Whatever Happened to The Iquana?

A good friend of mine once shared the following with me: "You can choose either to write about life or to live it." He attributed this aphorism to American author Henry James. So my lack of recent posts evidences the choice I have made.

Caminante, no hay camino,
Se hace camino al andar,
Al andar se hace caminos,
Caminos sobre la mar.

- Antonio Machado

Shalom, brothers and sisters.

Strange Days

It's only the start of the fourth week of the year, and I think 2005 is going to be an interesting year:

* In Southeast Asia, the death toll from the tsunamis has risen to about a quarter-million now. People are struggling without shelter, adequate food and health care, or safe drinking water. People around the world are responding with aid, showing once again how a crisis can unify humanity. Why does it take destruction to bring people together?

* Dubya has been reinaugurated. With the added danger of a perceived mandate and no more worries about re-election, there's no telling how far he'll go this term. Powell has stepped down, and Rice becomes the Secretary of State. Alberto Gonzales, former corporate attorney with ties to Enron, legal mind behind the so-called torture memos that lead to the Iraqi prison scandal, is up for Attorney General. Where will all this end?

* The war in Iraq continues, and more people die, mostly innocent Iraqis trying to earn a living and help stabilize their country. Terrorists are trying desperately to derail any hope of democracy and free elections, blowing up their countrymen in the process. When can we truthfully say "mission accomplished"?

* The Eagles will play the Patriots in the Super Bowl. How many people outside of Boston and Philadelphia care?

* The Northeast has been blitzed by a blizzard. It snowed on South Padre Island, near the border with Mexico. Up in Minnesota, the temperature dropped to -54 degrees. California has been drenched, and a mudslide wiped out the better part of a seaside town. CenTex just had all-time record rainfall. Weather patterns have become bizarre, and storms more severe. Is there a connection with global warming, that "EPA bureaucrats' myth," according to our President?

* On the plus side, thanks to the efforts of MissionWaco, Jimmy Dorrell and others, the city of Wacko has a homeless shelter -- finally. But why did it take so long for this community to respond?

* My older sister turns 50 next month. I do not plan to be anywhere near her when the bell tolls, and for their safety, I advise all of my relatives to do likewise. At a certain point in one's life, birthdays are not cause for celebration. For my sister, that point was ten years ago.

Keep those prayers coming, folks. We're going to need all the help we can get.

The New Year

Here it is, the end of the year. Two-Thousand Four of the Common Era wraps up tonight. Son is staying over at a friend's with a small group of high school buddies. Their evening schedule includes pizza, soda, snacks, movies, PS2, and various forms of poker. Daughter will be here, and has invited a friend over for dinner and movies. She wants to throw snaps -- those little caps that explode on impact -- at midnight. We're also going to see if two girls can actually sleep on her new futon. Mrs. Iguana and I will be at home, trying to stay awake at least until 12:01 AM. If we're feeling particularly celebratory, we'll pop open a bottle of fine Champagne that dates back before our spiritual re-birth. (I used to drop a fair amount on collecting wine in my previous life in D.C., and still have the vast majority of my collection intact.) Our little iguana and her friend will have chilled Martinelli's Sparkling Cider for their special bubbly tonight (an old family tradition from California). We'll listen to some music, read a little, call our parents in California and Illinois, and thus usher in the New Year. As my old friend Dawn Aviva used to say, No big whup.

For many, New Year's Eve is a time to celebrate. For me, though, it's always been much more a time of contemplation, of remembrance and anticipation, than a time for large, noisy, gala parties. After dinner, as the evening wanes, I prefer to sit quietly with my spouse in front of a fire, sip a glass or two of Port or something a bit more spiritual, and nibble on cheese, walnuts, and bread. Maybe I'll even write a bit.

And I like to pray. God knows, we all need His help. The death toll from the recent tsunamis in Southeast Asia grows daily -- over 120 thousand now -- and the number of victims of related diseases and injuries will increase. As if natural disasters aren't bad enough, the world continues to be a place of human failings -- violence, cruelty, hatred, injustice, and devastation. We have so much potential, but how we fall, oh, how we fall!

This has been a difficult year, and it isn't ending well, either. I'm fighting a case of bronchitis that started on the 20th, the same day I lost my job at the bookstore. The worst thing is the coughing and shortness of breath. Sometimes the coughing makes the front of my head feel like it's been hit with a hammer. And I'm tired, just plain tired. As for academics, the past semester didn't go well at all. Another group of friends have been graduated from Truett Seminary. Each year, the number of people who were there when I started gets smaller. By the time I finish my dual-degree program, I may be the last one from my entering class to be graduated. . . There'll be no one left to talk about how things used to be when we were housed at the First Baptist Church of Wacko (and got free parking!), when Brad Creed was relieved of his position as Dean, and Randall O'Brien was the Interim. The number of students who remember Bill Treadwell is shrinking, too. Soon there won't be too many students who took classes from Chip Conyers, either.

