Feb 27 2015
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Family, Forgiveness, Growing Up, Lent, Parenting

8th day of Lent.

I was stuck in my head for a bit this evening. I found myself with three hours to do five hours worth of tasks. There was no way it was going to happen. Absolutely no way. That didn’t stop me from trying. After all my mind convinced me everything could get done.

In My Stroke of Insight, Jill Bolte-Taylor likes to point out that “Most of us think of ourselves as thinking creatures that feel, but we are actually feeling creatures that think.” We’ve got it backwards, and our minds willingly support this idea. And why not? They have a marvelous ability to create worlds that don’t exist anywhere, and convince us that they’re real. I did that tonight. As time passed my stress level increased, and there was no way I was going to stop what I was doing to figure out that I was in my head because I didn’t have time! I was impatient with my daughter, and lashed out at my son who had the gall to catch my stress and become stressed, himself. I’d wanted to return to the dinner conversation we’d had about whether emotions were contagious, yes. But not this way.

Seeing him stressed helped the smallest part of me realize that the drama I was in wasn’t real. It was just something I’d made up. I looked at him. “Why are you upset?” I asked. Wrong question. In moments like that any question is the wrong question. It’s just fodder. “I’m upset because you’re upset. And I didn’t do anything!” Fortunately, I’d started letting go of my stress, even as he’d caught mine. That helped keep the loop we were in short. I sent him off to Karate, and did some focusing-based repair later. It was a good reminder that knowing the importance of stopping and paying attention to what’s happening to you, and doing it are different things. I have a lot to learn.

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Feb 18 2015
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Forgiveness, Lent

Ash Wednesday, 1st day of Lent.

What is repentance?
“[T]he Greek behind our Latin-based word, “repent,” means to change one’s mind. Repentance, then, is about a fundamental change in the way we think about our lives – their purpose, focus, and conduct.
That process may entail “turning from sin,” from specific behaviors or actions, particularly if those behaviors or actions are at odds with this new change of mind. Repentance may also involve regret or sorrow over having lived our lives under the mind’s old regime.
But, like a person who undergoes surgery for cataracts, the point of repentance is not to make us ashamed of what we couldn’t see. The purpose of repentance is to allow us to see. … Repentance, then, is the beginning of healing, transformation, new-found, God-given, and deeply rooted strength.” ~ Frederick Schmidt

For my readers. I haven’t written consistently in a long time. Thank you for bearing with me. As Lent begins I am thinking about building the discipline of writing during these forty days. My desire is to end each day with a reflection written in a single draft. I know that I want to write, but I haven’t settled on a way of going about that. Will I write about family? Will I take a favorite book and use passages as places to jump of? Will I simply share quotes? Or will there be some combination of the above. I don’t know.

What I do know is that I take my writing too seriously. That keeps me from doing it. It’s much easier for me to post notes on Facebook. It’s casual. As such, these posts will begin on Facebook, and if I’m able to sustain them, I’ll move them over to this blog where they will appear at once. Thereafter, I’ll try to sustain the work here. We’ll see what happens in time.

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Dec 24 2014
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Advent, Faith, Family, Friendship, Growing Up, Parenting

All The Gifts There Are.

Yesterday I took the Christmas gifts I’d purchased and lay them across my bed. A few more were still to arrive, courtesy of angels dressed in coffee brown. I wanted to see what I’d collected during the last several months, and if everything made sense. I’d made my list and was checking it a second time. Seeing the gifts on my bed helped me realize that I wasn’t quite ready, present-wise. I needed to pick up a few things, last-minute. More shopping? I sighed. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

—

Sweets is struggling with some of her friends. The other day, she received a text to an old cell number asking if the rumor was true that she didn’t like any of the people she ate lunch with. What an awful question for a friend to ask. And awful to see as a parent. I wanted to reply. I knew I couldn’t. While we were making dinner I let her know that the text had come and what it said.

“What’s going on? Is everything ok?” I asked.

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time now, if you want to talk about it.” She told me the story.

“I don’t understand. I apologized for making them think that.”

“You apologized? Why did you apologize?” I said.

I was feeling defensive on her behalf. I trust her, and she’s a great kid. I know too, that the details upon which things hinge might be beyond her awareness. Her comfort level talking about this with me is also an issue no matter how beloved she is.

“Do you like the kids at your table?” I asked. She shot me a look that let me know my question was too blunt.

Her eyes watered. “It’s a rumor, dad. You know how rumors are.”

“I know. It’s hard.”

