Getting Loose

Very Powerful

Crazy

"This is crazy! This is crazy! This is crazy! This is crazy!"

That’s what she spoke as I talked to her in the chapel just before the general public was to enter. And indeed, she was right. Her husband of just a few years, dead at 36. So senseless. So stupid. So very crazy.

But that is what an addictive disease can do to you. It can make you act crazy. It can make the lives of the people around you that you love the very most, crazy. And it can come to a stark and senseless end. Way before it should have.

There are just no adequate words to say that will make anything better anytime soon. And some people say the most stupid things in an earnest effort at trying to be helpful, when silence and presence would do so very much more.

But my heart went out to her. Two grade school children whose daddy is gone. And though she may never be able to grasp this, though she will always wonder what she could have done differently, she really did do the absolute very best that she knew how to. She went the second mile. And the third mile. And the fourth mile. And the . . .

Sometimes, things in life are just tragic.

Kathryn

You learn a lot when you go to see someone, and just sit and listen. I love doing that very thing.

I had always known her as Kathryn. She has a rather serious look to her face. I know that she has traveled lots of miles so to speak in her journey of life.  She’ll admit it has been a pretty good one for her many decades.

But when she was much younger, she was Kate or Katie. I found that intriguing. All of a sudden a younger girl appeared who was full of life and activities that involved siblings and cousins—never mind whether they were first or second—they were kin and that is all that mattered.

She’s outlived two of the children she helped to rear. She has outlived two of her husbands, and some days are better than others.

She gets frustrated with her inability to precisely call a name or a date or a place, but the older I get, the more I sympathize.

But what really stunned me was that she was a Beckendorf. And that set of dogs is always related to each other through one way or another. Of course the one I knew the best was Harvey Beckendorf, a fellow clergyman. And then I found out there’s another Beckendorf who is pastoring a church in Beaumont under another name. I felt a kinship with her that I had not previously felt.

She was so appreciative of the visit. It made her day. She said, "You know, you can hardly find anyone anymore who cares about what it was like in days gone by."

But that is not me. I love to hear the stories of days gone by. I find myself, the older I get, ruminating around in my mind decades ago, reliving, dissecting, analyzing, wondering, puzzling about events that I feel certain most everyone else has forgotten about.  But somehow they linger brightly in my mind. Why that is so, I don’t really know.

Shantini

She pronounces it SHAWN-t^e-knee’, and I went to take communion to her 90-year-old mother.  Florence was deeply appreciative.  Shantini had been in church last Sunday, but did not want to “bother” me with a request to bring the sacrament to her mom, because I was leaving in just a few days.

 

And so she was very surprised when I unexpectedly showed up on her doorstep.

 

She was very gracious, accommodating, and in a few minutes was able to help her mother down the steps for communion.  We all used the Methodist Worship Book for I had brought three copies with me, and we went through the service for Holy Communion in a home.

 

Afterwards Shantini and I got into a very interesting discussion about Sri Lanka, as that is the family home grounds.  Well, while it may be called Sri Lanka (a Sinhalese name), for hundreds of years, it was called Ceylon.  The island (off the SE coast of India), is beautiful, but after having gained independence from England, the two predominant ethnic groups began to undergo civil turmoil.  The Tamils who tended to be the more educated, and who coalesced in the north and east, had been the ruling class for hundreds of years.  But at independence, the Sinhalese became rulers by sheer force of numbers of ballots at the ballot box, and things began to change precipitously.  Ceylon was thrown out, and Sri Lanka (a Sinhalese name) took its place.  One day, a decree was suddenly made that the Tamil language could no longer be spoken, and overnight most, if not all, Tamil students were kicked out of universities.  The world’s first suicide bombers made their appearance in Sri Lanka. 

 

I had no idea about the turmoil, and wished I had made Shantini’s acquaintance much earlier in my stay to glean more of her perspective.  Shantini’s mother kept interrupting her narrative telling her in Tamil that I was a busy man and had other things to do besides learning this piece of obscure history.  But I loved it, and I thirsted for more of the Shantini's story.  Who knows?  Maybe she might have taught me a little of their alphabet--a very distinctive lettering that I've not seen elsewhere.