Hopefully, the next semester will go much, MUCH better. I'll be taking full load at Truett, trying to wrap up all of the seminary course requirements before concentrating on counseling. Perhaps losing the bookstore job will help me deal with the extra courseload. All for some purpose. . . I'll be providing some daycare for my friends, Damon and Sara, taking care of Baby Colman on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, so I'll have a little pocket change.

I was very pleased to see Hulitt Gloer today. Despite going through 3 hours of physical and speech therapy everyday, he was in good spirits. His speech is still belabored, and his right arm hung at his side; he walked slowly, with a cane; but the faith and the fire are all there. The best news, apart from his sense of continual improvement and growing strength and stamina, is that he'll be back at Truett this coming semester. Hulitt truly has the heart of a teacher and a pastor, God bless him.

Yes, I've made some mistakes this year. . . and saved the biggest one for last. A hurtful thing. . . to others and myself. I didn't set out to do anything of the kind, but I did it. I didn't think of the consequences. It was the kind of mistake that gets you thinking about the basis of everything you've built your life on. Foundational things. Self-identity, self-definition, self-destruction, self-improvement. Basic things about who you are, and what you're doing, and where you're going. Hard stuff. It's going to take a lot of prayer and other hard work to make 2005 a success. I don't know how it's all going to turn out, but I anticipate some very big changes by next Christmas.

Mrs. Iguana and I have already had one talk tonight about our hopes for the coming year. All I can say is that if she has her way, we're all going to be very, very busy iguanas. But it isn't anything that we shouldn't have done a long time ago. I'm afraid that, at least on the home front, we've become very complacent, lazy lizards indeed!
* * * * *
So, Son is off with his high school buddies. Daughter's friend is over for the night. They've eaten their pizza and watched Uptown Girls, an interesting film with Brittany Murphy and Dakota Fanning, and While You Were Sleeping, the romantic comedy with Sandra Bullock. Now they're hanging out in Daughter's room, doing their make-up and hair, and giggling as only preadolescents can. I've had a nice rest, and listened to some music. Mrs. Iguana is following her ritual of Clean Sheet Friday: the sheets and pillowcases are laundered, and the bed is freshly made. (She loves to end her work-week by crawling between crisp, clean sheets. Don't ask me why. It IS a nice feeling, I'll admit.) The house is amazingly quiet. Meanwhile, the Champagne and the sparkling cider are in to chill. Believe it or not, we have the house fans on, and all the windows are open. It's December 31, and I'm wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Obviously, it's too bloody toasty in CenTex for a fire tonight; so we'll have to rely on a candle or two for our contemplative evening. It just won't be the same.

That seems an apt thought as one year ends and another begins: we need to make the best we can of what we've been given. For better or worse, that's what we have. When things go bad, that's where faith comes in, and propels us forward. I saw that in Hulitt's eyes today. I pray that we all find that faith in the coming year.

Here, Kitty, Kitty. . .

Poor Chai! After more than a year of dealing with her powerful sexual desires, yowling, and clawing, the Iguanas' house cat is in for an overnight stay at the Animal Hospital of Wacko. She'll be spayed and have her front claws removed. We'll pick her up tomorrow morning, and the bandages will be removed. Between her efforts to mate with our shoes and any other convex object, the nights of frustrated yowls, and the destruction of our rugs, bedspreads and furniture, we just couldn't take it any longer. So off to the vet she goes.

Some fellow cat-owning friends actually told us that it was the kind thing to do; our cat wasn't "comfortable" being in heat, they said. But I can't say that I feel very good about this. Cats have survived for millennia without being spayed or neutered, including the frustration of unsatisfied carnal desires. How much of this is about Chai's discomfort, and how much is about our convenience?

Admittedly, the declawing is purely a matter of convenience to us. It is a financial issue: we hoped to avoid more inadvertent destruction of our property. To a lesser degree, it is also a safety matter. Spaying Chai is another matter, though. Any pets that come into contact with other pets, when there is the possibility of pregnancy, should be spayed or neutered, of course; that's the responsible thing to do. But is it right for us to spay our cat, especially when she is never allowed outside, and thus couldn't become pregnant, because her behavior is disruptive and socially unacceptable?