“I’m trying. the other day I was telling one friend at the table a story and she fake-laughed. I mean, really fake-laughed. Then she looked at some of the other girls.”

“Ugh. That’s awful” I said.

“I don’t know what to do. It’s frustrating.”

I thought for a moment. “The other day, I saw you talking with–”

Sweets interrupted me. “Yeah. We’re ok. I worked it out with her.”

“That’s wonderful” I said. “I think that’s the right idea. Keep looking for moments like that when you can have good talks with your friends. Don’t worry about explaining yourself or trying to understand. Be who you say you are. That’s one of the most important things a person can do. Show your friends by your actions and your words that you like them. That way the reality they experience will blow the rumor away. It won’t happen right away. It will take time. You just keep being you. Keep showing them that the person you are on the inside is someone who likes them, even though they can’t see it on the outside. Sometimes it’s just hard to see what’s in front of you. You know, the way I sometimes look for the hat that’s already sitting on my head.” She smiled. We hugged, and continued making dinner.

—

Christmas is about to begin. While it’s good to give, it’s a period of peak tension. There is only one shopping day left. Do I have all the gifts I want to give? Am I forgetting anyone? Rushing to and fro makes it hard to remember who we are, and why we’re doing what we’re doing. Last night I dreaded heading out to shop. I left late and parked in the lot of a movie theater behind the strip of shops that were my destination. I did everything I could to avoid the crowds. I wanted to zip quickly in and out of stores, conserve my energy, etc. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

As I left one store I ran into a woman I sing with in my church choir. While in another I saw another choir member, and her son. Their warm smiles helped me remember that I was doing not just what I needed to do. I was in my community, doing something I wanted, for others. In a way my Christmas began last night as God became incarnate in those two small moments. They helped me forget that my last-minute timing was bothering me. It didn’t matter. They helped me remember who I was, and why I was doing what I was doing. When what we think and feel, lines up with everything we’re doing on the outside? That alignment of presence is a present greater than all the gifts there are.

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Dec 14 2014
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Advent, Faith, Forgiveness

Finding God In Our Darkness.

I started working on a post at the beginning of last week for the second week of Advent. Writing now after midnight on Saturday, it’s clear I didn’t get there.

Catholic churches during Advent are subdued. There are no Christmas decorations to be seen, save a Giving Tree decorated with tags listing the name of a person and a suggestion for a gift. The color of the season, like three of the four candles on the Advent wreath, is purple. While Advent is a season of waiting, it’s also one of repentance. We repent because we’re aware that there is a difference between what we do, and who we say we are or want to be.

Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice. Three recent examples of this tension, or difference that folks in the U.S. are wrestling with. Who do we think we are? Who do we say we are? What do the actions of those who act on our behalf say? What does our discomfort with their actions say? What will we do? Anything? We are not yet who we wish to be.

Today is the two-year anniversary of the killing of twenty-six people at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, CT. In the last two years, there have been 23 more shootings in schools. We are not who we say we are. We are not yet who we wish to be.

Like many, I followed the release of the Senate Intelligence Committee’s Torture Report on Tuesday. I found Andrew Sullivan’s live blogging of the report’s release gut-wrenching. As the self-proclaimed leaders of the free world, the report makes clear: We are not yet who we wish to be. How do we prepare the way of the Lord in this context? Where is God in our darkness?

That’s my question, and prayer. It may be yours as well. Certainly, it’s the prayer of the Brown, Garner, and Rice families. The prayer of the families of those who were killed in Newtown, CT. The prayer of the families of those who’ve been tortured in our name.

Where is God in our darkness? The Christian answer is a simple one. It’s so simple half the time Christians miss it completely. We think of Jesus as the one who defeated death. We claim Jesus’ triumph over sin, and forget his broken body that hung on the cross. We think of that triumph and forget the reminder in Matthew’s Gospel:

“‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? 38 And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing?39 And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’ 40 And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family,[g] you did it to me.’” (Mt 25:37-40, NRSV)

By extension, our question might be, “Lord, when did we find you on the cross?” That’s where God was–it’s where God, is. Paul J. Nuechterlein in a wonderful Advent homily concludes:

“As long as there is suffering in this world, that is where God will be. And, when we learn to find God there and go to be with God there, then won’t the suffering finally end? If everyone learns to find God and to be with God among the suffering, then who will be left to cause the suffering? Then, when we all learn where to find God and where to be with God, then will that Christmas prophecy of Isaiah come to fulfillment: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness–on them light has shined. For unto us a child is born; authority rests upon his shoulders; and he is named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:2,6) Amen.”