 

On another day, Shantini took my partner and me through the Southall section of Ealing—it is like the “Little India” section of London.  There one can find a Punjab flavour of India, that very multi-cultural country, and the Southall section conveys a representative flavour of that part.  As an example, here is the largest Sikh temple outside of India in Southall.   While in Southall, we got some mango,tea, and spices.   

 

Shantini was most gracious, accommodating, and had a very infectious smile and a winsome personality.

Choices

I’m fairly sensitive.  I distinctly remember the first day we were out on the Broadway and New Broadway, wending our way through the teeming people; I could feel the heavy vibrations of some of the people passing us in the street.  The look of anxiousness on their faces, the costs of associated goods and services, the choices having to be made between eating lunch or buying a necessity for the child.  It wasn’t what I thought it was going to be initially.  I’ve not been able to get that heaviness out of my system.

Here Comes the Sun

A long time ago, the threat of fire was a very big deal.  You can imagine why with all of the closely dense population.  Sometimes to stop a fire from spreading, a terraced living quarter that was not burning would be demolished in the path of a blaze as a sort of “break” hoping that the fire would not jump the expanse.

Well, obviously, people might want to insure their building so that at least they would have some recourse to getting back into a residence. (Insuring the contents was a later idea).  Hence the Sun Office.  It was an insurance company that placed these kinds of disks (click on the picture to make it bigger, then click on it again, to zoom in)
up high between the windows of the first floor (to you Yanks, that means the second floor). 

There are tales of where a volunteer fire company might come out to a residence or building and if unable to find the metal disk, would just let it burn.

I wonder.  But I really do not know.

The Ravages of Time

When I was little, I can remember on more than one occasion saying to my mother, "When you get old, I’ll take care of you."

She said, "Oh, I would love it if you did."

* * *

Sometimes it is not easy to willingly go gentle into that good night. Your physical apparatus begins to fail you not by changes in kind, but by changes in degree. A degree here, a couple of degrees there, and before long, you find yourself confused and wandering in a fog surrounded by familiar objects, but lacking a sure way of contextualizing all of them to make sense like they used to make sense.

She still has her ready laugh. She is sharp on the uptake. But there is a wobble in the short term memory. Asking things she had just asked about perhaps 10 minutes ago. Allowing others to do her thinking for her, instead of straining and working the old noodle to figure it out for herself.

"Well, maybe I’ll be where June is before too long."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, what use am I? I can’t do what I used to do. I can’t move around like I used to to make cookies. I’m just not much help in the kitchen." And this is from a woman whose identity was bound up in doing and baking and cooking for others.

And I don’t have a comeback.

I’m not going to give false reassurance, and I listen and sift, and think "Why does she think that?" But then I further think, "If I were in her shoes . . . would I be thinking much differently?" I mean I could come in as the cheerleader and verbigerate at trying to restore one’s confidence, but would I want that done to me?

It’s got to be exasperating. She had so much life and vigor at one point. A workhorse who had unlimited energy, seemingly. Ready to get up and go.

I remember one time my mother-in-law commenting that she did not have half the energy that my mother did. She sat in awe of it.

Mom kept talking about if she only had access to a stove and pots and pans, but then they can’t allow that. Why, what if one of the residents were to leave a burner on. It is too dangerous.

Safety decisions are a killer. How can you take the right pills, if you don’t know what day it is? She can look back and recognize that she is in somewhat of a fog, and it perplexes her. How did it get to be this way?

So she sat a lot and watched and interacted where she could, but the hearing is not all what it used to be either.

We had her for six days, and I was glad to have her here, even though I still work a more than full-time job. I can remember that at my age my dad was retired, even my cousin was retired, but it will not be that way for me. I still have a few years to go before I can consider that option.

She and I think a lot on the same wavelength. Same sense of humor in so many ways. We can get so tickled with each other. I love pulling her leg. She always bites. That’s a lot of the fun, and I always play dumb.

I took her to Austin last Monday to meet my brother who carried her on out to San Angelo. We ate at Zoot there in Austin and had a pretty decent meal.

