravitated towards the lumber. A song softly playing in the distance caught my attention. I followed the sound... past the wood to the very back corner of the building around a hidden wall to the source of sound... a small radio playing this song next to an old paper Starbucks coffee cup. Work gloves linking the two together. It was a song hinting toward hope but also served as a reminder to listen past the noise and distractions to the things that outlast us. "I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am." I think God is, indeed, preparing a home for us... but I think it is not about the home or the place but about the relationship. If you scroll back to the top, you will see a picture I took at my computer with a tin full of colored pencils. If you look closely one pencil is missing; the red pencil is missing. Red because of the blood shed on the cross. It takes missing someone to realize why the box of colored pencils is not complete. The home of moles and poles was filled with love. Dinner parties were commonplace. Moles and I carefully attended to every single detail around the hosting of a party. From the choice of type, color and texture of the tablecloths, to the choice of silverware, china and food. Poles, on the other hand, handled the music and the wine. The next piece was the most critical; it was the reason for the dinner party. The names on the guest list. There were sometimes upward of 50 guests but moles and poles were never seated at the same table. She intentionally separated herself from him in order to serve the guests. It was her way of being a servant to Jesus Christ in a tangible, measurable, deliberate act of faith. This was the part the apprentice could not learn from the master. It involved great love, wisdom and an awareness of the people that represented the names on the list. She might ask Poles a couple of questions but ultimately, it was she who covered the names with love. Painstakingly studying each one, her mission was twofold: 1) ensure her guests would have interesting, motivating and inspiring conversations and 2) bring honor to the man she loved. Poles was not just her husband, he was the man that completed her soul. He was the missing pencil in her tin box of colors. The party was her way of living out the gospel. In all my years of working and loving them, I never once heard a sermon. They simply showered me with gifts too many to count. Canon Rev John Yaryan died three months after his bride. I never attended the funeral because their family did not know my name. Months after their deaths, I received a letter. Having been listed in an address book, their son sent me a final picture and a few words with which to hang on to.... some say, he died of a broken heart. Inclusion, exclusion. "Success or failure, ultimately have little to do with living the gospel. Jesus just stood with the outcasts until they were welcomed or until he was crucified - whichever came first." GB, Gregory Boyle and HE knows your name.
Conclusion: I deliberately chose the entirety of this song from "Stairway to Heaven" played by the original artists in an effort to pay tribute to Dana. The timing of this month's post is in honor of the U.C.S.B. students that will be remembered this week in the one year anniversary and finally, while writing this month's post, I also learned about a father's death. The moment I was writing a short memorandum for him in my journal, I heard that B.B. King, Blues artist also died. In memory of a father, I dedicate B.B. King's, "Rock Me Baby (with Eric Clapton) if only in my heart not only because I like the song but believe King will be "rockin" it Blues style in heaven this week.
Led Zeppelin The first sentence spoken in this video clip www.utube.com/watch?v=JOemwDVBlqE is the voice of Robert Plant, singer in the band Led Zeppelin (formally Yardbirds): "I think this is a song of hope". Note worthy:
Led Zeppelin is a british band, leaning upon Blue's greats such as Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf to create their own unique sound. Taking the culture by storm, Zeppelin paved the way for heavy metal rock and stamped their own signature upon the mark of history establishing themselves as one of the most recognized rock bands of all time.. David Letterman- Led Zeppelin 3-12-12 VIDEO U-tube video clip https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y7F54QBCA1w David Letterman and the remaining band members from Led Zeppelin. An awesome clip and worth watching. Pictures courtesy of me! information from Wikipedia.
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November 2017
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