Dallin Malmgren's Blog, page 32

Handling finances — a perspective

What is the number one source of stress in a marriage? Raise your hand if you said money. Not only do I think you’re right, I think you’re mostly right no matter how much money the couple makes. (Okay, maybe LeBron and Tiger don’t stress about it.) For being such an important factor in a marriage, I wonder why we don’t give it more thought. Worrying is not thinking. Some of my biggest regrets in my marriage have to do with how I handled money. So much anxiety, so little faith.

A word about the nature of $ — it is the most insidious of all our temptations, because most of the time we don’t even realize it is working on us. The unveiling of lust is pretty obvious—someone stirs you, and if you allow, you begin walking down that path—you know where you are going (no matter how hard you deny it to yourself). But when I say I don’t want to go out to eat and I really don’t want to spend the money…that’s a pretty easy lie to sell myself and others. Money is the devil’s number one go-to; even sex comes second. The desire is universal–have you seen those lines when the lottery goes high?

But I was a hippie. When the running down the road was over, and I had a wife and a child and no career, I knew I had a choice to make. I could go for making money or learn to be happy with less. I chose the latter because pursuing money was distasteful to me (people used to tell me I would make a good salesman)—but I would not say unilaterally it was the best choice. The Beatles did it to me—they had money and they said, “All you need is love.”

So Karen and I were married, and we were dirt poor, and oh my goodness, what a stressor that was! It got so bad that Karen took over the checkbook and the bills for a period of time. I think it might have lasted over a year. I took over again when she started working outside the home. I have offered the job back many times—she is not interested.

Several couples who are very close to us keep separate finances. I would not judge. This is why our attitudes about money must be transparent—marriage has to begin as an awareness of equal footing. Where those feet are placed is each couple’s own choice. The same goes for pre-nuptial agreements—let the two who are supposed to become one determine their own financial arrangement. The only flag I’m raising says: this is an important factor—make sure you are in harmony.

All of us have probably witnessed (if not experienced) the effects that bad finances have on a family. Everything becomes precarious. Uncertainty pervades the house. The stress factor goes ballistic. Optimism is confronted by reality. Lies are told. The family tiptoes forward. (There is a wonderful story by D.H. Lawrence called The Rocking Horse Winner that examines the familial effects of financial stress.) The outcome is seldom uplifting.

There are countless cases of financial catastrophe, which I am conveniently ignoring. Not because I am unsympathetic. I saw a story on the news yesterday about a Wisconsin man whose generational family farm was going under—and certainly not because of a lack of hard work. The man admitted to being suicidal. Then there are illnesses, accidents, disasters, betrayals, reversals, and on and on. I’m not addressing them because I lack the wisdom. I don’t know how to process the many sources of tragedy and sadness—the best solution I can come up with so far is prayer.

Speaking of, our obsession with money has a paralytic effect on spiritual growth. Everything becomes a negotiation: how much do we want it versus can we afford it? The “want” side seems to be the more frequent winner. That is called Debt. Debt is a searcher who seeks to suck the vitality out of your livelihood and then goes for the soul. He is an agent of the devil. Over time Debt grinds you like branches in a wood chipper.

But if you stay on top of it…there is this wonderful, nirvanic place called RETIREMENT. You don’t have to be wealthy—you just have to be secure. You want to help your children. You don’t need a lot for yourself…I could play Pebble or I could play Plantation (my home course)…is there really that much difference if I am enjoying myself? The rest is gloss.

So how do you get a handle on money? Don’t think that it doesn’t matter—just be wise in how it matters to you. Do not ever equate it with happiness or peace or serenity…put it in the right perspective…another tool to advance your growth. Thank You, Lord, for money.

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Lies

Photo by Karen Malmgren

I still tell them., even though I shouldn’t. I mean, I don’t tell Trump lies, where I make things up, or hyperbolize things from sources that are questionable. And I don’t tell sin lies, like “I was at the gym,” when I come back home from my secret lover’s. (Ha, that’s a laugh) I mostly tell peaceful lies, like: “Did you take care of that credit card issue?” “Yeah, no problem.” And then I go do it. It’s still a lie, isn’t it?

Thou shalt not lie. It’s there, plain as paper. I was discussing it with Harper, my 7-year-old granddaughter. “What if your best friend was wearing a dress, and you really didn’t think it was a pretty dress, and she asks, ‘Do you like my dress?’” Promptly, “No, I really don’t think it’s a pretty dress—I have to be honest.” Hmmm…so I said, “What if you said: ‘I don’t think that dress would look very good on me, but I can tell you like it, so I think it suits you.’” And Harper said, “Oh, yes, that’s a much better answer.” Now my question to you is: did I corrupt my granddaughter?

Talk about slippery slopes! Jesus said, “I am the truth…” You can’t walk up to people and say, “Jesus is the truth.” Well, you can, but it won’t be very effective. (I’ve tried it a few times.) You have to show that Jesus is the truth. You have to show that the girl is more important than the dress (even if she doesn’t realize it). The worst thing the truth can become is rigid. The stone tablets broke. Someone tell the fundamentalists.

