Waterloo (and another epic surrender)

An ad on Ebay recently touted the sale of vintage French infantry weapons thusly:

“For Sale: French Muskets… like new, hardly used, only dropped twice.”

Of course, this is an old joke. But it does segue nicely into today’s topic for discussion.

Last time I blathered about the world according to me, I was ready to tackle a second round of heart surgery in less than a month. Obviously, since I am writing this blog and you are reading it, I survived. So, with that news flash out-of-the-way, I think I’ll take it from here in a little less predictable direction. If you don’t mind?

No. Good! Let’s proceed.

I chose “surrender” as my theme, because Monday is June 18th – the 197th Anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo. Why is that so doggone important, you ask? Well, let me tell you. But first… Here’s a little history lesson for you:

The Battle of Waterloo was fought on Sunday, 18 June 1815 near Waterloo in present-day Belgium, then part of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands. AnImperial French army under the command of Emperor Napoleon was defeated by combined armies of the Seventh Coalition, an Anglo-Allied army under the command of the Duke of Wellington combined with a Prussian army under the command of Gebhard von Blücher. It was the culminating battle of theWaterloo Campaign and Napoleon’s last. The defeat at Waterloo ended his rule as Emperor of the French, marking the end of his Hundred Days return from exile. (source: Wikipedia)

Don’t worry. These things do have a way of coming together in the end. There’s no use worrying that a beaten Emperor Napoleon standing in front of the Duke of Wellington 197 years ago with his hands reaching for the sky has precisely zero connection to heart surgery performed in Fort Worth, Texas in 2012. It’s a funny image, but it’s nonetheless a disconnect. Or is it?

I arrived at the hospital on time – 7:30AM sharp – just like they told me to. I had no coffee in me, so the fact that I was standing up at all and not sleeping on a waiting room sofa was a miracle in and of itself.

The receptionist greeted me with a cheery smile too bright for that time of day and noted that everything was “all systems go” for surgery. That was going happen at 10:30AM.

(So, why did I have to get here at this hour again?)

The prep staff performed like clockwork – I was whisked to a “pre-screening” room where they surgically removed $150-bucks from my wallet to cover the hospital co-pay and then a very nice lady in a business suit entered all of my personal insurance information, living will, emergency contacts, and shoe size into the data base.

I was only kidding about the shoe size… wanted to see if you were still paying attention.

But that was only the beginning…

From there – the pre-screening room – they took me straight to pre-op. Now the only thing I know about pre-op I learned from watching the hit TV show M*A*S*H. Not much, I guess? I was stripped naked and in a hospital gown faster than Napoleon said, “I surrender!” (Cheap shot, I know.)

That’s another thing… the hospital gown.

When I had my heart attack less than a month ago, it took two – count ’em two – gowns to cover my big pale keester. I wore one forward and one (thank God) backwards too. This time they gave me one and it wrapped around me four times. I know I’ve lost some weight, but I looked like someone the mob planned to dump into the river after a hit. Sorry, got my Chicago showing. But man… this thing could have covered a wagon.

(Seriously! Do I have to wear this? And how’s the surgeon gonna find my heart in here?)

Well, he found it alright – I spent the next twelve hours wrapped in a king sized bed sheet and was hangin’ out all over the place, because it kept falling off. Thanks a lot y’all!

Anyway, I was thinking about all the jokes I cracked about the Cardiologist the last time I was lying around in the hospital waiting for him to visit:

“The Doctor is running a little behind schedule today, sir.” The nurse told me in a bright but ever so apologetic voice.

I snarked back, “Bet he has to finish the back nine first, huh?”

(Oh, God. Please don’t let the nurse tell him I said that – he’ll pull the plug on me for sure. He’ll put tiny flags on all eighteen holes he drills into my heart. She’s probably texting him right now: “You’re not gonna believe what your wise guy patient said about you, Doctor? No! No! Let him lie here a while, he’ll be fine. It’s forty-degrees in the O-R right now. And he’s wearing a sheet! Ha! Ha!” I sure hope he gets a hole-in-one today. Ugh!)

It was raining out and no golf was going to be played. Well, the Doctor surely was going to play through a few holes in me. He walked into the operating room just as the team was preparing me for surgery.

(No golf jokes today – I promise!)

He shook my hand and said, “Are you ready for this?”

I don’t know if you ever had surgery, but this is all very new to me. Last time I went “under the knife” (Do they even say that anymore?) they did some kind of a ceremonial dance around a camp fire, sacrificed a live chicken, and bled me with a leech. Really, it was a long, long time ago – I was about five years old.

I liked all the high-tech stuff, but did it have to be so cold? I think I saw a side of beef hanging in the corner? Oh, maybe that was the Anesthetist? They had begun sending drugs my way and I was beginning to get a bit fuzzy.

Doc excused himself to “go scrub” and one of the nurses said, “Okay, get his music going.”

(Music? I like music. Can they play music and still operate? Won’t they get distracted? Oh, who cares. I feel pretty darn good right now and… Ah!!!)

Then they cranked it with some solid bass reflex to shake me awake for just a few seconds more.

(Waterloo? They’re playing… ABBA. Noooooooooo!)

I told you it’d all come together.

Then I belted out uncontrollably, “The Doctor likes ABBA?! Bah ha!”

He can’t be serious?