After lunch she climbed into his mini-van and sat while my brother and I transferred the luggage to the van. I went to the front seat and opened the door to kiss her good bye. And she gave me a look. A look that said, "I’m sorry I’m not what I used to be. I’m sorry I’m not as much help. I can never repay the time and the money and the kindness you have given me. I love you. You are my first born. I treasure you in ways you will never fully understand."

It is only now that I am unpacking what that look said. It is sad. It’s not what I want. It is not what she wants. But it is what it is.

72 Hours

It was initially my fault, I admit it.

In transferring power from one house account to another, I had to pick a termination date.

Rather than deal with a real, live human being, I attempted to do it on-line. After all, that’s more efficient for the company, right? That’s where the world is going, isn’t it? Let’s give old fashioned service a swift kick in the posterior.

I picked the date to turn off power at the house where we are living to be the last possible date that the Internet program would allow. Trouble is, we were still living in the house. And August 1^st rolled around, and out came the Center Point Energy truck (I thought to read the gas meter) and the dude cut off the electricity. (Yeah, as their mission statement says, "Center Point Energy is always there" IF it happens to be on a Monday through Friday).

At first I could not fathom what had happened. It was about 5 in the afternoon, and I knew it seemed quiet, but I did not know what had happened. I turned to look at a clock, and the LED face was blank. I looked at another LED clock, the face was blank. It dawned on me what had happened. It was August 1^st and I had neglected to tell them to keep the power on.

I called Center Point Energy and explained. They are the people who take care of the lines and the hookups and the terminations.

Well they sure were sorry to hear my story but there was nothing they could do or were gonna do till they heard from my service provider un Reliant Energy.  (Look at their ethics statement--committed to doing the right thing--what a scream!)

So I call them up and after several attempts finally got to a resolution team member that had about as much empathy as a stone wall. I explained my plight, food in the freezer, triple digit heat, no fans. Well, . . . I might as well have talked to my dog. Their attitude was loud and clear: "NOT THEIR PROBLEM!" NEXT?

I was shocked. I said, "I have overpaid my account for several months. I have a surplus in my account!"

NOT OUR PROBLEM!

I was incredulous.

They said we don’t work on the weekends. And the implication was, just be glad Monday wasn’t a holiday to boot. They were going to do nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch. The null set. What part of NO did I not understand? NOT . . . THEIR . . . PROBLEM!

On top of that, they were going to start charging more than 3¢/kilowatt hour higher once the service got restored and charge me $42 because I wanted it cut back on expeditiously.

I screamed, "But I was your customer just a half hour ago, and on my account is the house to which the service is being transferred to!"

NOT THEIR PROBLEM . . . NEXT?

I swear the people they put on the front lines to interface with the customers have ice in their veins. I could have walked into their office and keeled over dead, and they would have ignored me and taken the next call from the next idiot who just doesn’t seem to understand the rules by which the power companies play.

I can’t help but wonder if this is all the result of deregulation.

I said, "What if my house was burning down? Would you send out a crew to cut the lines?"

Maybe . . . maybe not. NOT THEIR PROBLEM. Just what part of NO did I not get? They were not going to lift a finger to help me. They were not even going to lift a little finger to help me. They had no sympathy for my plight. They would just as soon I interface with an automated call system which would have sent me around in endless loops. Really, I think a machine might have had more compassion for my plight than what I received from either Center Point Energy or un Reliant Energy. They never heard of 24/7 with respect to helping out the customer in his or her hour of need. Theirs is a 40 hour work week, unless of course, there is a major hazard to life. But a Joe Simpleton like me? Pfffffft. They can afford to blow me off. I don’t matter. I’m a nothing. A nobody. If I get mad, there are other power companies out there; go cry on THEIR shoulders. We’ll never miss your business!

And they are right. I used to think that Reliant Energy cared. I used to know some great people who worked for them. But it is a very different, cold world where the bottom line is not service, but the almighty dollar.