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Dec 01 2014
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Advent, Holidays, Life

It’s Good To Give.

Every year I wrestle with what I’m going to do to keep the season of Advent. It’s a question because while the religious season of Christmas doesn’t begin until December 25th. That’s when our cultural celebration ends.

Not that I shy away from holiday festivities. Not at all. I go caroling with my neighbors. I bake cookies in seasonal shapes, and wear a Christmas tree hat as that day approaches. This past Saturday I visited Bryant Park in New York city, as well as Rockefeller Center with my kids. The tree is up and lit in Bryant Park. Rockefeller Center’s is up too, but won’t be lit until Wednesday. I won’t see it for a few weeks. I’ll have to wait. Waiting is what Advent is about.

The waiting is for the birth of Jesus, who has already come, and who Christians hope will come again. In a sense, Advent is like the last weeks of a pregnancy. You know the baby is coming, and it’s just a matter of time until she does. The tension I experience between Advent and our cultural celebration of Christmas is something like having baby shower after baby shower before the birth. When the child is born, everyone celebrates, then goes home. Try that with a family member!

One of the reasons I like all the trappings of red and green–even while my church is draped in solemn purple–is because of the way we’re encouraged to think beyond ourselves. While it’s easy to get bogged down finding just the right gift, I like the simple reminder of the season: it’s good to give.

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Aug 12 2014
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Healing, Life, Love

Please Stay.

You, reading this, and feeling that you are alone, that no one is there, or can possibly understand what you are going through because being raw with vulnerability, you wonder what worth your life has. Thank you for staying.

You don’t know this, but you posted a status the other day–on Facebook–that lifted my spirits and turned around my day. I liked it, but didn’t tell you how much it mattered to me because while I’m a huge mush most of the time, I’m shy, too.

Last week you tweeted a picture of a quote I found inspiring. Now, I only retweet or favorite those, every once in a great while. That’s on principle. I can be silly that way. I didn’t let you know.

I haven’t told you how much I like seeing your endless selfies, vacation shots, pictures of things you find interesting, and pics of kids I have never met, or don’t really know. Often your smiles, and theirs help me wear one on my face. I love smiling. Thank you for those gifts.

When you invite me to things, I’m grateful for being thought of, even if the event is hundreds of miles away. How could I possibly attend? You know that, and asked anyway. Thank you. The invites across town? They mean a lot too. Even I don’t go. Keep including me the way you do. It helps me remember I’m not alone.

Like a lot of people, I’m stubbornly set in my ways. I don’t think I am of course (who does). You help me break free, and think differently about things I think I know. You’ve introduced me to things I wouldn’t otherwise know anything about. My sense of life is bigger as a result. All I can say is, “Wow!”

When I’m too serious, you help me remember there is a lighter side, and way of seeing almost everything. I often forget it’s there, waiting to be discovered. I have let out the most wonderful belly laughs as a result. Thank you for them, also.

You teach me a lot. I bet you don’t know that. About what it means to love, to have courage, to persevere, and find a way through. You help me get perspective when I’m struggling. You’re wonderful that way. You really are.

When you ran into me at the grocery store you asked me my favorite question: “How are you?” For a lot of people the question is a throwaway, something you say. It matters to me. You remembered that and gave me your attention as you asked. You gave me your presence, too. There’s no greater gift.

All these little things you do, all of them, they help make my days–which are sometimes very hard–brighter, and easier to get through. These are just a few examples of the way you make a difference in my life. Thank you for staying. I know there are moments when choosing to stay takes all the courage you have. If it sounds like I’m being a little selfish here, I am. Last night I learned what it’s like to have a Mork-shaped hole in my heart. I don’t like this feeling. It hurts. And well, this is something else on my list of things we’ve been through together. You’ve held me through so much. Ha! What a wonderful auto-correct typo! I meant, you’ve helped me through so much. Really, what you’ve done is hold me. I hope I get the chance sometime to hold you, too. Please stay.

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Apr 14 2014
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Family, Growing Up, Life, Parenting

Why Is This Night Different From All Other Nights?

Tonight at dinner Sweets complained that she wished her cell phone had a front-facing camera, so that she could Skype her friends. Hearing this Bud muttered, “That’s such a first world problem.” Sweets looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?” “Well, the richest countries in the world are the First World countries. The next level are Second World. Then poorer countries, are Third World countries.” He paused. I looked to see if Sweets recognized the terms he was using. That’s when I heard Bud say, “Dad? Can you help?” I turned toward him. “You’re doing fine. Why don’t you give her some examples of what you mean?”

