Sharing My Birthday with a National Tragedy

Fifty years ago today, I joined the nation in a time of great consternation.  However, mine was a little different.  My biggest concern was whether I was still going to have my 7^th birthday party. From that day on John F. Kennedy and I have been intrinsically linked, though I barely knew the man. 

Every year, my birthday is colored, at least at some point, by grainy black and white television images of beautiful people riding in cars in Dallas, Texas, in 1963, and the mass chaos suddenly ensuing.  Obviously this year, we’ve been seeing a lot of those images and hearing a lot about the chaos and tragedy that wrenched a nation and changed its course as we mark the 50^th anniversary of JFK’s assassination.

I did have my birthday party.  My parents (wisely, I might add) decided that 7 year olds would not really understand the circumstances that were rocking their parents’ world.  I remember the moments of uncertainty my mother had over the propriety of an immediately post-assassination birthday party. She may have even consulted by phone with other parents.  But, soon, our house was alive with excited 7 year olds, party favors, ice cream and cake.  My world was back on track.

I wonder how many children will share their birthdays with memories of killer tornadoes ripping through Illinois this last week? In many places there is no option for parties to continue.  I saw a video on the news following the typhoon in the Philippines of a mother holding a tiny infant.  The infant had just been born the night before the typhoon hit.  Now, she cradled her newborn in a dark hut without electricity, food or water.  For those, just to be alive is a birthday present.     

We try our best to shield our children from the harsh and tragic realities they can’t possibly understand.  What is most important for our children is fending off some of the depths of pain, injustice and wrenching tragedy that is part and parcel of human life for as long as possible.  Sometimes, we are able to do it successfully, like my parents deciding to continue with my birthday festivities even as one of the greatest tragedies of our nation was unfolding.  For others, it is not so easy or even an option.    

 

Today, I pray that the Pilipino newborn is finding a way by God’s grace to survive, and that all she has accompanying her birthday from year to year are the annual TV newscasts and family stories of the Great Typhoon of 2013 that welcomed her into this bittersweet world.

 

Today, I pray for the children who have lost homes and belongings and security to disasters that rip through their lives, shaping them with fears, convictions, and values for years to come.

 

Today, I pray for the children who have lost loved ones, parents, guardians, and protectors in the midst of tragedy – whether they are presidential families, or  middle class 7 year olds, or those who live in inner-city drug and violence-infested areas, or those in areas of the world prone to war, terror or natural disasters.

 

Today, I pray for the children who suffer from the hands of adults who don’t shield them, and may even perpetrate the tragedies in their lives that will give them wounds to haunt them in their future. I pray that those wounds, by God's grace, will somehow be a source of healing and deepening of compassion, and not just tragic devastation.

 

Today, on my birthday, I am grateful to be alive. Even in such as world as ours, even with its pain and tragedy...it is still a great birthday present.

Practice, Practice, Practice

You know the old joke…a man stopped another man on the streets of New York City – who happened to be a great musician, and asked, “Do you know how to get to Carnegie Hall?”  The musician answered, “Practice, practice, practice!”

 

In my writing, I’ve been focusing lately on the subject of Practice.  I’ve never been very great at doing anything very regularly or repetitively for any length of time.  I’m a big picture kind of person.  I like to take flying leaps from where I’m at to where I want to go…wipe my hands…done.  None of this putzy little step-by-step stuff….at least that’s the way it goes in my mind.  And then I wonder why I’m still sitting in the recliner with little to show after days or weeks.  

 

I just have never been good at daily practice – whether it’s daily devotions and praying, or keeping a daily regimen of exercise, or counting calories.  I can never keep it up long enough to accomplish any goal I might have set for myself.  I’m really good, though,  at
making big decisions, and taking on big projects that I can immerse myself in for an intense period of time and make grand accomplishments.  So I’m not a total couch potato…but it’s pretty hard to write a book or lose 100 lbs in one big intensive push.  It takes the small steps, which really sucks for people like me.  

 

But, actually now I’m learning…step by step.  As I write on practice…I realize that my daily writing IS a practice, and I’m seeing the value of it.  So, I’m also trying to practice other things.  I won’t go into what exactly I’m practicing because it involves more yard
work, and I’ve already written enough about that.

 

Part of the art of practice I’m learning is that it really is okay to only do a little bit each day.   The point isn’t how much or how far I accomplish, the point is that I just do some each day. Duh.  Not a huge revelation, but I have realized that is hard for me.  It’s actually hard to feel okay about stopping after just a bit, when I think I should do more to make it worthwhile.

 

The other lesson that has come to me serendipitously – I don’t claim it as my own wisdom, I actually heard it on one of the morning shows, came from a 90+ year old man who still does double triathlons (I can’t even imagine…!)  When asked how he can possibly keep going for all those miles, he said, “I learned that had to stop listening to myself, and begin talking to myself.  If I listened, I’d hear my body telling me how much it hurts and to stop; but in talking to myself, I keep myself going.”  Wow.  I’m basically a listener, and I guess in this case, that might be the problem!  My body tends to be a pretty narcissistic talker! It tells me in no uncertain terms when I want to eat something, or when I need to stop doing something because it hurts,  or when to stop doing something and eat because, well, it feels bored…or sad…or uncomfortable…or angry in some way.

 

As I was reflecting on this irritating subject of practice, a few nights ago I had a dream.  I dreamt I was at the base of a mountain and my job was to move the mountain.  I felt frustrated and perplexed, but I knew that the only way I could do it was just moving stone by stone (yes, I know…almost cliché, right? – Usually my dreams are a tad more enigmatic than that!)  But then, as I picked up a stone and hoisted it somewhere else, and picked up another, and another, I suddenly uncovered a little grotto-like cave that  contained a altar and sacred statue with candles lit around it. 

 

So, my third lesson about practice I was given through this dream: the value of practice doesn’t necessarily come at the end accomplishment, but there are sacred moments and spaces of holy surprise that are discovered and uncovered in the daily process.