We have all seen some great Vaudeville or movie clip of someone being caught unaware, getting acquainted with a 2 x 4 delivered straight to the noggin.
And as amusing as those scenes can be (my favorite may be with Donald O’Connor in Singin’ in the Rain). I think they hit our funny bones because (I am pretty sure) we have all been bonked in the head or the backside a number of times—and often when we aren’t really paying attention, either. Maybe because we are taking ourselves, and our lives, too seriously.
And this was a 2 x 4 week for me. A dear, old friend died. He had been a close colleague of my father, and Bill and his wife populate the landscape of my earliest memories. She always chipper, and he a marvelous mix of wisdom and belly laughs, a serious countenance and kind, gentle heart. They have always been what I call 2-o’clock-in-the-morning friends. The ones you can call any day or in the middle of the night, walk directly to the front door, and find them on the front step. The ones with whom you just pick up a conversation like it was yesterday—even if it had been months since you spoke.
So what is the 2 x 4? Simply that not only will he not be here, I cannot be there for him. And I wish I had done more. I think this is something many of us experience, whether or not we can even articulate what more we would like to have done. I’m not sure that the details matter, really, since we cannot go back in time. It would be easy for us to chastise ourselves about not making one more phone call, or one more visit. But I fear that response has the potential to keep us focused on ourselves and cast a shadow on our memories and even the relationship.
When I think of all that this fine man has meant to me, I cannot bear to taint my memories with negative thoughts. I would far prefer to stand solid, take the 2 x 4 full on the forehead – and awaken to the wisdom he shared with me.
And the wisdom? It was simple. Live, and strive, and take things seriously, and always look for the blessings and the humor in things. To do, and be, and share, and love with all the generosity we have, which is boundless. To do what our souls most need us to do even in the midst of challenges. And to laugh. And laugh again. In other words: to live well.
Along with my congregational duties, I serve as a hospice chaplain. In both of those roles, as you well know or can imagine, I am at all times close to death and dying. And to be very honest, I have yet to accompany anyone to her last breath who says she wishes she judged herself more harshly, or lived more sparely, or loved less.
So here is another 2 x 4: without exception, those who live well, with awareness of their blessings and the idea that they could be blessings to others, die well, as Bill did. They pass without regrets. I am grateful that their souls warmed and strengthened mine, and I feel that when I share my soul with others, the neshamot (souls) of all whom I have accompanied go with me into the world, transferred to others through my heart and hands. And I am reminded of the teachings of our tradition: we never know the effect we will have on others, now or in generations to come. Which is another wake-up call in itself.
How amazing it is to stand in any one moment knowing we are carrying the wisdom and love of those whom we have loved, and who have loved us. And how strange it is that so easily forget! Perhaps by keeping this in mind we can go back in time, and bring the best of our loved ones forward, forging a new relationship with them and the world, and get down to the very serious wonder of living in love and joy.
Now go ahead and click on the Donald O’Connor link above.
You know you want to : ]
I recently returned from an amazing trip to Senegal. I was there to visit my step-daughter who is serving in the Peace Corps. It was incredible to get a taste of her experience living in a village in an inner region of the country. Returning home, as many have asked us if we had a good vacation, I have found myself answering, vaguely, “It was an experience.” I’m so glad we had the opportunity to have this experience and yet it is unlike anything I’ve ever done for vacation before.
There is much that I could say about the trip and all that we experienced, from the landscape, the people and cultures, the food, to the village way of life. But I’d like to share one story that I shared with two of my classes at Religious School last night in the context of our theological, “God Talk” sessions. The topic? Transportation.
Public transportation is quite an experience in Senegal. Aside from our initial trip in from Dakar to the inland region, where we shared a private ride with another Peace Corps family, we opted to use public transport to get around. We found ourselves getting into vehicles that, in any other country, I would never dream of traveling in. There was not a single taxi ride that we took for very local journeys that did not involve a taxi with multiple cracks across the front windscreen. All of the shared 7-seater cars that we took had taken some kind of beating on the severely potholed roads that we traveled. But the most challenging ride we took was in one of the regional minibuses that ride from market town to market town. After a three-hour wait on the side of the road following a beautiful hike to a waterfall in a fairly remote eco-tourist location, this was all that came by, and we decided that it was possibly our only ride back to home base that day.
These buses are loaded with as many people as they can hold, along with any assortment of items up on the roof (in another location we saw three goats that had been purchased in the market town seated up top). After a very bumpy hour-and-a-half ride back to base, one of us seated in the aisle on a bag of rice and one of us with a set of live chickens under our seat, we arrived safely at our destination.
We had planned to take an overnight back to Dakar at the end of our trip so as to avoid traveling in the hot daytime. However, upon arrival at the market town where we expected to make that connection we learned that the reservation that had been made by phone didn’t exist as that particular bus had been rerouted for that one night to Touba for a Muslim pilgrimage. Another lengthy wait ensued and we got ourselves a ride on a 7-seater that brought us safely back to Dakar in plenty of time for our plane home the following night.
The following morning, sitting in a Dakar coffee shop, I picked up one of the French newspapers. My French isn’t what it used to be, but I could translate enough of the front page article to see that the previous night, a bus on its way to Touba had been in a head-on collision with one of the regional minibuses. Not just any bus: the bus we were supposed to take. All 26 occupants of the minibus were killed.
After taking in the tragedy of the story, my very next thought, reflecting back on the previous day’s frustrations as our plans had gone awry and we’d had a long, hot wait for alternative transportation was, “Perhaps it was meant to be.” And in almost the same moment of utterance, I felt ashamed. Meant to be that we were not on one of those buses? Meant to be that we had to change our plans? But surely not meant to be for the 26 souls who died?
As I shared the theological implications of the statement with my students, we reflected on how often we find ourselves, upon seeing the larger picture, or realizing that something good has come out of something that we initially perceived as bad, voicing such a statement. It’s familiar to many. But what do we actually mean by it? Continue reading