We human beings love to tamper with the natural order, especially where animals are concerned. We've bred and domesticated many animals to suit our needs and desires, eventually resulting in faster, friendlier or more aggressive, bigger or smaller animals, with more stamina. Small ponies were better for working in mines. Small dogs flushed rabbits and badgers out of their holes. Turkeys have larger breasts because that's the part people most like to eat. Some breeds are favored in animal husbandry because they're better flavored, with more tender, tasty meat. When we can't breed certain characteristics in or out, we resort to surgery. Doberman Pinschers don't come with those pointed ears and without a tail, you know.

One Sunday, I heard a very humorous "commercial" on A Prairie Home Companion about a company that would clone your house pet. No more than three weeks later, I read about a company that sold a cloned kitten to the owner of the original, donor cat. Satiric fiction becomes fact.

What we do -- and are willing to do -- to animals is profoundly related to our self-concept and sense of self-limitations. Like shadow beings, pets frequently reflect the personalities of their owners. As science and technology continue to advance, and our "impossibilities" continue to disappear, what choices shall we make about ourselves and our world? One (currently) sci-fi movie (Godsend) has been made already on the premise that two grieving parents would choose to have their dead child cloned, and the unintended consequences of their decision. Another film on human cloning (The 6th Day) is soon to follow.

Some scientists and ethicists concentrate on the risks, and others on the benefits of cloning. Like most technologies, there are tremendous risks and benefits in it. Great good and evil. We may produce super cures and super diseases. Remember that the Nobel Prizes were founded by the developer of dynamite, and that that powerful explosive was seen more as a tool for human development than as an instrument of war and destruction.

But this is something altogether new and without parallel. With cloning and genetic engineering, we are fast approaching that other tree in the Garden of Eden -- the Tree of Life -- that God sought to protect us from. We want to be God, to unlock the last mysteries of what makes us who and what we are, and to exert our power over life and death, but we lack His wisdom and the foresight. We are coming close -- perilously close -- to a threshold and an abyss, as we strive toward the angels of heaven or fall into the Pit of our own making.

Really Praying

"Well, I'll pray about that."
"Let me give that some prayer."
"Let me bathe it in prayer."

Such are common retorts among evangelical Christians. Generally, they are proffered in response to a suggestion, especially a complex one. More particularly, they are replies to an unwelcome proposition or request, especially one involving a commitment of time and/or money. It's evangelical jargon, lingo, or code. It took me some time to grasp the full range of their meaning.

If the speaker is sincere, such a response means, "I'm really not sure what I should or must do, but I'm going to give your proposition the most serious consideration; I really will seek wisdom and to discern the will of God as I earnestly and heartfully pray about what I ought to do." An equally sincere hearer -- or a naive one -- understands this message to be exactly what the speaker intended to communicate. I hope that such has been your experience.

For the cynical speaker, however, such responses help buy time before gaining the courage to say no outright. They might mean, "I don't have the guts to tell you that your idea is stupid. If I need to pray about it, then you should reconsider it." Another possibility is, "I really don't want to do this, but if I can just get away from you for awhile, maybe you'll find a stooge in the meantime and I won't have to do it." Or perhaps they mean, "Leave me alone, and I hope you forget that we ever spoke about this." For the cynical hearer, they mean that the chances of acceptance or agreement are slim indeed, that is, if they ever existed at all.

Unfortunately, you have to know the speaker in order to comprehend the true meaning of the response. But if you didn't already know the character of the speaker, it won't take you too long to learn what it is.
* * * * *
Prayer is a necessary part of any process. Some people think that praying is just an excuse for not doing the hard physical or mental work of a project, of fulfilling an obligation, or of meeting a goal. Some people think that praying is a way to avoid reality, a lazy person's way out, or "leaving the back door open" in case of failure. Truthfully, there are many people who would much rather pray about getting the house built than actually building it. And there are some who say, "I prayed about it, but it just didn't happen, so it must have been against God's will." Prayer alone is seldom sufficient to accomplish our goals. The way that God has set things up here in this world is that we are the agents, the instruments of His will (and our own). Most of the time, we have to get involved and do the work. But prayer is the way to start, be guided and sustained in, and the way to finish any work. It's not about avoiding reality. To the contrary, prayer is essential for the discovery of what is real and true, of knowing what to do and how to do it. Another way to say it is that prayer is essential to living.

