Father’s Day or Cat’s in the Cradle

I am writing this as we all approach Father’s Day. Many of us think that Father’s Day is just another Hallmark invention. At least, I used to think that. I mean, how many “special” days do we have to observe before there are no regular days? That is the way I felt before I became a father. I could go on and on about what fatherhood means and how challenging it is, but that would only be another sermon out of my mouth. Actually, being a father is a privilege.

Of late, two things have reminded me of fatherhood, and they aren’t my two daughters. It is the song “Cats and the Cradle” by Harry Chapin and my recent visit to my own father. I have always considered myself a good son, but remember, that is my opinion. However, I have received tons of affirmation from both my parents.

I have always found “Cats and the Cradle” a bit chilling because it presents the picture of a son becoming just like his father who was a good man but lost perspective on what was important in parenting. Namely, putting in the time to be with your children at the same time as being challenged by the responsibili-ties of job and other obligations that keep a family afloat. In the end, the song simply says, “I have become like you, Dad” or, put differently, “I have missed a lot of my children’s life by trying to be a good father and providing for my family.”

I remember coming home from college very close to Christmas and being picked up by my parents who had missed me enormously. Upon getting out of the car I asked them if I could have the car to go see my girlfriend. I can see their faces drop even now as we stood in the driveway, unloading the car. However, at that age you feel you have all the time in the world - there will be other times when we can be together. Sometimes those times never come again, though.
So, as I was sitting at the kitchen table with my father recently at his house in Sacramento, CA, I asked him, “So, what shall we do today?” He replied, “I don’t know, what do you want to do?” I shrugged my shoulders, and he said, “Just sitting here and looking at you is great.” For a moment a chill went up my spine because of the preciousness of the opportunity that had availed itself to me and the reminder that I had ignored it many times previously amid all of the “important” things I had to do.

My visits now to California are infrequent and short, much too short, and so I feel a bit haunted by “Cat’s in the Cradle”, especially the refrain, as I have to say goodbye to my father again:

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man on the moon
When you comin' home son?
I don't know when, but we'll get together then son
You know we'll have a good time then.

Father’s Day is just another opportunity to remind dads and their children that time is fleeting, life is short, and moments together are more important than you think. Don’t miss the opportunity to connect.

Getting Through the Lunacy of Another Day

Last year I read Elizabeth Gilbert’s book “Eat, Pray, Love”. While I do not agree with a lot of her positions on religion and faith, I thought the following quote from her book was a “right-on” observation about the practice of faith itself:

The search for God is a reversal of the normal, mundane world order. In the search for God, you revert from what attracts you and swim toward that which is difficult. You abandon your comforting and familiar habits with the hope (the mere hope!) that something greater will be offered you in return for what you’ve given up. Every religion in the world operates on the same common understandings of what it means to be a good disciple – get up early and pray to your God, hone your virtues, be a good neighbor, respect yourself and others, master your cravings. We all agree that it would be easier to sleep in, and many of us do, but for millennia there have been others who choose instead to get up before the sun and wash their faces and go to their prayers. And then fiercely try to hold on to their devotional convictions throughout the lunacy of another day.

Faith requires practice. It is not simply a cerebral activity taking place in our head that gives intellectual assent to what we believe. We are always swimming upstream, feeling the pull of gravity that will prevent us from moving forward on this journey. In the end, when you come through the doors on a Sunday morning, put a smile on your face - you made it. I am part of those who are holding on to their devotional convictions “throughout the lunacy of another day.”

Memorial Day

Memorial Day is an interesting day in the life of most Americans. On one hand, it is the inauguration of summer, a green light for family gatherings and BBQs. It sort of announces to many of us that we need to slow down, relax, and have a lazy weekend.

On the other hand, it is the time to remember those who have made the “supreme sacrifice” and given their lives for their country. In cemeteries, American Legion halls, and other places people gather around the flag to remember and to pray for the families who are not the same because of war. War has robbed them of their brightest and their best, with only their memories remaining.

One of the best-known poems that still touches my heart is Flanders Fields, written in 1915 by a Canadian surgeon, John McCrae. This weary doctor, having just buried someone close to the place where he was conducting surgery to save another victim of the carnage of war, wrote this:

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Dr. McCrae, in twenty minutes, penned lines that gave voice to the emptiness he felt as he sat across the road from a cemetery where the poppies had blossomed in the ditches adjacent to the graves.

Today, in battlefields far away, in places with strange names foreign to our ears, the poem is relived. We pray that our Lord would beat our swords into plowshares and we hope for a day when the vision of a lamb lying down with the lion would come true.

Urgent Care & Farah Fawcett “I’m Ready for My Close-up, Mr. Demille”

Today I took my daughter, who was not feeling well, to the Urgent Care facility in Rye. There is something about a doctor’s waiting room that gives you pause. Most of the time when I am in there sick I don’t notice much. I am like everyone else; a little impatient, I want to get well.

However, today I was quite alert and noticed all kinds of people looking a bit miserable and out of sorts, wanting to be healed. In contrast to this motley group there were a lot of magazines in the office about the rich and the beautiful celebrities who seem so much healthier than these folks. So, I open up a copy of “People” magazine to discover Paul McCartney waving to a crowd with his fly open. And then I see Bill Clinton stepping in gum, discover that Lindsay Lohan feels so alone amid fears that she might hurt herself, read about Madonna experiencing heartbreak and devastation because she can’t adopt another child from Malawi, and Jennifer Aniston who cannot seem to find a husband after Brad Pitt.