My shrill couldn’t have been any more condescending if I wanted it to be. The Anesthetist leaned over and said, “ABBA calms Doctor down when he operates and we want Doctor to be calm today, right?”

Well, since you put it that way. As a matter of fact, yes I do.

All’s well that ends well, I guess? Unless you’re Napoleon.

Speaking of surrender…

Our will as human beings can be something we cling to with tight fists and a closed heart. I know that I have always been “strong-willed” as it were. But unless we turn our lives over to God we can’t get away from the shackles of this life. And there are many things that bind us, whether we chose to admit it, or not.

I spent a long time insisting my own way. I thought I could do it all. I gave God a bit part in the story that is my life and I took-off with a reckless abandon that only a drunk with no compass heading out into the wilderness in a storm could have had. I was lost and in big trouble in no time at all – didn’t know it either. Duh!

God has roped me in. He has addressed every corner of my life, on His time, with His amazing Grace, and for His good. He told us all that He would.

For a long time I knew I had it right. Boy, was I wrong about that! I was losing the fight. Then I surrendered to God’s will and it all started to move in the right direction. The four-year metamorphosis has changed me in so many ways. And all I did was give it to God.

Some of you might think that all this sounds hokey, or sentimental, or “too religious” for you. I did surrender my will to God though and He has changed me completely.

Four years ago I lost my job, I lost my health insurance, I lost my dignity, I lost friends… I suffered great financial losses too, duked it out with the IRS, fell into debt, and had to search for work – a fifty year old man – during arguably the worst economic times since The Great Depression.

I knew that I suffered from out of control type II diabetes and yet I let it slide. What I did not know was the surprise my heart had in store, slowly creeping-up on me. It knocked me down last month with a force I had never experienced in my whole life.

I thrive today in a brand new career, with good health care, and the debt monkeys are off my back. I can’t imagine life without my students, my church family, and some of the new friends I’ve met along the way. I also have renewed relationships that began years ago, when I was a different guy. Today I can see those relationships more clearly and eternally.

I thank God for it all. To surrender to His will for my life was the best choice I ever made. It was a forever choice. I am forever grateful for what He has done and what He continues to do for me. I am blessed.

How’s that for the bright side?

I know it’s normal to be depressed after going through what I’ve gone through. Even the doctors and nurses at the hospital told me this. Buy hey, they also listen to ABBA.

Here I Go Again

I stood-up today, looked down at the floor, and saw my feet. My size 13 quad-E’s were right down there at the ends – one each – of my legs (which I could also see, but I didn’t want to brag about it).

You may be asking yourself, “Why in the world is this such an important event?” I mean, you can probably see your feet too, right? Well, a few short weeks ago, I couldn’t. Not without some sort of reflective device (like a shoe store mirror) on the floor in front of me. Stop laughing!

It’s true. I was indeed round and anything below “the equator” (as it were) was definitely out of sight and out of mind. Heck, Christopher Columbus wouldn’t have even had to take the ship out of dry dock with me around to prove his point:

“Round? You bet! Just look at this…”

But now I have lost – at last count – fourteen pounds. It may be more than that, but I have not been near an interstate weigh station in a few days. My rings keep falling off though – that’s a good sign.

As I continue to melt, I feel stronger. I feel better. I feel younger. Okay, I know, I’m really pushing it now. It’s true though, even if I won’t run a 5-K any time soon. Just know I’m running it in my brain as we speak. Tomorrow: hurdles!

Actually, tomorrow I get to relive the events of May 16th (see my post “Sacred Heart” for more details) all over again. Except I’ll be doing it all without having a heart attack this time around. Thank God for that! But as far as the heart surgery goes, it’ll be a complete rerun. At least that’s what the Cardiologist told me.

He said, “Are you ready for a repeat performance?” Uh… no! Do I have to?

The worst part of it will be lying around the hospital recovering afterwards. In May I had to lie on my back, stiff as a board, for nine hours. This was because I had to wait for my pressure to drop and my blood to clot. That way they could remove the catheter from my thigh without all of my blood leaking out. I guess that wouldn’t have been such a good thing?

That’s another fun story in and of itself…

My overnight nurse was very easy on the eyes. Honestly, she was quite stunning. In fact, all of my nurses were good motivation to really take my time healing, if you catch the way I’ve drifted? I had to text message my best friend up in Chicago to gloat, because when he had back surgery a few years ago, he was treated to a nursing staff that resembled the offensive line of the Washington Redskins. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

But I was really enjoying the whole fawning over the old guy thing until she came into my room to inform me that she would be the one removing the catheter (from my groin area) and that she’d have to put her entire body weight on top of me – on top of the wound – for at least a full thirty minutes.

She said, “I have to make sure the wound clots properly, so I’ll be pushing as hard as I can against you to…” Sorry, I lost track about there.

Say you have to do what? Are you even gonna buy me dinner first?

You know, there have been times in my life when all that she said would have been really great news to me. This wasn’t one of those times.

She did exactly what she said she was going to do. I hated every millisecond of that thirty-hours, uh… I mean, minutes. And can I just move-on with my life please!

Not yet…

So, here I go again! Back into the hospital. Back to the operating room. And yes, another catheter. Ah… So many nurses, so little time. Okay. Give me a break! I was on a lot of morphine at the time.

