Expectant Grandpa

 As spring grudgingly gave way to summer this year, my thoughts were not so much on the usual sunny beaches, cool plunges into Lake Michigan, and ice cream in the park.  No, this is the summer I became a grandpa.  As Katelyn's due date approached, my mind would often wander to an imagining of that magical, emotional moment of seeing, touching, holding my grandchild for the first time.  Undoubtedly peering through tear filled eyes at my daughter, barely able to speak.  My expectation was one of high and powerful emotion, for which I would of course be completely unashamed.

 You wouldn't know it after reading this far, but I know a thing or two about expectations and how they are not to be trusted.  They can, at a minimum, lead to disappointment and in some circumstances, be downright destructive. "My serenity is inversely proportional to my expectations."  I only know that line because I've heard it about ten thousand times in the past thirteen years or so.  Living in the moment and accepting it as being perfect right now is a concept and a state of being that I continue to work on.  And sometimes the teacher is a one day old newborn baby boy.

 The first time I held my grandson Liam, just a couple hours after his birth, I did not soar, and no tears flowed...as expected.  I kissed my lovely daughter, hugged her husband Nick, and was happy.  Maybe relieved.  But not overwhelmed, not overcome, not what I thought I'd be...what I expected.

 The next day, we again stopped by the hospital for a visit before heading home.  That day however, Liam was not as tightly swaddled in blankets, and little hands and feet dangled and darted about.  I patiently waited my turn to hold him once more, of course deferring to the grandmas present. Finally he was carefully handed over and I slowly sat down, never taking my eyes off him.  The next thing I felt was unspeakably amazing, moving, and ...unexpected.  The little hand of my day old grandson suddenly gripping the end of my finger. Reaching across two generations to say hi.  And there it was.  The magic moment.  Tears, quivering chin, faltering voice, the whole thing that I expected would happen the day before...happening at the perfect time, exactly as it should be.  A precious, unexpected moment I'll never forget.

 It won't be the last thing I learn from Liam.  In time, I hope he learns a thing or two from me.  Whenever and whatever it's supposed to be.

Doomsday Intention

 Every single person I work with has a dedicated storage area, a drawer actually, for their supply of favorite snack foods.  Sarah dubbed them our Doomsday Drawers.  The idea being that in the event of doomsday, you'd ostensibly survive, for a couple days anyway, off the contents of your Doomsday Drawer.

 Today I opened my drawer to find that all the yummy carbs and candy sort of sustenance was gone, while a shiny apple and bright orange clementine rolled to the front with a thunk.  This fruity thunk made me think - about intention.  These healthy snacks are purchased, carried first home and then off to work (along with the now departed cookies, muffins and Dove dark chocolate) with the intention of consuming a healthy, fortifying snack at some point during the work day.  But the key step, the one that holds the actual benefit, is the one where I'm wiping orange juice off my chin.

 Now I acknowledge that intention is very important in itself, just not by itself.  It is the seed of charity, empathy, personal growth, and lots of other juicy things.  I've learned in yoga practice to start with an intention.  A necessary first step.  Carrying that intention with me as I step off the mat, and into the rest of my day, and actually putting it into action through my interactions with others and the world around me - that's biting into the apple. That's why I rolled out the mat in the first place.  By mindful living and intention I can occupy a more positive and useful space in this moment, this place.

 I don't actually waste time worrying about doomsday.  But there might on occasion be a soft spot in my apple.  Yoga helps with that too.

Stuff of Dreams

How many dreams hold  a key, a hint

to a closely held secret of the universe?

If only we could decipher such psychic glyph.

They seem not a gift, but a tease

dissipating before a fluttering mind's eye

like a wisp of smoke above glowing ember.

Now and then the universe blinks, 

a dream is grasped and held shakingly.

Pinned down like a bug now, 

analyze, examine, dissect...

But horrors ooze from within, 

and cannot be put back.

In quaking realization see, 

such meanings are not in malice hidden

but in mercy absorbed. 

Not just another day

 Today's my birthday.  The day I officially turn 51 years old. And my automatic tendency is to downplay it - to make it just another day of getting up, going to work, and taking on whatever comes my way.  Well shame on me. Today is also the day after I learned of the death of a high school classmate who had fought a courageous battle with a cruel disease for as long as she possibly could.