Prayer -- if it really is prayer -- is tough. It means fully engaging yourself with God, communicating not only in words but in the silence of the soul, in the language of the Spirit. Prayer, real prayer, is hard work. Don't think so? Jesus wasn't just daydreaming in the Garden of Gethsemane. When you are in agony or anguish, when you have no strength left to do what you must, when your own power isn't enough, when there is no reason to maintain hope, that's when real prayer -- and transformation -- begins. When we are at our weakest, we can pray. But when we pray, we are never weak.

The year 2005 hasn't even begun, and I already have some of the most difficult challenges of my life on the near horizon. As I approach the trials and tribulations of the coming year, and craft yet another list of resolutions and things-to-do, I think that everything on my list can be summed up pretty well in one item: Pray unceasingly. It won't be easy -- it never is -- but everything depends on it.

What's a person to do?

What do you do, when you realize that you've built an entire life on certain foundations, erected the edifice of your existence on experiences and interpretations, on beliefs and assumptions, on propositions and conclusions, on ideas and relationships and self-definitions you thought were secure and unquestionable, and then something happens. . . you do something that seemed to make sense at the time, that was honest and trusting and open, but in hindsight was a terrible mistake, and the consequence is that the edifice -- that life -- crumbles before your eyes? You act, and a chain of events beyond your control is set in motion that threatens everything you've striven toward, everything that you love, and everything that you've hoped for, because that foundation and edifice are far more more fragile than you knew. You act, and you have no idea how the story's going to end.

What do you do, when your discernment of reality so fails you that you pursue a dramatic change in your life, overcome a variety of obstacles, but continue to face even greater obstacles, including declining health and strained finances, and then you're told, by someone you respect and admire, a good friend, that perhaps you've made a fundmental mistake and can't do what you've felt led to do? You can't do it unless you get some serious counseling, because apparently you've got issues, man, big issues, and you might need years of counseling. . . even though you've been strong for years, like a rock, and your actions only rose to the level of being honest with someone and an exploration of mutual feelings. You can't do it, even if this hasn't happened before, you've reached a mutual understanding of your limits with the other party involved, and you've recommitted that it shouldn't happen again.
* * * * *
Some mistakes stay with you for your entire life. There's no escape, no honor, no integrity to be found, by either perseverance or abandonment. You lose no matter what you do. Someone blames you for a failure if you stay or if you go. Going, you're accused by some of giving up, and you've "failed to take your covenantal obligation seriously" and haven't done "the Christian thing" by not taking that obligation as unconditional. You must continue to do everything in your power to make things work, some say -- despite the years of patience, of unsuccessful counseling, of hoping and praying. Staying, you're accused by others of living a lie and being unhealthy, of perpetrating a fraud. You must "bury the dead," and move on, some say. Have we reached the point in our cultural development when perseverance is understood to be the wrong course of action?
* * * * *
What do you do when it seems that the easier, more merciful course of action is to remove yourself from another's life, when your efforts always seem to end in failure, and despite your hopes, you keep causing another to suffer, and worse, it's someone you love? You try and try to straighten everything out, to do the right thing, to succeed, and it just doesn't happen. Your life has become intolerable, and you can't understand how another person could love you.

Fear, frustration, anxiety. . . What's a person to do?

The Sack, Addendum

Losing my part-time job at the bookstore hasn't been so painful for me or for my spouse. Tonight, however, I broke the news to the little iguanas. It did not go well. They didn't really want to talk about it, but a couple of things emerged:

First, they're already painfully aware of the financial sacrifices we've made to pursue the path of ministry, and the things that they can't have and that we can't do that their friends have and do. They're concerned about the loss of the supplemental income.

Second, they've enjoyed the employee discounts on books and magazines, but more significantly, on frappuccinos and chai lattes. We made going to the cafe a regular part of our lives, and now we're going to cut way back on our visits and expenditures there.

What has gone unsaid, despite my spouse's prodding for honest dialogue, is their sense that Dad is a loser, not worthy of their respect or reliance. (All that they've had to deal with since I discerned a calling into vocational ministry is upheaval, dislocation, and struggle of one form or another -- the loss of the security and comfort that my former career provided. So I can't really blame them.) I sensed this most of all from my son, who refused to say anything more than his one comment on the loss of the extra income. He refused to say more because he thought "it wouldn't be helpful." I could only guess what THAT meant. And I couldn't help revealing my hurt and disappointment in the sarcastic remark: "Thanks for your support." Not a good night for the iguanas. I can deal with the loss of a job; but it is much harder to lose the respect of my children.
* * * * *
I can't help but think of my father, whose 81st birthday it is today. He is a member of that great generation that weathered the Great Depression and, by its blood sacrifice, destroyed the threat of fascism. My dad lost his father to a stroke when he was a teenager, and it fell upon him to run the family farm for his mother. Nevertheless, he finished as the valedictorian of his high school class. Dad went to war in late 1943, married my mother before he left, and was a father himself by the age of 20. He returned from Alsace-Lorraine with a Purple Heart and a partial disability, and took advantage of the G.I. Bill to get a college education. My dad worked six days a week as a public administrator for almost all of his professional life until the day he retired. Even when his career didn't end as he'd hoped it would, with the full recognition and advancement that he'd worked so hard to earn, he didn't quit. Dad kept on working hard because his family needed his financial support; he knew his duty. He was a selfless giver of himself, always. There was very little that my father did just because he wanted to. I would never have said anything disrespectful of him; and he never gave me reason to. My father was our family's rock and our anchor, our captain, and our port in the storm. For better or worse, and far more likely the worse, I am NOT my father. Too bad for my spouse and children.