I have had a lot of time to think about… stuff… since my first heart surgery twenty-seven days ago. Stuff like friends, family, my church family, my work family, my students, and all that has happened to me not only since the heart attack, not just since November of 2007 when I became a New Creation, but my whole life. I have been able to see God’s love shining through it all. I have been blessed all along the way – even if I never knew it at any given moment – I know it now.

A lot of folks dwell on the negatives of life, but that route is so defeating. God doesn’t promise a smooth ride, or a safe journey. To expect it is a let-down. He also doesn’t cause tragedy, illness, failure, or natural disaster. So many preach it, but that thinking isn’t supported by the Word. Bad things happen to good people. God happens to us all!

We all face the impossible. We are all challenged in our lives. There’s no way around it. But God does promise a safe landing. He promises something else – to be there with us every step of the way. He is here and I am here to tell you all that He won’t let you go through it alone. He just won’t!

So, on that note, no matter what goes-down tomorrow in the operating room, I will

My band Strings of Faith played last Sunday. Fun, fun fun!

carry-on as a New Creation and a witness for the Lord, that He is good, all the time. He is with us all the time. And He will be with me from the surgeon’s first cut, until my new overnight nurse is clotting the catheter incision Tuesday night. I pray she isn’t an offensive tackle. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

I know I’ll be thinking of my blessed new life and how much it has meant for me to be a part of God’s plan. He is the vine; we are the branches. And I am so grateful.

I’m also grateful for being able to see anew. My feet are not the only things I have seen for the first time lately. Like fumbling around in the dark looking for the car keys, it’s so much easier when you turn on a light. Only in this case, God’s light shines on the world and allows for a whole new point of view.

See you in a few days!

Love, Bob.

There’s another world inside of me
That you may never see
There are secrets in this life
That I can’t hide
Somewhere in this darkness
There’s a light that I can’t find
Maybe it’s too far away
Or maybe I’m just blind

When your education X-Ray
Cannot see under my skin
I won’t tell you a damn thing
That I could not tell my friends
Roaming through this darkness
I’m alive but I’m alone
Part of me is fighting this
But part of me is gone

So hold me when I’m here
Right me when I’m wrong
Hold me when I’m scared
And love me when I’m gone
Everything I am
And everything in me
Wants to be the one
You wanted me to be
I’ll never let you down
Even if I could
I’d give up everything
If only for your good
So hold me when I’m here
Right me when I’m wrong
You can hold me when I’m scared…
So love me when I’m gone

– 3 Doors Down

Sacred Heart

Today the grass was a little more green; the sky seemed a little more blue; the air felt a little more life-giving. I stepped out of my door to greet the day and felt so alive that I couldn’t help a smile on my face. I looked up to Heaven and said “thank you” to the God who made this and every day for me the last fifty-one years.

I had been released from the cardiac center a survivor only twenty hours before.

I survived a major heart attack.

I collapsed at work, took a ride in an ambulance that I thought would be my last, tasted the artificial sweet of nitro under my tongue three times on the way to the ER, wondered how near death was, knew that it wasn’t far, saw the EKG scratching my erratic heart rhythms on the scroll of paper in front of me, heard the hospital calling to “give him another dose” of nitro, could see the hospital just one block away through the window of the ambulance, wondered if I’d make it there alive, saw the driver open the door, rode a bumpy gurney ride out of the daylight and into the blinding florescent lamplight inside, had my clothes and shoes and jewelry ripped from my body, lay naked and helpless while four people pulled me off of the stretcher and onto a table, felt pokes and pricks and prods as the trauma team prepped me for heart surgery, felt sticky cold heart monitor leads attached to my skin.

I was whisked away towards the operating room, saw my Mom and Dad in the hall, thought I’d never see them again, watched the robotic x-ray camera hovering above my rib cage project images of the inside of my heart onto three giant flat screen TV monitors, thought that was pretty cool, heard the Cardiologist crack a joke to his assistants during what seemed to be a delicate moment with my life in his hands, wondered if he was really taking this seriously, cracked a joke back that surprised the team working on me (they thought I was asleep), felt the surgeon’s instrument follow a narrow path through a catheter in my leg all the way to my chest cavity and into my heart (“No. Just processing what you said.” I replied.), marveled that I was awake and watching/feeling the skilled hands and technology at work inside my body (they all laughed), prayed that I would be okay, hoped to see another day, heard the words “it went very well” through my worry, thought about Jesus and what I’d say when I got to meet Him, spent the next thirty hours recovering in the ICU, and then moved to a private room where my every breath was monitored as if it were my last.

Fortunately, none were my last and I was presented back into the world as one who had just dueled with death – and won – this time.

So this new day, today, may seem more beautiful than all the other 18,615 days that went before, but that is how I see it. And that’s how it is for me now.

When my boss came to visit me in the ICU, all the nurses were telling her what a “cool guy” I am. Not that I’d disagree with that sentiment ; ) But they were amazed at my positive get up and go attitude so soon after a major heart attack.

Heck, to be honest with you, I was pretty happy to still be above ground. It didn’t look too good on the ambulance ride over, that’s for sure.

They told me later that typically folks get really depressed after a major life-threatening event like a heart attack. I can understand that.

It’s just the opposite for me during times of great despair. At least it’s different for me now than it was before I was born again. But I had to learn how to trust God. It wasn’t always like that for me and I do understand the other point of view in an intimate way.