 Robin's faith, positive attitude and optimism was and is an inspiration to all who knew her.  In recent years she fought hard for each and every day of her life and celebrated each one she was granted.  She fought to maintain the optimism that perhaps there would be yet another birthday for her. Sadly, she doesn't have the luxury of playing it cool on her next birthday. She doesn't have the option to downplay a day that should be celebrated.

 So today I'm going to honor Robin by going ahead and relishing the fact that I'm turning 51. I'm going to feel extra thankful for this day, and I hope, for many days to come that I might have otherwise taken for granted.  I think perhaps the finest gift I could receive today is the inspiration of my late friend and classmate which reminds me that each and every day is truly a gift to be cherished and experienced to the fullest, and yes on certain occasions,  celebrating that day, cake and all.

Can I get an "Amen"

 I cried in church today.  Not a blubbery, making a scene, look at me cry. The tear on my cheek and bum a kleenex from mom kind.  And for the record, I wasn't the only one.  There I sat, near the back, in Trinity Episcopal Church,  Mackinac Island, watching and listening to my dad preside over his final service as an Episcopal priest ... ever.  Fifty two years of doing precisely what he was placed on this earth to do, coming to an end before my teary vision, as if witnessed through antique glass.

 Sharing the hardwood bench with my mom was as meaningful and emotional as seeing dad do his thing before us.  You see, and he would be the first one to say this if I didn't , the fifty two year ministry has very much been a team effort. Indeed hers too has been a unique and important calling, if often unappreciated.  In addition to all the love, attention, beauty and grace she shared with many flocks over the decades, there were the thankless challenges of being the clergy spouse too.  The cowardly comments, stage-whispered just within her earshot, but meant for another.  And bearing the burden of keeping more of it than we'll ever know to herself.  Then knowing how best to share the rest to a man who just spent the night at the hospital with a family in crisis and probably isn't getting a day off this week.

 Which brings this to mind - if you'd ever like to test my diplomacy and restraint, simply comment that clergy only work on Sunday.  And maybe say it clear of my wingspan.

 After a lovely service, having received holy communion for the last time from dad, we walked a  couple blocks for a more physically filling meal where we talked and laughed, and didn't once talk about the end of anything.  Mom and dad will continue to be a blessing to me, my family, and everyone they know and yet encounter.  That's their truest calling, and the one with the greatest legacy.  It's a calling we can all practice, and without need of vestments ... because that would be kind of weird and inconvenient at the beach or while biking.

 Congratulations and well done dad and mom.  And if you ever feel like just sleeping in on Sunday morning, God knows you've earned it. I'm pretty sure He'll give ya a wink and a pass.  But not too often, you'd be missed at coffee hour.

Lesson from a prodigal puppy

 I'm no stranger to my day starting off on the run.  Countless times I've risen to an early alarm, suited up and headed out for a morning run of anywhere from 30 minutes to a few hours.  Today was a different kind of running start.  There's no time to warm up or mentally prepare for the dash that ensues when a gust of west wind blows the front door open and our blond bombshell of a golden retriever makes her break.

 As I zig to intercept her zag all around the neighborhood, an adrenaline fueled cocktail of emotion starts getting shaken not stirred behind the pounding pulse in my head.  Concern for Sophie's safety, as she is not at all street smart and prone to dart in any direction, along with simmering anger that this debacle is going to make me late for Saturday coffee n bagel with my folks, mixes with the inescapable knowledge that this is all my fault.  Exhibit A - I have a golden retriever who has never been actually trained to do anything, and I mean anything that a golden retriever wouldn't do if raised by other untrained golden retrievers.  Exhibit B - I haven't been taking the time out of my day to walk her and burn off some of that desire to experience life and smells outside the property lines.  And finally, perhaps most damning of all , Exhibit C - Hey dumbass, it's really windy outside, maybe bolt the front door?

 So the really challenging part of all this comes after the catch is made and we return home.  None of the anger and anxiety that dumped into my system over the previous ten minutes can be unleashed, nor should it be, on this panting, frolicking doggy.  Dog's, even trained ones, aren't too bright.  And even though I'm no dog trainer I do know a thing or two about conditioning.  You don't punish a dog for returning home.  So it's all "good girl" and strokes and rubs and treats in the hope that it reinforces in her the desire to not venture too far from home where all the strokes, rubs and treats are.