—

It’s Passover, and Easter is just around the corner. This morning while searching for a Passover quote by Walter Brueggemann–my favorite Hebrew Scripture scholar–I stumbled across this article by Carol Sowa about a talk he gave in 2002. In the talk, Brueggemann considers the important role Scripture plays in offering a sense of reality that contrasts with our typical understanding of the way things are:

The narratives of the Torah are designed to construct an alternative world. The oracles of the prophets are basically designed to subvert…. to call into question, to expose its (the world’s) inadequacy and phoniness.

Interesting words. Most of us don’t walk around thinking that our sense of reality is limited or inadequate. It’s more typical, I think, to believe our personal understanding of the way things are is as considered, and well thought out. At the same time, when we meet someone with a different perspective, it the experience is flummoxing. We find ourselves wondering how it is possible that such an otherwise decent person could think the way they do. We can’t imagine the possibility that this other person has given as much care to thinking through their thoughts and ideas, as we have. This is true, even when we live in the same neighborhood, and our kids attend the same schools. We don’t know how to value their different perspective.

—

My kids often take pleasure reminding me that my way of looking at things is limited. There was a time when their mom and I were two people with all the answers they needed. Our word, and God’s? One and the same. That time has passed. Tonight in that same conversation, I talked about wanting to see a new exhibit at the Carnegie Museum of Art. Hearing that Sweets responded, “Dad. Do you know what going to a museum with you is like? You spend an hour in front of a single painting. Then you say something like, “Do you see the bit of yellow in the corner? That changes it completely for me!” She laughed and continued. “At least it’s not as bad as when you take pictures.” She mimes holding a camera. “You’ll look at a flower from every angle you can so you don’t miss anything.” Bud waited for her to finish, then asked wryly, “Isn’t your major Visual Arts?” “Shut up” was all she said in reply.

—

In Sowa’s article about Brueggemann’s talk she notes that:

He sees the missionary task of the church…”to enhance the human for the sake of our common humanity….I propose that our task is to help people host an alternative world of imagination that arises from narratives and oracles.”  [T]his is accomplished through the telling of stories which “invites the children into an amazed, dazzled world of miracles.”

It’s Passover. You can see the edge of this happening during Passover Seders. Throughout the meal, it’s the kids who have the most fun. Before the story of the Exodus is read, the youngest asks a basic question: “Why is this night different from all other nights?” The Four Questions follow, all to help the kids understand why this meal is celebrated the way it is. At the end of the meal, they search for the Afikomen, and hope for the reward that comes with finding it, first.

—

From time to time, Sweets asks me, “Why do we have pasta every night?” When she does, I’ll sometimes walk her back through her last week of meals. Even though I can show her that before the evening’s meal she hasn’t had pasta in nearly a week, it’s hard for her to let go of her conviction. Letting go is often one of the hardest things we do. We fear that when we let go, we’ll lose something in the process. The result is that we’re good at holding on tightly.

What we don’t see is that when we let go, we create space for things to happen. Things we didn’t imagine we could see or think, understand, feel, and express can take place. Things that are different. As a parent, a chunk of helping to created those spaces involves keeping my mouth shut. That isn’t always easy to do. It’s easier for me to explain a concept I’m familiar with, than it is to let Bud work through his ideas as best he can. In many ways, the best thing I can do for him, is be encouraging. Help is affirming him, and no more. He has do it on his own. That’s me, letting go so that he can stretch. It’s also remembering that Sweets tells her stories out of love, even when she complains.  She’s reminding me that the way I experience things isn’t the way she does. We help each other grow, and adapt when we’re able to listen, and accept.

I want to them to feel comfortable stretching.What my kids don’t know is that life is full of impossible crossings. When I look back, I see many times when my imagination failed me. Something happened and I couldn’t see any way I would get through. And then, I did. What seemed impossible, and a threat, passed over. Catching moments like that has always amazed me. Of course they did. They’re the sort of miracles we live in our every day. Examples of possibility that made a day, or night, different from any other before it.

 

 

 

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Mar 05 2014
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Lent, Life

Let It Go!