When I lost my job four years ago I came unglued at first. But God was right there beside me saying, “This won’t be easy, but I’m with you all the way.” He never abandoned me and He gave me the strength to accomplish what I never could have accomplished by myself.

I have had a few “wake-up calls” since then. This new challenge is just another mile marker on the road to God’s Glory. I actually felt much better emotionally in the days after my heart attack, than I did the day before. It’s a miracle, I know.

Miracles are to be expected!

I have God and all of His angels (the people who wrote, called, visited, cooked, and prayed for me) to thank for my positive attitude. Because they were with me, I was able to see God working in my life. His presence was all around me. And through Him, all things are possible – yes, even miracles.

I have gone through many changes since I became a New Creation. I have been challenged. All of this has been good for me. It has taken me away from the darkness of sinful behavior and put me onto God’s lighted path. The tragedies and hardships and afflictions have without exception been part of the journey to a better place. I have grown for all of it. Each experience with adversity, whether it was a job loss, death of a loved one, an unhealthy relationship, illness, or bad behavior, has helped me to understand that we do not please God when we ignore (or try to justify) our sins. He is pleased when we acknowledge them, when we turn away from them, when we repent. I have been so blessed and it is because I have done the 180.

God says that our bodies are a temple. I have let my temple run-down, become sick, unhealthy, out of shape, and therefore not God pleasing. There’s much to be learned from this experience for me. Like I have chosen to be a better steward with money (and God has certainly rewarded me in many ways for that life change), so too must I become a better keeper of the one life and one body that God has given me.

I don’t know how I’ll do it yet? Yes I do! I will pray.

Prayer has helped me before. It helped me build a new career out of the ashes of my former life. It comforted me in hard times and in lonely times and in times of great fear and anxiety. It helped me overcome the adversary’s hold. Prayer has been the calm in the storm; it has led me to finally do the right thing, when all my life I have been so bad at that. And it will help me rebuild my temple – stronger, healthier, and even more committed to God’s purpose for me.

I have always been a tough customer – one who will not go down without a fight. The heart attack may have knocked me down, but it won’t keep me down. I am determined to get back up. Heck, I was doing laps around the nurses’ station twenty-four hours after my surgery.

I’m confident that all of my brothers and sisters in Christ will stand with me shoulder-to-shoulder to greet every new day with the joy that Jesus Christ has put in all of our hearts.

He’ll put it in your heart too – if you let Him.

To God be the Glory!

“The old ones speak of winter
The young ones praise the sun
And time just slips away

Running into nowhere
Turning like a wheel
And a year becomes a day

Whenever we dream
That’s when we fly
So here is a dream
For just you and I

We’ll find the Sacred Heart
Somewhere bleeding in the night
Look for the light
And find the Sacred Heart…

Oh, sometimes you never fall
And ah – You’re the lucky one
But oh – Sometimes you want it all
You’ve got to reach for the sun

And find the Sacred Heart
Somewhere bleeding in the night
Oh look to the light…

You fight to kill the dragon
And bargain with the beast
And sail into a sight

You’ll run along the rainbow
And never leave the ground
And still you don’t know why

Whenever you dream
You’re holding the key
I opens the door
To let you be free

And find the Sacred Heart
Somewhere bleeding in the night
Run for the light
And you’ll find the Sacred Heart”

Ronnie James Dio

______________________________

The Sacred Heart (also known as Most Sacred Heart of Jesus) is one of the most famous religious devotions to Jesus’ physical heart as the representation of his divine love for humanity.

God Speaks; I’m Listening.

When I first opened my eyes Monday morning I knew that it would be a day unlike most. For one thing, it was the day I’d be saying goodbye to a dear friend who died one week before – unexpectedly. Cora was a special soul and my church family was set to gather for her memorial service in the afternoon. But I still had to go through the motions of a half-day at work, even though my heart really wasn’t into it.

Just then, the snooze alarm woke me up – again – ten minutes later, telling me to, “Wake up slacker!” Okay! I got it.

Off then to work, gazing at a gloomy morning through a dirty bus window in mourning for a dear friend and walking through the proverbial “to do list” in my mind. I wanted to turn it all over to the substitute a smooth-running flawless learning machine. (By the way, I’m a special education school teacher.)

I got the kids off the busses at 9:05 am and we headed to breakfast.

On the way I was still thinking, “Attendance: check! Lesson plans: check-a-rooney! Note to sub explaining the afternoon’s activities in great detail: check again! Wow! I wish I could have it all together like this when I’m here all day… If only!”

At 9:20 am the first period bell sounded. That’s usually the signal for us to gobble-up the rest of the vittles and then head to our room for “morning meeting.”

For my kids, morning meetings consist of enthusiastically welcoming the new school day by posting the daily calendar, running through the days of the week, months of the year, counting to whatever day it happens to be. Monday was the 19th of March – considerably more ground to cover than way back when it was March 3rd, but time does fly. Counting all the way to the 31st will be a bumpy ride indeed.

I’m usually in my room during our morning meetings, and for all the daily activities, so when general ed students occasionally approach me to say, “You have so much fun in your class!” I generally agree, but I never really understood what an objective outside-my-classroom observer meant by that – until Monday.

I had to excuse myself temporarily and left my assistant in charge. Five minutes later I came out of the main office door (a considerable distance – and around a corner – from my classroom) and heard our typical “morning meeting” already in progress echoing through the vacant school halls. And I must say, boy was it swingin’!!!