What's in your sack, Santa Claus?

After having been warned three months ago that if I were late again for another shift within six months then I'd be terminated, the moment came today. I've been sacked by the bookstore. Really, it was just a matter of time. I woke up when the telephone rang at 12:15. I'd slept through three different alarms this morning (likely the result of changing my medications over the past week), and had been up for awhile much earlier as the little iguanas went off to their last full day of school before the break, but that phone call finally and decisively woke me. It was one of the bookstore's assistant managers -- a guy I knew as a former seminarian and a one-time cafe employee -- who called to tell me that I was supposed to have been there at noon. Of course, I knew that, and I knew what it probably meant. I got myself together as quickly as possible, and headed out the door, clocking in at 12:34. But too late. I was too late from the very beginning.

I went to cashier for awhile, and sold a Member Card. (Sold three cards yesterday.) After 45 minutes, when things quieted down a bit from the lunchtime rush, I got a call to report right away to the manager's office -- the call. I knew what it was about, but I thought he might wait until 5:00, when I'd worked through my shift, perhaps even until Christmas Eve, when I was scheduled to work until closing; I thought that he might wait so that the store wouldn't have any staffing problem through Christmas. But no. The conversation was short and unceremonious. He asked me if there had been some emergency at home. I said no. "All right, then," he said he had no choice in the matter. "When is this effective?," I asked. "Right now," he said, and wished me luck. The assistant manager said "Thanks," and shook my hand. And that was it. Merry Christmas. Here's your hat. . . What's your hurry? I could have argued with him about the medical issue being a valid legal exception to termination under these circumstances, but honestly, at that moment, I didn't feel like it.

I went to the cafe to collect my thoughts and to enjoy one last employee-discounted latte and a cookie. Ironically, one of the former cafe managers was there, too. I hadn't seen him in a very long time, so we had a nice chat. He's currently unemployed, but enjoying the extra time with for his studies, spouse and young children (along with his unemployment compensation payments).

There are some rather profound ironies here:

First, I don't mind no longer working at the bookstore. That's something I've been thinking about doing for a long time. My employment in a bookstore is like an alcoholic working as a clerk in a liquor store; given my compulsive nature and love of reading, it's really not healthy. Of course, I thought that I'd be the one to determine when to quit. No one likes to be deprived of power over their own life.

Second, I couldn't hold a simple job as a bookseller??!! (No offense to the booksellers of the world, but it isn't that complicated a job.) This wasn't an issue of quality or success in my work, or of dedication and concern for customer relations, service and for my colleagues, or of a lack of honesty, but of my lack of punctuality. I know that timeliness is important, but it's also amusing to think of the people at the bookstore who really haven't given a damn about their job but still manage to remain employed -- despite their overwhelming desire to take breaks whenever possible and lack of concern for their fellow employees -- because they can arrive on time and meet the minimal requirements of the job. It's also funny for me to think that I once successfully managed a corporate business affairs and contracting office affecting the entire public broadcasting industry. Now I've been fired from a retail job -- and at the height of the holiday shopping season, at that! This aspect of my life is like doing the Limbo: "How low can you go?"

Third and finally, I've been one of the store's very best customers. With the incentive of my employee discount, I've poured many more dollars back into the store than they payed me for my labors. But without that discount, hello, half.com and the library! There's no reason to pop in so frequently for a coffee or a chai latte, either. They'll lose more money than they payed me, and that's a fact. This is one job that my spouse may be happy I lost.

Of course, it hasn't really sunk in yet. After three years, I won't be going to the bookstore any more. No more book-buying binges. What shall I do with the free time and the money? Hmmm. . . So, for all of you regulars whom I've come to know over the years, to borrow a line from one of the season's favorite, classic works of literature, "Look to see me no further." Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!