During the Oscars Sunday night, John Travolta mangled his introduction of Idina Menzel. In an instant she became Adele Dazeem. Almost as quickly a meme was born. As a result, you too, can “Travoltify” your name. On Monday’s episode of  The Tonight Show, host Jimmy Fallon wondered what went through Idina Menzel’s mind when she heard John Travolta’s introduction. “Let it go! Let it go!” is what he imagined. A day later, John Travolta’s publicist reported that is also what Travolta is trying to do. I hope he isn’t ashamed of what happened. He made a mistake. He’ll make others too. Idina Menzel? I’m sure that is a name he’ll never forget.

It’s Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. The other night Sweets asked me what I was giving up for Lent. That’s the tradition, to abstain from something you enjoy to remind you of the habit, practice, or attitude you want to embrace. There’s more to the season, of course, what it’s about and why Christians keep it. This isn’t “that” kind of post. She said she is giving up meat (her brother Bud is, too). “Why?” I asked. “I think it will be good.” “Good?” I said. “Yes. Good.” “You know,” I said, ” We’re almost Vegetarian. Why don’t you give up dessert instead?” “Dessert?” Her eyes widened as she said the word. “I could never do that!” We laughed.

Sweets doesn’t have words to describe what she is giving up meat for. Not yet anyway. When she figures it out, I’m sure she will tell me. She’s good at that, in the way tweens are. In the mean time, she will do her best with this discipline. She’ll make mistakes, yes. That’s okay. If anything, my role is to help her be gentle with herself, when she does.

We make mistakes. We have habits, and attitudes we’d like to change. If we’re ashamed of these habits, they can turn into personal versions of the Adele Dazeem meme. When that happens they have too much power. It’s time to let go. As you think about the way you’d like to change, consider singing along with the song. Don’t try to change because you want to be perfect. No. Let go of the burden feeling you have to be perfect brings. As the song says, let the old needing to be perfect you of the “past be in the past” so that a wholehearted human you can “rise like the break of dawn.” “Let it go!”

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Aug 05 2013
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Death, Family, Growing Up, Life, Love, Parenting

Ten Lessons I Learned From My Other Dad.

I’ve always thought of myself as someone whose been lucky enough to have had two dads instead of one. Seventeen years ago today, I lost my other dad. What follows are a handful of the things I learned from knowing him.

1. Let your life be about abundance.

My example of this is a small one. Most Sundays, breakfast consists of two eggs fried sunny side up, with bacon, hash browns, toast, and a great cup of coffee. That is, unless I have something to celebrate. Then the hash browns turn into potato salad. The toast turns into an “everything” bagel, the butter a smear of cream cheese blended with, or topped with lox (and onion, and capers). Sometimes I’ll skip the lox, and substitute white fish salad. When this breakfast becomes lunch I keep the eggs, and add the white fish salad as a side. Just like that, lunch becomes a feast. I didn’t grow up on these breakfast foods. Bay and Annie shared them with me. What good is the richness of your bounty, if it isn’t shared?

2. Be welcoming.

When a friend comes to your door, greet them with a smile and a bear of a hug. Every time. It’s the way he welcomed me every time I visited. It’s the way I welcome people I love.

3. Laugh, and laugh again.

My dad gave me my love of everything Broadway, and did his best to teach me about Classical music. We saw good movies, and many of them had to do with music (funny that). Bay helped me discover my love for physical comedy. It was with him that I first watched–on television–the wonder that is “It’s a Mad Mad Mad World.” There’s a fabulous collection of moments from the film here. My dad is quieter than Bay was. Watching it, Bay laughed to the point of tears. More than anything, when I think of the way I know to laugh, and that it’s okay to simply let loose, and laugh myself to the point where I’m gasping for breath? That was one of his gifts to me.

4. Don’t forget to laugh at yourself.

He owned an unusual looking car. A brand I’d never heard of. An Avanti. A what? Exactly. What I remember most about it was that it often didn’t run. One time, would-be thieves tried to steal it from a repair shop, and failed. They started it, rolled it into the side of the shop, and left it there. The car didn’t have any brakes. Or was it, no steering? It may well have been both! Whenever he told the story, he laughed.

Once while in high school I was out driving with a group of friends. I was in my car, a Dodge. JBR, Bay’s son–and my best friend–was driving his dad’s Avanti. We were driving aimlessly as teens can, happy to have friends in both cars. More importantly, some of these friends were girls we hoped to impress. We needed a destination. I tried to flag him down and was unsuccessful. Knowing that he’d boasted the Avanti had a Corvette engine, and knowing that mine had a powerful engine of its own, I decided on a manly approach. I would pass him. We were driving in an empty county park after dusk. What could happen? 