I could hear the days of the week, counting to 19 (a great accomplishment, as I have already pointed out), months of the year, identification of pictures associated with the calendar holidays, and most of all, I heard the loud and proud cheers of encouragement that my students have learned to share with one another from day one, in order that they all should feel good about every accomplishment they make – and recognize one another for those accomplishments.

I stood and listened for five minutes in total amazement at what I have been a part of every day for seven months, but never really heard from an outsider’s perspective.

And are you wondering why this audio image hit me so hard? Well, it could have been the fact that, out of nine students who started the school year in my classroom, way back in August, only three could speak recognizable words – only these same three offered to make any real sound at all. The others were silent, except for occasional brief unrelated-to-anything-else sounds, or crying tantrums.

That was back in August.

The reality that eight out of nine of my students use words regularly now (and the ninth uses sounds in a more purposeful way – i.e. to get something, or communicate wants and needs and emotions), was not lost on one of those people who have been working very diligently to get the voices singing. No, it wasn’t lost on me at all.

In fact, to say that God was speaking to me through my kids’ voices on a morning I needed so badly to hear from Him, just goes to show how in tune He really is with us all – every second of every day.

How is this possible? Because He’s God, that’s the only explanation I have.

Cora’s passing left a hole in the world – a hole in my world too. Through my kids, God let me know that my work here is important – that I need to carry on until I am called home. I have a purpose greater than self and that is my hole to fill. He let me know, even though I had to say goodbye to Cora, everything is going to be okay, because He’s in control.

It’s comforting to know that, considering I still feel like crying about every thirty seconds. It’s a bitter pill, but through my kids God said, “Tomorrow will be a better day and the day after will be better still.”

God Speaks; I’m listening.

So, there I was, sitting in the choir risers, high upon the chancel with about sixty others, overlooking the sanctuary filled with about six-hundred guests, ready to sing Cora’s farewell.

We all wore white robes with beautiful silky white stoles around our necks. I couldn’t believe how heavy it was – the robe – not made of a flimsy material at all. I felt elegant, angelic almost. But then I got hot and started to sweat as I am known to do in any situation where the temperature rises above fifty-five degrees.

I’m a Chicago boy. What can I tell you? Collar and sleeves are not an option usually, even where snow is a concern, but I was wrapped to the wrists and tripped up the stairs from the choir room to the chancel on the long train like I was wearing a prom gown and high heels for the very first time.

I was very nervous sitting there waiting to sing, which didn’t help the blast furnace I had going on under my robe any. I am not a member of either choir, but was invited to join in the voices anyway. I was thrilled and wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

I don’t sing. I play bass in the praise band and the running joke (at least I think it’s a joke) is that the Music Director won’t let me have a microphone. She was seated straight across from me and I tried hard not to catch her eye out of fear she’d come over and tell me to, “Just move your lips, Bob… no one will know you aren’t making a sound.”

We all stood to sing Cora’s anthem and it was wonderful. From my place I could see the family, but I tried not to look there too much. I found comfort in the baptism candle, which stood tall next to the baptism font only a few yards in front of me. Lit only for baptisms, Easter, and funerals, the candle made me feel Cora’s presence. I’m sure she was pleased to see me there within the ranks of not one, but two really good choirs. She’d probably say that it took real “chutzpah” to pull it off. Yeah, I think she’d use a word like that to describe it?

I looked around the big sanctuary. It was full of my church family mostly. Yeah, it could have been broken-down into individual family units, but it wasn’t like that for me. I’m an only child from a family that could never have been considered close. No, that’s not the word I’d use anyway.

So, when I looked out there it was all family to me. And although most of them will never know how much they mean to me, the fact that we were all there together to say goodbye to Cora made them even more important in my eyes – infinitely more important.

...all the time. And all the time, God is good.

I heard God speaking again during the service. He said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”

His grace resonated in the hymns, in the scriptures read, in the enormous sound of the pipe organ, and in the Pastor’s voice. I heard Him comforting us, cleansing us, telling us to move forward, even though we felt so much pain on that day. I heard Him say that everything was going to be alright.

I know one thing’s for sure… I believe every word.

A Glimpse of Home

“Life is a luminous pause between two great mysteries, which themselves are one.” – from Homer’s Odessey

In adult Bible study today we discussed “home” and “homesickness” as these terms relate to our perception of, and perhaps position within, our own life and relationship with God. We each were asked to present an example of “home” as we remember it from our childhood. This would turn out to be an exercise that would evidently point each one of us in two opposing directions at the same time.

The first direction would be a look backwards at the beginning of life and a search for union, love, belonging, and home. Perhaps, as the required text put it, “the foundational seed of a possible and ideal paradise.”

The second direction, of course, would be looking forward. Our one memory of “home” would serve each of us as an inner compass or “homing device” always pointing forward.

With this “device” planted within us, “the end is in the beginning, and the beginning points toward the end.” We all yearn for home, as even a child with an abusive or sad childhood longs for some idealized form of “home” or “mother” and wants to somehow return to it.

My mind instantly took me to the dining table on Christmas Eve – December 24th, 1960 something? I don’t know how old I was in the flash of a memory? Probably around eight years of age (that would make it 1968), as my parents had just moved into their “dream house” in Darien, Illinois on Halloween less than two months before. I could see into the living room from my dinner chair, all the presents carefully placed under the large fake green tree with anticipation and love. That’s what I saw anyway.