No Substitute for Passion

I have a parishioner who has an absolute passion for a piece of ministry that she does extraordinarily well. It has to do with reaching out to some women who are in trouble with the law and have addiction issues. Basically they are in a program that is their last chance. If they fail this, their prospects are grim—they may well lose their children, and will be headed to jail.

That having been said, she spends an prodigious amount of energy in reaching out to these women through a program of "spirituality" that she leads an hour a week, twice, to two different audiences. It is fascinating to watch her perform. She has drive, energy, verve, enthusiasm, and inspires these women to consider different alternatives in a structured studied way, about how to transform their lives, dare I say, "work out their own salvation", taking into account God and God through Christ.

All of this is in a system in which these women are at this facility for only a short period of weeks, maybe months at the most.

Impressed? I surely am. Nevertheless, she was out of pocket this week, and I was asked to bring the program. I shuddered at that. I can’t hold a candle to what she does. So, I brought a program trying to answer questions that surface for these women whereof we have tried to keep track. Fool that I am, I attempted to answer questions like,

• "If I have decided to receive the sacrament of holy baptism, what does God expect of me now?" (Or substitute joining the church, or renewing the vows I made at baptism earlier in my life, etc.)
• How do I forgive someone who is dead? For that matter, how do I forgive?
• There was a fascinating conversation with a Muslim girl who was thinking about converting to Christianity, and had tons and tons of questions. It was absolutely fascinating.

I enjoyed my time there, but I am clear I am no substitute for the passion of this parishioner and her extraordinarily important helpers.

What Does Jesus Want Me to Do?

I was told in an urgent tone of voice that they needed me right away. I wasn’t sure what was up. There was a woman who was upset. They could not seem to calm her down. Could I come over?

I went not knowing what the situation was. And there she sat. Face red. Tears streaming down her face. Her long hair slightly disheveled. She had kept herself up well over the years. She had a look of desperation in her eyes. I suggested that maybe she’d like to come to my office.

The Church Lady intercepted me and suggested that she would take her to my office, and then one of the people who had initially been talking to her whispered, "She may be suicidal."

I arrived and took off my glasses. I asked her, "How can I help? What’s going on?"

"What does Jesus want me to do? Just tell me. Just tell me what to do . . ."

I thought, Ohhhhhh K . . . Ummm . . . yeah. What does Jesus want you to do? Doesn’t everyone want to know that? I said, "Tell me more of your story. What is upsetting you? Why are you so distraught?"

The look of desperation was more intense in her eyes and body affect, "What does Jesus want me to do? I love Jesus. I read the Bible every day . . . "

I felt so sorry for her. It was obvious that she was at her wit’s end. She had sort of snapped. I was trying to eke out clues. What was eating at her?

With several more exchanges I began to understand it was marital difficulties, and her husband was using one small part wrenched out of context from Paul about wives submitting to their husbands . . . you know, Ephesians 5:22-24.

I began to understand that her husband would get upset and then give her the silent treatment. And then she would commence asking for his forgiveness, that she was so sorry for what she had done. "But Pastor, what does Jesus want me to do? Where can I find some Scripture?"

One that immediately popped out to me was "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." Do you remember that Jesus said that?

Yes, she remembered. I said, "Good. Hold on to that for a moment. When you start apologizing to your husband for what you did, what is it that you did that caused him to be so hateful to you?"

She said, "Nothing. I try to be the best wife I know how to be," and the tears were coming on even stronger. "What does Jesus want me to do?"

I said, "The first thing that Jesus wants you to do is to stop lying to your husband."

That got her attention. The faucet began to be turned off. "I am not lying to my husband. What do you mean?"

"When you start apologizing for something you have never done, you are lying to him, aren’t you? You are apologizing for something you have never done or said, with your words, you are asking him to buy into a reality that never occurred, isn’t that right?"

She got silent. Yes, it was right.

"Why would you lie to your husband like that, when you know that Jesus said that the truth will make you free?"

The tears were gone. I asked, do you have any siblings?

Yes, she did.

I said, "Are you the youngest?"

Yes, she was.

It was time to help her learn better coping mechanisms.

The rest of the time was spent helping her to some degree get loose from her anxieties about her relationship to her husband.