I stunned JBR with the attempt, and was successful. As soon as I passed him, I saw blue lights in my rear view. A county police officer ticketed me for speeding. I was driving a grand 40 mph in a 25 mph zone. “Officer,” I said, “we weren’t racing. I was trying to get him to stop.” I actually said those words. “License and registration” was all I heard in reply. A speeding ticket for driving forty miles per hour? Yes, I was foolish to speed, even at that rate. Reasoning with the officer? That was pure folly. Later that night, I was too stunned to laugh. Too afraid of what my dad would say. When he heard the story? Bay laughed out loud, and out of love. My dad? I think he laughed too. Me? It took a while.

5. Some choices are simple and make perfect sense. When they do, make them.

What else stays? When I joined Bay’s family for trips to dinner, or to see a movie, we always took their Civic. It was new, and tiny. What did I notice most? It ran and ran, and ran. After the folly of the Avanti, it was the perfect car.

I purchased the first car I owned from his eldest daughter. It was five years old, a diesel, and got fifty miles on a gallon of fuel. I asked a mechanic about it. He told me that diesel engines “ran forever.” The car was immaculate. She had every receipt for every repair and oil change the car had ever had. That choice was simple. Seven years later, and with over 170,000 miles on the odometer, I gave it away and replaced it with an Acura. I’d planned on buying a Civic, longed for an Accord, and ended up with an Acura for a price in between a Civic and an Accord. That was also a simple choice. It is also as close as I’ve come to an Avanti moment. Fortunately the Acura ran well, and long. By the time I gave it away, I’d replaced everything on it except the engine block. Now I drive a Civic. It too, runs and runs, and runs.

6. Life is about taking care of others.

My folks raised me with a strong sense of Catholic tradition. In practice, my understanding about what’s most important, revolves around what people do, not what they say they believe. That’s orthopraxis trumping orthodoxy. I remember many conversations over dinner, and after dinner, having to do with healthcare, and the emergence of HIV. What mattered most to Bay–as I remember–was doing whatever could be done to help those who had HIV, and to protect those at risk for contracting the virus. Even now, his passion for justice, informs both my faith, and my life.

7. Share your stories.

It doesn’t matter how many times you tell your stories. Tell them again. Stories are one of the ways we help each other remember that we share a human experience. That matters. Bay loved to look over the top of his glasses when he wanted to reinforce a point he was making, or deliver a punch line to a great story. With a gleam in his eye, and a smile on his face, I wanted to listen, even when I’d heard the story before (sometimes especially then). 

In 1947 Bay founded the Atlantic Chemical Corporation with his brother Rubin. Rubin is also a storyteller. Here are a few comments about Bay that are part of a larger, and very funny rendering of Rubin’s career in the dyestuffs industry. If you can imagine this story punctuated with laughter, along with hand gestures assuring you that the best is yet to come? Well, you’ll have a sense of the way Bay told stories.

“The most dynamic guy I know is my brother Bay. He is also the only man I know who could have built the Great Pyramids without stones. He could have done it on enthusiasm alone. Bay, my sons Jon and Josh, and I were the sole owners of Atlantic.

I remember once a frantic call from Bay at the Nutley factory to me at our headquarters office. He needed some money immediately. Without a second thought, I quickly dispatched a messenger to Nutley with $200.00. I figured a “collect” freight must have arrived or something equally urgent. I called Bay to tell him that $200.00 was rushing on its way. Would it be enough? There was a prolonged silence…”I only needed money for a haircut,” said he.

Bay’s penchant for surplus machinery at bargain prices was legendary. Nothing compares to his purchase of one million dollars worth of Univac equipment from Army surplus for $5,000.00. Atlantic may have had the first computerized inventory system in the dye business.

One day I received this phone call: “Mr. Rabinowitz, this is the US Naval Base in New London, CT. We are pleased to inform you that yours was the successful bid on Lot #543A, one surplus, slightly used submarine. Please tell us where you would like this delivered.” I was absolutely and totally speechless. I couldn’t even stammer. The thought of a submarine parked in our yard next to micro-motors, Irish shillelaghs, lead-lined tanks and tons of hopcolite my dear brother had bought for “future” use was too much to absorb. All I could manage were some strangled sounds. Suddenly, I detected a giggle on the telephone wire. Who the *@#x* is this, I demanded? The laughter broke out in full force. It was Bill Hoffman, P.A. of Burlington Industries, surrounded by a bunch of other low-life friends of ours just having some fun at my expense.