I knew this wasn’t our old house, mostly because we had a fake white tree over there – with one of those funky spinning color wheels that would turn the tree blue, green, and red about every thirty seconds. I liked the way it turned the walls, ceiling, drapes, carpet, people, dog, furniture, and snow outside the window different colors too.

What did I know? I was just a baby.

OMG! That's the one.

I think we even had one of those aluminum Christmas trees at some point in our old house, but don’t quote me on it. I was either too young back then to recall for sure, or I am drawing a blank now because of the embarrassment over the possibility that we would fall victim to such a pitiful mistake of fashion. “Tree by Reynolds Wrap.” Bleeeech! No wonder we had to move.

The Christmas trees, however, were not why this particular memory came to me so quickly, while I was being pressed to come up with a childhood image of “home” in my Bible study class this morning. No, not even toy race cars, choo choo trains, trikes, bikes, soldiers, cowboy pistols (save the NRA comments please), or favorite games pierced the cobwebs of my aging mind like the vision of that dining table did so effortlessly and with clarity.

Do you remember by your sense of smell? Yeah. Me too!

Every once in a while I get a whiff of that Christmas Eve meal; it takes me right back to the kitchen where my grandmother (mom’s mother) prepared every holiday meal throughout my whole life, until I was in my twenties and she passed away. I never thought I’d miss the commotion and fit my father would throw every time he had to carve the hot turkey. (He still pitches that same fit, but I intervene when I can and carve it myself – no angst, it’s just a hot bird. You dig?)

But I do miss it! I missed it when the table popped into my head again this morning. I miss the smell of it.

Mom was at one end of a seemingly endless red tablecloth; red linen napkins, our best silver and china, and crystal wine goblets provided a forest of shiny things reflecting the lit candles in the center of the table, semi-blocking a view of my dad way down at the other end. The food my grandmother, Helmi, had been preparing for days was strategically set all around steaming in pretty serving dishes and I know for a fact that I just wanted to get past grace and the obligatory Christmas Eve toast fast, so that I could dig in – to the gifts.

Grandpa (my dad’s dad) always had the honor of giving that toast. I don’t know why? Maybe it was some ancient patriarchal custom, or maybe that he wanted to get it over with too, so that we could get to the vittles? Whatever the reason, he was selected year-in-and-year-out to say a few words of wisdom.

I’m fuzzy over his exact words, as “some” years have since gone under the memory bridge, but with lifted wine glass he would make a similar – no exactly the same – offering every year:

“Another year has come and gone, let’s be thankful we are all sitting around this table once again.”

I wanted so badly to wolf-down my food and then rip-open the gifts. Grrrrr! It was the longest meal of the year for me.

My grandmother, the chef, died in 1989. My grandfather shortly thereafter. The details are not important. She broke a hip in 1988, spent a whole year recovering. A few days after she finally made it home from the nursing center, she broke the other hip and did not recover from the pneumonia that developed. Near the end, grandpa George had Alzheimer’s and a pretty bad case of Emphysema (from smoking two packs of filterless Camels since he was a young boy).

They left this world pretty close together. Apparently he missed her cooking? I know the feeling.

You know, up until the last time they were together, they would address one another as “Mrs. Kaal” and “Mr. Chochola.” I don’t believe we have anywhere close to that degree of respect and decorum left in this world right now. Seems some of that died with them too?

The Christmas Eve dinner table guests left one-by-one until it didn’t really look like Christmas Eve to me any more. For a long time I pretended to not care that holidays felt so different, so empty, or that I had to work. That was actually a relief. I stood tough as cousins moved away and started families of their own. My dad’s family was never very close and when grandpa was gone, so too was the force that brought that side of the family together.

On mom’s side there wasn’t anyone but mom and my grandmother to begin with. They barely escaped Estonia through Nazi Germany during World War II and came to America just the two of them. My grandfather on my mom’s side had died when she was a small child and everyone else, except for a few friends, didn’t make it out.

That old memory I’ve been keeping tucked-away and out of sight really blew my mind this morning. From out of nowhere, there I was, eight years old again. It really bore a striking resemblance to Leonardo da Vinci‘s The Last Supper (Italian: Il Cenacolo or L’Ultima Cena). It also reminded me of the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper that I celebrate with my church family. And that really made me smile.

For many years I have had this horrible empty feeling like the past is gone and I cannot get it back. I’d miss those days when I could see, touch, and smell the sensations of family – of the union, love, belonging, and home.

That’s what the Holy Spirit has given back to me through my church family. Folks probably wonder why I always sit up front. But I like to watch every part of every service (especially the Lord’s Supper) from a front row seat, simply because I don’t want to miss anything. I take it all in with delight like I’m eight years old again and really cannot get over how moved I am to watch the faces coming forward. God feeding His people and I want to be right there to see it all unfold. Is that a bad thing?

Suddenly I am at the table once again – a foretaste of things to come. In many ways that’s what the Christmas Eve dinner table was so many years ago. I know it now. It was a foretaste of the Lord’s Table with grandpa George and grandma Helmi, with my church family, and with all of God’s children.

