"I know I must be old (how age deceives!) ..."

Photo by Brent Winter Sleep by Edith Matilda Thomas   I know it must be winter (though I sleep)-- I know it must be winter, for I dream  I dip my bare feet in the running stream,  And flowers are many, and the grass grows deep.    I know I must be old (how age deceives!)  I know I must be old, for, all unseen,  My heart grows young, as autumn fields grow green  When late rains patter on the falling sheaves.    I know I must be tired (and tired souls err)--  I know I must be tired, for all my soul  To deeds of daring beats a glad, faint roll,  As storms the riven pine to music stir.    I know I must be dying (Death draws near)--  I know I must be dying, for I crave  Life--life, strong life, and think not of the grave,  And turf-bound silence, in the frosty year.      Today's poem is in the public domain.

"Winter Sleep" by Edith Matilda Thomas was published in A Winter Swallow, With Other Verse (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1896). Thomas acknowledged that her work was greatly influenced by the American poet Helen Hunt Jackson.

Colorado Learnings: The Upward Way

I'm a flat-lander.  I readily admit that.  A child of the Midwest, that region is my home in many senses.  I'm rooted and grounded there and love its seasons, flora and fauna.

But i like to travel, too.  I enjoy seeing different parts of God's good earth.  This summer I've seen the Carolina coastline, northern Ohio farm fields, and Colorado's mountains.

Yesterday I did something I would not, on my own, choose to do.  I went on a ride at Colorado National Monument.

Now unlike the the Washington Monument, which I have seen many times whilst in DC, there is no ... um... monument at Colorado National Monument.  There's no stone spire there, no man-made monolith.  Instead the whole place is a geologic monument.  With sheer cliffs dropping 2,000 feet.

That last part is why I would not choose to take a ride there.  I'm not a big fan of sheer drops of 20 feet -- let alone 2,000 feet.  But my sister Julie and her husband Dave wanted me to see this particular part of their state and my sister Linda who is almost as heights-impaired as I am, said she was game, so off we went.

I was fine at first.  Didn't really think much about it.  But they kept talking on the almost 2 hour trip from Montrose to the park entrance about how it wasn't so bad and which side of the car I should not sit on and how I could keep my eyes closed on the way up, if I wanted.

All that made me a mite jittery.  So did, upon our arrival at the park entrance, Linda saying, "Okay, let's switch seats."  She said it was so I could have the best views for photos, but it was really because she wanted to be on the side of the car facing the solid rock walls instead of the sheer (I have I mentioned that the drops offs are sheer?) drop onto the rocks below.

I was still pretty much okay.  Until a car pulled up next to us.  The driver and passenger looked up at the roads clinging to the side of the rock face, looked at each other, looked up again, looked back at each other ... and turned around and left.

I took a deep breathe, we pulled up to the ranger station, got our sticker and started up a gentle climb.  I looked at the map the ranger had kindly given us just as the road took a decided un-gentle angle of descent and all guard rails disappeared (to make it easier for the car to plunge all the way to the bottom of Fruita Canyon I guess).  According to the map, ahead lay Dead Man's Curve.

My goal was to make it there -- and past. 

My hands were sweaty, my breathing shallow.  I wanted to lean to the inside to "help" keep the car on the road (unknown forces were probably at work trying to suck us off the road).  I wanted to close my eyes.  But instead, I reminded myself to breathe deep.  I sat back.  I wiped my hands on my shorts.  I stole small glances out the side window while Julie and Dave "ooohed" and "aahed."  I admitted to myself and them that I was scared.  And I told myself that soon I would be at a place that was more comfortable to me than an automobile climbing along the edge -- and would be witness to some vistas that I'd never witness any other way.

Like life, I thought.  I'm in the midst of a sort scary trek now... after having left a long-term, solid, well-paying, fulfilling position with a wonderful organization to do ... to do what?  To find another  solid, well-paying, fulfilling position with a wonderful organization?  To write, edit, speak, lead retreats, consult with churches? 

The road I'm on looks pretty scary in some ways.  But the safety of the flatlands is behind me.  I'm on the climb.  The cliffs look pretty sheer.  But, like yesterday, I'm in good company.  Many other of God's children are traveling similar paths, and some are with me on mine.

And, like yesterday, I have a driver and guide who's trustworthy and knows the terrain, even if I don't.  So, like the old gospel hymn says:

I'm pressing on the upward way

New heights I'm gaining every day;

Still praying as I'm onward bound,

“Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.”

Now, if I can just make it past "Dead Man's Curve."

-- Brent

...likely to find ourselves participating in the Divine nature ...

"When beauty, truth, life, and love are all present in our relationships, ministries, vocations, life choices, then we are much more likely to find ourselves participating in the Divine nature and living more deeply."
-- an excerpt from my upcoming plenary message to Lake Erie Yearly Meeting of Friends ("Beauty, Truth, Life and Love: Four Keys for Finding Our Way")

Racing Lessons: #2 Hold Firmly but Loosely

120 mph seems pretty fast when you're sitting a few inches of the ground. I've never driven 120 mph before (I don't care what that Ohio State Patrolman said!).

And everything happens really quickly,too. That's how I learned lesson number 2. "Hold firmly but loosely."

I will say that instruction was not given in the "pre-race" (not that I was really racing!) instructions, but I remembered it from the few times I've ever driven a car "at speed" (including my old MG). Everything at speed is accelerated -- and not just the mph.