To this day, very few people, except for Max Birnbaum, know that surplus beams from the second layer construction of the [George] Washington Bridge support much of Nutley’s equipment, Bay may have been given to overdesign since these beams could have supported the Empire State Building!”

8. How Love Works.

This piece of wisdom is the way he described his romance with his wife, Annie. I think it’s the only way love, for me, has ever worked:

I chased her, and chased her, and chased her. Finally, she caught me!

9. Words matter. People matter more.

Sometimes Bay would join JBR and I as we watched a baseball or football game on TV. I learned to look forward to the comments he made during the game. Invariably a certain moment would repeat. A play would end and he’d turn around. Looking at us over the top of his glasses, he’d shake his head and say, “Would you believe that? They did it again. He made a catch, not a ketch. A ketch is a boat for christ sake!” Words matter.

At the same time, he never corrected my usage of words. I’m sure I gave him many opportunities. For a time, I had a girl friend for who loved to correct every mistake in usage I ever made. He never did. They both helped me pay attention to the words I use. The people who use them? He continues to help me remember that they matter more.

10. Celebrate, and give honor where it is due.

Bay’s and Annie’s New Years parties were legendary. Their house would fill wall to wall with people. I’d see family, friends, neighbors, teachers, and more folks I didn’t know. To me, it seemed like they’d invited everyone in our town. At Hanukkah, Bay’d light the menorah, and the window facing the front of the living room would become quiet sacred space. “Blessed are you O Lord our God, King of the universe…”

When I was accepted to college. When I graduated. When I landed my first job. When I was engaged to be married (both times). When I married. What ever event was taking place in either family, they joined in or included me. We celebrated. Even moves. I helped with a number of moves. Wait a minute!

Bay passed away around the time “Bud” was conceived. When he was born, choosing his middle name was easy. Its Bay, and as his mom and I have always hoped, he’s becoming a man with a passion for life, and a love for people.

With appreciation, honor, and a lot of love for Bay Rabinowitz, born November 24, 1922 (a guesstimate), and who died on August 5, 1996. Thank you for all the lessons you keep teaching me.

Dec 21 2012
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Death, Family, Healing, Life, Parenting, Politics

What Matters: Living After Sandy Hook.

On Thursday, I did some last minute shopping at Target. At Sweets’ school, today is Pajama dress down day. The kids can wear pajamas to school in place of their regular uniforms. In preparation–after deciding she didn’t have anything suitable to wear at home–Sweets poured through racks of fleece and cotton sleepwear. Finding two different sets with potential, she asked, “Dad, where are the dressing rooms again?” “Walk from here to that corner over there” I said, while pointing to a wall on the other side of the store. “That’s where they are.” “Okay. I’m going to try these on. Will you be here when I get back?” “Yes” I said. She walked the fifty yards to the dressing rooms alone. I remained where I was, chatting with a friend. Target is a place where Sweets feels safe. I do, too.

While we were there, we ran into six other students, their parents, and one of the school’s First Grade teachers. Everyone was shopping for pajamas. I walked over to the teacher to say hello. It was the first time I’d had a moment with her since last Friday’s shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary. This teacher is a marvelous person, and such a good teacher that parents with children in her class, often request that she teach their next child as well. I’ve had that conversation. I’ve encouraged other parents to have that conversation. She’s that good. While we were talking, I swallowed hard. If my daughter’s school was Sandy Hook, she might have been one of the victims. It was a sobering moment.
—
Last Friday, when the news about the shootings broke, I was stunned. “Not again,” I thought. I spent much of the day driving. I was spending the weekend with my parents. My dad had heart bypass surgery just before Thanksgiving. He was coming home. I wanted to be available to help with any transition issues that might arise. I’d also planned to meet with a friend. We were going to organize Christmas cards. Mine never seem to make it into the mail (I say “maybe this year,” every year).

In the car, I moved in and out of the range of a given radio station’s signal. As I did I invariably ran into the tragedy as “breaking” news. It was disorienting. I didn’t want the drive to become an extended meditation on what had just happened. I turned off the radio and traded it for un-listened podcasts on my iPod.