Most interesting to me, though, is the picture of Farrah Fawcett of whom I used to have a poster over my bed in college. She was my favorite angel in “Charlie’s Angels”, and, I know, was the inspiration of fantasies for millions of men (and women) around the world. Now I see her in a wheelchair, down to 89 pounds, wrapped up with a wool cap over her head in Germany, trying to be treated for cancer that has spread to her liver. Could this be a bad dream, or does sickness, old age, and tragedy come to all of us, even the beautiful and famous?

What makes it all insane is that Farrah Fawcett is now being filmed on her deathbed, turning her struggle with cancer into a documentary. Maybe it’s just me, and it may sound unkind in this situation, but is this a little narcissistic or what? It reminds me of the great old movie “Sunset Boulevard”, where an over-the-hill actress refuses to let go of stardom and the camera as she says, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. Demille.” ( Watch it on YouTube ).

I may be old-fashioned, but shouldn’t dying be a little bit more private? It doesn’t need to be made into reality TV, it is already real enough.

Mother’s Day Post Mortem

For years I have prayed on Mother’s Day a prayer of thanksgiving for all mothers who have diligently carried out their important vocation. I also mentioned in almost the same breath our sympathy for those who have lost their moms. This year joined that “club”. I can’t say that it’s been an easy transition because I have had some very sad and difficult moments. I found a bit of comfort, if you want to call it that, in Christopher Buckley’s article in the April 26, 2009 Sunday Times Magazine called “Mum and Pup and Me”. He writes:

I think about them every day. Orphanhood proceeds (…). It comes in waves. One moment you’re doing fine, living your life, even perhaps feeling some sort of primal sense of liberation – I can stay out as late as I want, and I don’t have to make my bed! Then in the next instant, boom, there it is. It has various ways of presenting, as doctors say of disease. Sometimes it comes in the form of a black hole inside you, sucking the rest of you into it; at other times it is a sense of disconnection, as if you had been holding your mother’s hand in a crowd and suddenly she let go.

So, this year it happened to me; she let go.

“Gremlins”

We love to point the finger at people who have fallen. For example, I was walking by a bookstore in Larchmont, and in the window was a book on Roger Clements entitled “The Rocket That Fell to Earth”. The hero and five-time Cy Young winner continues to lie about his steroid use. Another bright star, this one on the political scene, was Eliot Spitzer, “Mr. Clean” who cleaned up Wall Street as Attorney General, destroying in his wake many people’s lives. Then, of course, he was caught consorting with a call girl, humiliating himself, not to mention his wife and children. Today, when asked about the whole situation, he simply says that he is trying to deal with the “gremlins”.

The gremlins? An interesting term. What is a gremlin? A mischievous little person running around being destructive. I guess we are developing new categories today, or at least terminology, for explaining away sin. Sin seems too old-fashioned a word and demon may seem too strong. At any rate, it’s comforting to know that modern people, too, are searching for ways to explain evil in the world. I just don’t think that gremlin is good enough an explanation.

St. Paul talks about the good that he would do he does not, and the evil that he would not that he does. In other places he talks about the fact that we fight not only flesh and blood, but against the powers and darkness of this world. This doesn’t sound like little gremlins running around.

Talk to people whose lives have been destroyed by alcohol. Go to an AA meeting and discover a room full of people who can express enough pain to break the world in two. Talk to people whose lives have been destroyed by cocaine and various other drugs. These people don’t talk about gremlins; they talk about a universe of pain, sadness, and struggle. Someone once wrote that the way to hell is paved with good intentions. Jesus once said that the path to wholeness is narrow, but the road to hell is wide. So, when we are looking at places like Darfur, beheadings in Pakistan and Afghanistan, suicide bombers in Baghdad, I don’t think gremlins is a good enough term.

The Box on the Curb

For years now our church has been running a tag sale to raise money for our youth program. Every year we receive calls to pick up furniture and other big items from people who are in what we would call today “life transitions”, whereas my mother would say, “they are moving”. On one of these adventures I got into a conversation with Jim Guinee who was reflecting on an experience he had with an old man bringing out boxes of personal items from his home to place on the curb for the sanitation department to pick them up. Jim noticed that the box was filled with some interesting things like trophies and fishing gear. When he asked the old man about the trophies, he replied: “They belong to my wife who was a champion swimmer.” The fishing gear was from the time when he used to take his son to Alaska every year to fish. The old man told Jim he was throwing these things out because he was moving into an assisted-living facility, but he invited Jim to help himself and take whatever he wanted out of the box. Jim said he felt like he was violating someone’s life as he reached down for some fishing items.

So, it all comes to a box on the curb after all those years of living and those great memories. Perhaps this is the end for all of us – a box on the curb. We usually end up in a box, with someone throwing dirt over us. However, the thought did come to me that many of us are living in a box right now; a box that could be labeled “Routine”, or “Depression”, or “Illness”, or just a box we call “Life” that somehow has lost its luster, its interest, its joy, and its wonder. Easter speaks of resurrection, an invitation to think outside the box, and outside the grave as well, only because life doesn’t have to be a box on the curb.