I relearned that when I was whipping through turn 2 the first time at maybe 80 or 90 mph. I realized, as I exited turn 1 and was accelerating to catch up to my lead car, that I was passing the G Stands, where I've sat at every race I've attended. I looked up to see if I could catch a glimpse of my "usual" seat and by the time I turned my head back around to look at the track in front of me, I was closing in quickly on the turn 2 wall. So I gave the steering wheel my usual Interstate 70 lane change effort and found myself changing the equivalent to 3 lanes!

Yikes!

The steering was ... um... sensitive. So I gripped the wheel tightly as I sped up to catch up to my leader and find the line through the turns. Every time I breathed or thought about sneezing, I moved up or down the track. As I crossed the yard of bricks for the first time, I realized I had a death grip on the steering wheel. So I took a deep breath, relaxed my grip a bit, and hit the accelerator as we moved through turn two.

As I remembered to hold the steering wheel firmly, but loosely, I found that the car was less "twitchy" and easier to steer -- and faster through the turns. And, at least to me, my track times picked up as I relaxed my grip on the wheel and guided the car along the line I wanted it to take.

Firm but loosely is another life lesson I've had a long time learning. I tend to hold on too tight to that which I love or am afraid of losing. And, in the process, I spin out of control and am in danger of crashing into a wall. That is true whether it is people in my life or the ineffable presence of the Divine. The tighter I hold, the more the smooth line of speed around the track eludes me. But when I relax my grip, holding the wheel firmly enough -- but just, then good things happen. The tires grip as they should because I'm not jerking the car all over the place with every breath. My relationships are not jerked all over the place. The presence of the Divine is not forced by my illusion of control.

The car rides the track smoothly as I allow the physics at work to ... um... work. And that includes my holding both firmly, but loosely.

-- Brent

Matters of Life and Death

As a writer I often hear that matters of life and death are essential for good drama. Well, I haven't gotten much writing done this weekend as I've been dealing with matters of life and death and that was more than enough drama for me.

On tap for this week was the hip replacement surgery for my friend and boss, Tim. What wasn't (or at least on my schedule) was heart surgery for my dad. On Tuesday, Tim underwent surgery and, as a relatively young man in his late 40s, did very well. As a matter of medical fact, he's now home and hopping around with the assistance of crutches. He's well enough and bored enough that he's emailing us in the office. Isn't he supposed to be resting?!

As soon as I heard Tim's surgery went well, I headed for Ohio to be with my mom and dad. Dad had chest pains a couple of weeks ago after visiting Nancy and me. We worked outside all weekend and early Tuesday morning (1 a.m.) he started having chest pains. The good doctors couldn't fin anything wrong and released him with an appointment for a stress test. That test revealed what appeared to be a minor blockage and so they scheduled Dad for a heart catheterization on this Wednesday. The plan was to use a balloon to open this blockage. If that didn't work, then they'd use a stent. So off I went to Columbus, where we had a nice dinner with some of their friends and spent the evening chatting about when he was coming over to run electricity to the barn.

After waiting a couple of hours on Wednesday morning, the surgeon came out. The catheterization didn't work. And a stent wouldn't either. That's because instead of one minor blockage there were multiple big ones. The one they worried about and wanted to fix was the least of their problems. Others were 90-95% blocked. It was as serious as a heart attack, literally.

The cardiologist recommended bypass surgery. So he and we had a true life and death decision to make. Dad is an adventurer, so he, scared as he was by the prospect of having his heart "turned off" for a while, went for it. And instead of waiting a week (one option) he had it done the next morning, yesterday. It turned out he needed five bypasses. It also turned out that he sailed through heart surgery as easily as anybody can sail through heart surgery -- tossed and turned by the storms of being cut open and sliced and diced and heavy hands squeezing your heart. But today he was up sitting in a chair, eating oatmeal (he is a good Quaker!), and flirting with the nurse -- which was even okay with Mom. He may go home as soon as Monday. And by mid-October be helping me wire the barn.

One of the hardest parts for me was sitting in the waiting room. The waiting was hard. Partly because of the great cloud of unknowing that surrounded us. But it was also hard because of another party in their, their kids running wild, the parents (or whoever they were) chatting loudly on their cellphones and walkie-talkies and the general mayhem they caused. My Quakerism was sorely tried. I did try to see that of God in them, but was not always successful.

As the day wore down, and it became obvious that Dad would be in great shape eventually, the room quieted some. I heard more snippets of the annoying people's conversation. They were there because the person they were concerned about had been shot over an argument about a dog.

Driving home later I reflected on that and how the choices we make sometimes make all the differences. The surgeon said Dad did so well partly because of healthy life choices -- no smoking, no drinking, and being physically active. The other fellow, from what I overheard, had made less wise choices -- he was drunk, so was someone else, there was a gun and an argument. I thought of Deuteronomy 30:19 "I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing: therefore choose life ..."

Dad did and has. He chose even to have the surgery, with its risks, in hope for life. His choices have served him, and our family well.

This rant is not meant to cast aspersions on the other folks in the waiting room. They've been in my thoughts -- in good ways, too. Nor it is about good things happening to good people and bad to bad. We know that rarely works out the way we think it should for us.

I guess what it's about, from my stress strangled brain and sleepy mind, is that injunction from Deuteronomy is not a threat, but rather simply good advice that pays off in ways we may never know, but sometimes get a glimpse of, this side of eternity. And for John Bill's choosing life, I am grateful.

--Brent