I finished the drive, and met my friend. The first thing that came up in conversation? Sandy Hook. After a few minutes, we let the topic go. Like me, she was struggling to understand how something like this could have happened. A while later, I noticed her two year old trying to climb onto an office chair using the space under the arm rest as his entry point. Concerned that he might get stuck, or fall, I picked him up and held him high, so that he could touch the ceiling. I set him down and he bent his legs. He was ready to leap again. We repeated the play again and again. Enough times that he was able to hit the ceiling with his right hand, with his left, and with the two of them together in multiple combinations. We repeated this until my arms tired. For me, the moment of play became a symbolic action of a future filled with hope. One where he would break through whatever ceiling was before him. One, where the sky would be his limit.
—
In Target, the teacher asked me, “Has Sweets started making snowflakes?” Her daughter, who is seven looked up and said, “Mom, who’s making snowflakes?” “I think you will. Maybe tomorrow” she replied. “What for?” “A lot of schools are making snowflakes for other children, so that when they come to school it will look like a Winter wonderland. Isn’t that wonderful?” “Yes!” Her daughter clearly liked the idea. “Can we make snowflakes too Mom?” “Of course.” The teacher looked at me. I wanted to ask how she was. She beat me to the punch. “How is Sweets doing?” “I think she’s okay,” I said. “I asked her if she’d heard about what happened, which she had. I asked if she wanted to talk about it. She didn’t. I let her know that if she wants to, we can, but we don’t have to. She told me there was a moment of silence on Monday “which is what we always do when something bad happens.”” Sweets’ teacher chuckled, and added, “I think that’s a good approach. There’s no need to take her anywhere she’s not ready to go. All it will do is scare her.”
—
During the past week, I’ve been thinking about how a person is supposed to respond, how we’re supposed to live, after an event like this. There are obvious things. Gun control. Everywhere else in the world, when something like this has happened limiting access to guns has dramatically curtailed further incidents of gun related violence. This is not a Second Amendment issue. This is common sense. The politics of gun control may be difficult. The logic is clear.

We need to do more to support the Mental health of our citizens. Stories like this one are heartbreaking. Collectively, taking care of those who cannot take care of themselves, is a responsibility we share.

The most important thing we can do? That’s easy. It’s this: show up. Stress, anxiety and shock shut us down. They keep us from feeling comfortable walking across a department store where most days we are safe. It keeps parents from finding friendship with each other over time, in the places where they gather. The way I do, at Target, and my children’s schools.

As she disappeared from view I didn’t worry that Sweets wasn’t in my line of sight. She knows how to behave around strangers, and she’d checked to make sure she knew where to find me when she returned. Those gestures, and her simple walk, are small unconscious ways we all have of showing that violence doesn’t win. It’s a way we have of putting the evil that happened at Sandy Hook, in its place. During the past week, people have been bringing stuffed animals, candles, and flowers to makeshift memorials throughout Newtown, CT. These acts do the same thing. They convey our mourning, yes. They speak to the reality of our shared pain. Most important, they are a way of saying to the families of the victims: You are not alone. We are with you.
—
For me, one of the wonders of the presence of newborn children is the way babies re-orient a parent’s life. Everything a parent does, has the child’s well-being at the center. Nothing else is important. New parents know this, and feel the weight of responsibility, as they leave the hospital, or their birth center. The stakes are high, a new life is in your hands, and there’s no manual. Newborns and young children are often overwhelming. They eat at all hours. They sleep and wake when they want to. They pee and poop without asking if you have a diaper handy, or a change of clothing nearby. Sometimes, five minutes after they finish, they do it again. Still, most new parents learn to successfully shift their attention from what I want to do, to what the baby needs.
—
Last Friday, after dinner, my friend said, “I don’t think I can work on Christmas cards tonight.” I sighed in relief. I couldn’t think about bringing glad tidings. Not that night. Instead, we watched a movie with her nine year old daughter. I sat on one side of her child, my friend on the other. The movie, “Henry Poole Is Here” is a quirky tale of redemption. I needed something to redeem the day. As the DVD played, I realized I didn’t like the film. Neither did my friend. In the end, our sense of it wasn’t important. We looked to the child sitting in our midst. If she wanted to watch it, we would. If not, we’d find something else. We checked with her multiple times. Every time, she said that she wanted to keep watching. That’s what happened. That night, like many people, we were out of sorts. I was reeling. Without thinking we knew one thing: nothing was more important than meeting her needs.

A week later, that remains true. I think the way to think about what to do, how to respond, and how to live after Sandy Hook, must begin by thinking as differently as the parent of a newborn does. We need to re-orient our sense of what we want and need. We have to keep showing up, and live as if the needs of our children trump any of our own. We must do this, today, tomorrow and every day after, because they really do. Our children aren’t simply our future. They are our precious present. Nothing else matters.

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