 This got me thinking about the well-known story of the prodigal son in the 15th chapter of Dr. Luke's part of the Bible.  After years of rebellion and the squandering of his inheritance, the prodigal son is not only welcomed home to a wide embrace by his father, but they throw a party to celebrate his return.  Now in the case of humans, this isn't simply conditioning.  After all , we're somewhat brighter than golden retrievers and can in many cases be reasoned with.  No, this is just a great example of how we should treat eachother.

 I've been on the receiving end of this - and it's both humbling and perhaps the greatest gift one can receive from a friend or family member.  My heart still swells when I recall those moments when a tearful look in the eyes or a tight embrace conveys the message better than any words, that I'm forgiven, the past is the past, and we again have a future together - as a friend, a father, a husband, a son.  It's not always about deserving, it's about making the most of the short time we have with all the other flawed yet beautiful people in our lives.

 At this moment, Sophie is contentedly snoozing next to me on the rug, I'm contentedly finishing up a blog entry, and speaking for myself at least, very content to be done with all the ziging and zagging that thankfully led both of us back home.

Digital Man

 There's no denying that each and every generation has it's own particular view of the changing world in which we live.  I sometimes wonder what it must have been like for people who remember both the first cars and the first moon landing.  Imagine going from memories of a horse-drawn milk wagon to "One giant leap for mankind"  My generation certainly can't compete with that continuum of progress, but I've mused countless times about the very unique relationship my mid-60's-born peeps and I have always had and continue to have with the birth and evolution of digital and computer technology.

 What sets today's 50 year olds apart from other age groups today is the timing of technological advances in relation to our stage in life.  It seems to me that I've always been right on the heels of it, with a first row vantage point, but yet inches from grabbing hold.  For example, I remember the very first Texas Instruments calculators.  Not quite pocket size yet, but small enough to hold in your hand.  Red digital numbers appeared as you clicked the buttons to complete simple equations.  They weren't inexpensive either.  I only recall seeing them here and there during my elementary school years.  So there I was, there we were, witness to a new digital technology, able to see it, hold it, maybe fiddle around with it, but too young to have a practical use for it yet.  So maybe by sixth or seventh grade I had my first pocket calculator, and I'll bet it set my folks back quite a few dollars even then.  Certainly not the disposable, and really, now obsolete thing they've become.  Meanwhile...computers that can fit on a table top are about to hit the scene...

 But when they do, and by the time they make their way into the public schools,they're there, but also so few in number that only the National Honors Society students could even take a computer class in high school. To students today that sounds preposterous, but in fact, I could not have taken a computer class to learn how to operate a desktop computer even as recently as 1982.  So again, I'm there, but not really with access to the technology.

 I attended a state university after high school and had not a moments problem meeting all the requirements with nothing more than an electric typewriter.  While personal computers were starting to become somewhat more common, printer quality was in it's infancy, and professors would not in a million years accept a paper printed in early dot-matrix.  So there I was, a twenty-two year old college graduate who quite literally had never used a computer.  But consider that at the same time, computers were becoming quite common in schools and very soon would be found in every classroom right down to the kindergarten room at the end of the hall.

 Eventually I sat down and used a computer. Probably played a game or two.  But we were well into our twenties before most of us considered buying a home computer, and that new, almost inconceivable internet thing didn't come along till we were almost thirty.  I'll never forget the rapt attention of three or four people huddling around a thirteen inch screen, watching in utter amazement as a color picture appeared, line by line from...from where?  From the internet.  whoa.  And we didn't even complain that the download took, oh, about two minutes or so.  That's right kids.  And it was AWESOME!  Also, it was probably something really constructive, like a picture of Kathy Ireland.

 Sometimes I still feel like I'm catching up.  Like tonight when my son laughed at my enthusiasm for throwback Thursday on Facebook by saying, "Dad, that started on Instagram like years ago."  Like I don't care, David, I've caught up to it now and I'm having fun with it.  Tonight I posted a picture of my sister and me from the summer of 1969.  Kids who had never seen a more advanced object than a Polaroid camera, and were pretty wowed by that, in fact.  How far we've come...well, almost - if we ever do catch up.