It’s a beautiful thought isn’t it? It’ll be a beautiful reality when our “two great mysteries, which themselves are one” come together with God at His table. I know “Mrs. Kaal”  wiil be there – probably cooking if she has any say in the matter. And “Mr. Chochola” will most certainly greet us with a toast.

Until that day, may we all maintain the seed that points to an eternal paradise in our hearts and in our memories.

Amen!

Life After “Deathly Hollows”

I just returned home from the movie theater. Got to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows with some of my church family. I certainly have nothing but good things to say about the film and highly recommend it for everyone. If you are looking for a great movie, this is it. But buy your tickets in advance – theaters are packed.

Hollywood has produced some real crap over the years – never so much crap as in the last 10-15 years, or so. But Harry is the one bright spot behind which all the freaks, dorks, dweebs, and bozos in tinsel town can hide their shame.

You’d think they would learn a lesson? I mean, most films these days are box office flops by the time you take into consideration how much money they spend on production and salaries. And the pain of it is that all they seem to produce are re-makes of old movies, or worse, old TV shows. Hollywood really hasn’t had many fresh ideas in a very long time. And the multiple part serial torture they put movie goers through is the worst.

Then along comes Harry Potter. Harry has grossed 6.4 billion dollars at the box office to date and that number was released two days before this latest installment’s opening weekend. Duh! What other evidence is there that folks are looking for good entertainment, fresh ideas, solid writing, and something more than lots of special effects and macho “heroes” spewing the F-bomb every other script line?

What makes this film series so different from the rest of the garbage cinema we normally get, other than the fact that there is no gratuitous sex, violence, or profanity, is that the whole Harry Potter sensation stands tall on its artistic prowess. Good art is hard to find nowadays, especially at the movie theater. Not in this case, however.

Twilight is on Harry’s heels to capture lightning in a bottle one more time, but I have serious doubts about pulp fiction having any lasting impact like Rowlings’ work. Rowlings penned a good story – the rest took care of itself. The copy cats are nothing but cookie-cutter impostors coming to cash in.

J. K. Rowlings, otherwise known as the 6-billion-dollar woman, proves she is worth every penny that she has earned by penning the book series that turned two generations of strict non-readers (my middle schoolers would rather wrestle a hungry alligator than a novel and most of their parents are the same way) into rabid – I mean rabid – readers. She really deserves credit for doing what I thought could not be done.

This series is on par with many great works of fiction too. Rowlings’ Harry Potter books have been compared to the likes of C. S. Lewis, which makes her in pretty good literary company.

On the film and merchandising front, Ms Rowlings gets 10% of the gross. And that’ll add up to more money than… well, when I think of anyone to compare her to, I’ll get back to you.

Harry Potter was a superb book series and a rare work of genius as far as Hollywierd is concerned. They’ll never do it again – unless Rowlings writes more books.

Here’s a pretty good review of the last Harry Potter – Deathly Hollows – which opens in theaters this weekend.

Go see it!!! You won’t be disappointed.

Memento Harry 
Lessons from the final Potter film.

EDITOR’S NOTE: This review contains spoilers.

There has never been anything quite like J. K Rowling’s Harry Potter, the hero of a hugely popular series of seven books followed by a successful set of eight movies. The decision to split the last book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, into two films turns out to have been a wise one. While part one, which ended abruptly after covering two-thirds of the material from the book, was somewhat anticlimactic, part two is a lean and dramatically satisfying finale. Director David Yates, who has been at the helm for the last three books in the series, and screenwriter Steve Kloves, who has penned all but one of the film scripts, move effortlessly between the large and the small, between grand battle scenes and moments of intimate, human interaction. The special effects are dazzling and the human drama gripping. The film also strikes a nice balance between the serious and the humorous, between tragedy and comedy.

In an age of increasingly decentralized media, in which sub-cultures of interest in TV shows, films, and music abound, Harry Potter is the common, unifying cultural marker for individuals between the ages of ten and 30, and perhaps well beyond that age. If the fictional characters and story-lines are woven into popular culture, the actors are equally well known, particularly those who play the three main characters: Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe), Hermione Granger (Emma Watson), and Ron Weasley (Rupert Grint). All three give fine performances in the last film, as do Ralph Fiennes as Lord Voldemort, Gary Oldman as Sirius Black, and Matthew Lewis as Neville Longbottom. The battle for, and at, Hogwarts, whose culmination is the ultimate faceoff between Harry and his nemesis, Voldemort, allows for the return of a host of well-known characters, all of whom are aware of what is at stake.

Given the malevolence of Voldemort, the books become darker as the story progresses. Particularly in Deathly Hallows and its immediate predecessor, Half-Blood Prince, deaths of major characters occur. Beyond her creation of memorable characters and plots, Rowling has crafted a mythical universe where remembering and preparing for death are central virtues. She revives the medieval theme of memento mori, the virtuous cultivation of the memory of death, as a counter to modernity’s vacillation between unhealthy obsession with and tragic forgetfulness of death.

This theme is powerfully coupled with repeated illustrations of (a) the unnaturalness of the project of overcoming death and (b) the way the practice of evil, murderous arts destroys the practitioner. In Half-Blood Prince, Dumbledore informs Harry that Voldemort’s pursuit of immortality has “mutilated” his “soul beyond the realm of what we might call usual evil.”

The contrast between Harry and Voldemort’s approach to death is palpable. The opening of Yates’s Deathly Hallows Part Two finds Harry and Voldemort occupied in two quite different activities. Harry, refusing to use magic, is physically digging the grave of his friend Dobby, the loyal house-elf who gave his life defending Harry.

Meanwhile, in an act of desecration of the dead, Voldemort is stealing the Elder Wand from the grave of Albus Dumbledore. At various points in the story, the Elder Wand is cited as one of three components (along with the Cloak of Invisibility and the Resurrection Stone) of the Deathly Hallows, the possession of which is believed to make one a “master of death” — the object of Voldemort’s quest.

At the center of Voldemort’s search is his performance of the darkest of dark arts: the creation of horcruxes, which preserve splintered pieces of his immortal soul, and which can only be created by committing murder. As Harry and his pals seek to discover and destroy the horcruxes, the only way that Voldemort himself will die, Voldemort pursues invulnerability and permanent rule over the world of wizards. The scenes featuring the destruction of horcruxes are among the most spectacular in the entire series of films, even as they heighten the dramatic tension and the sense of inevitable, final confrontation.

With threats imminent, there is no longer room for self-pity or teen angst — elements that were tiresomely common in the middle, overly long books in the series. Friendships deepen and in some cases blossom into love; the film contains two brief (and very nicely scripted) moments of passion, one between Ron and Hermione and another between Harry and Ginny. But this film is about what the books and previous films have always been essentially about: the practice of the virtues of friendship, loyalty, courage, and leadership.

In the midst of battle, there are revelations, small and large. We learn about the courage of Mrs. Weasley and Neville Longbottom, though Yates prunes important elements from Rowling’s version of their stories. Matthew Lewis is just right as Longbottom, capturing Harry’s rather plain and self-effacing classmate, who in the final film best combines valor and wit.

But the big revelations involve Snape and Dumbledore. The greatest reversal in the estimation of a major character in the entire series concerns Snape, who has throughout appeared to be Harry’s enemy and the Dark Lord’s servant. Realizing that Snape is of more use to him dead than alive, Voldemort bluntly informs him that his services are no longer needed, stuns him with his wand, and sets his snake, Nagini, to feed on him. Harry, Hermione, and Ron arrive just as this brutal murder begins. With Voldemort and Nagani departed, Harry finds Snape within seconds of his death. A tear falls from Snape’s eye, and he tells Harry to store the tear and take it to the Pensieve, a device for uncovering memories. As Harry captures the tear, Snape’s last words are, “You have your mother’s eyes.” Using the Pensieve, Harry learns the truth about Snape’s deception, not of him or Dumbledore, but of Voldemort. Snape had in fact vowed to protect Harry, out of his love for Harry’s mother, Lily, even as he elicited from Dumbledore the promise “never to reveal the best” of Snape to Harry. The revelation enables viewers to re-think the entire arc of the epic series, to see the plot from Snape’s vantage point.

A further revelation concerns the afterlife. Injured by Voldemort, Harry has a vision of Dumbledore, who reappears in his proper role — a teacher of the young. Harry and his deceased mentor are at King’s Cross, which looks like a cathedral bathed in light. Dumbledore instructs Harry on life and death. The fundamental lesson concerns the true way to conquer death: Do not cling to life but be willing to offer one’s life for the sake of others. This theme in Harry Potter calls to mind C. S. Lewis’s notion in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe of the deeper magic, a magic unknown to those who pursue vengeance and immortality by their own powers. As Wardrobe’s Aslan explains after he returns from the dead, “When a willing victim who had committed no treachery is killed . . .  the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backward.”

Throughout the series, Rowling has stressed the way in which evil, instead of freeing, enslaves; instead of increasing, diminishes. Indeed, after his first attempt to kill Harry, Voldemort becomes a disembodied shell, kept alive only by his horcruxes, a parasite feeding off the blood of innocent unicorns, seeking a body in which to lodge his wandering spirit. In the end, the very devices he chooses to gain absolute control turn against him, in an illustration of another classical teaching, namely, that vice is its own punishment — that it harms and ultimately defeats the perpetrator.

In the course of their final duel, Harry manages to extract the Elder Wand from Voldemort’s clutches. With that, Voldemort is defeated. Harry’s final decision, to destroy the Elder Wand, reiterates a theme that goes back to the first book and the philosopher’s stone, which promises limitless life and wealth. Some of the things men desire most are precisely the things most likely to destroy them. Here Rowling calls to mind, not so much Lewis as Tolkien and the ring of power, whose destruction, rather than use, is the only sure means of fending off evil.

In her description of Harry’s retrieval of the Elder Wand, Rowling writes that he caught the wand “with the unerring skill of a Seeker.” Of course, Seeker is the position Harry plays on Gryffindor’s Quidditch squad. But Harry’s character is also that of the classic seeker, an individual on a quest with personal and social significance, a quest to defend the innocent and fend off evil, a quest for self-knowledge rooted in a profound awareness of mortality. Hooked by the plot of the first book, readers were likely unaware that such a quest could be anything other than morbid. In Rowling’s hands, coming to terms with death is not tragic; instead, it is a comic affirmation of life over death, love over hate, and community over isolation. It is a mark of the success of Yates’s film version that it will lead viewers to feel and affirm the final words of Rowling’s sprawling series: “All was well.”

— Thomas S. Hibbs, an NRO contributor, is the author of Shows about Nothing.