I had an idea for a short story in which my protagonist, a teenage girl, woke up and decided she would speak only the truth for the entire day. I had several goes at it, but I could never get much beyond the plotting/outlining stage. My protagonist always ended up obnoxious or boring or mute.

So how do we navigate in this super-interactive, touch-of-the-fingers, always-available network of friendship and love? As I read it, the most popular response is to hit “like”. Which probably shows how callow our relationships have become (no one is worse about this than me). So how to develop honest relationships on whatever level? The Bible advises: “Speak the truth in love.” I think this might be the trickiest verse in a book full of mysteries—but also the secret to building real relationships. Because there is an underlying principle that often gets ignored—if you can’t speak in love, then shut up. We sometimes use the “Speak the truth..” part to unload.

I resolve to stop lying—it’s just not right. But I also realize I have to become far more creative in how I speak. The harsh word (no matter how honest”, the manipulative word (no matter how effective), the conciliatory word (no matter how obfuscating)—all are an attempt to control the other person. “Speak the truth in love”—freedom in communication.

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Sleeplessness — why, Lord?

Artwork by Annalisa Barelli

A disclaimer: I am not that well qualified to write about this. I’m only a mild, almost rare, sufferer of insomnia, and I’m retired! So the pain, the distress, the anxiety is only secondary to me. When you know you need to go to sleep, as soon as possible, and you’re not able to…that stress is out of my league at this stage of my life. But it hits me occasionally, so I know what it is like to lie awake at night in bed in the dark with your eyes wide open. I have some ideas about it. If this helps someone else deal with the problem, that’s gravy to me.

It happened once this week, and I’m not sure why. Oh, I can identify a few minor factors that may have unsettled my disposition, but nothing definitive. I didn’t go to sleep thinking of this or that specific thing. I was playing golf in the morning, but that is not a stressor to me. I’ve played good and I’ve played lousy, and the only person that truly affects is me, and I can handle it. I’m retired. I can take a nap after golf.

But why can’t I sleep? It used to happen when I had major issues at school—an angry parent, some administrative reprimand (I had a few of those), a screw-up on my part, even an impending evaluation. Not a factor in my life right now. I have noticed that the number one thing that can kick me out of the sleep cycle is being out of sorts with Karen. I don’t mean a fight. More often than that, it is things that have been left unsaid. But we are not on the same page, and we both know it, and I can’t sleep. (Karen has a different approach—discord is a good reason to go to bed early—the girl has wonderful defense mechanisms.) So I get up and head to my alternate bed.

What do I do when I can’t sleep? Read, of course. That has always been my number one go-to cure—and it is frequently effective. My friend Carie once selected the book Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie for our book club. I thanked her for picking the most soporific novel in history. (I still keep it around, but even insomnia can’t drive me to it). But reading is not a cure-all. A while back I read Breakfast of Champions until the words all ran together on the page and I had zero recollection of what I read on the previous page—so I put the book down and switched out the light. Only there is another switch in my brain…when it is OFF, I will doze off. But when it is ON, there is no way I am going to fall asleep—exercise doesn’t matter, will power means nothing, counting sheep—hah!, replaying the day’s round of golf in my head–meditation—relaxation—breathing—praying—hymns—verses; nothing works. I have absolutely no control over the ON switch.

Aside: the song stuck in my head. This only peripherally relates to insomnia. I will frequently have a song stuck in my head as I lay in bed. Not a whole song, but a fragment; a few lines or a chorus. It spins around and around. This is maddening, even if I like the song. If I nod off, it will pop right back up when I wake up. Apparently, the MUSIC switch is hidden somewhere near the ON switch in my brain—no control over either. (Is this just me, or is this humanity?)

Of course, there is a spiritual side to this. As I lie there awake, I know He is with me (“I am with you always…” Matthew 28:20). I am invited to abide in Him (“…abide in me and I in you…” John 15:4)—and so I try. Trying is not abiding. Then come the prayers and the hymns. I usually roll over to the other side between them. I’m learning that the Lord’s answer to this is the same as to my prayers about being out of sorts with Karen. I should figure out what’s going on and deal with it. Prayerfully.

An afterthought (this column is supposed to be helpful): Breathing helps me the most. Breathing in His peace and breathing out my neuroses. I sometimes count and see if I can make it to 100. Often, I don’t (that’s a win!) And when I do, that’s insomnia. The best thing I can say to anyone who has to get up and perform the next day is: don’t stop praying when you get out of bed. Pray the whole day through. You will make it.

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I Will Be Brave…a meditation on fear

I think fear is evil’s most powerful weapon. Fear pits itself against some of the human spirit’s most benevolent impulses. Fear keeps us from becoming the kind of people we want to be. Fear paralyzes, love flows.

There are two types of fear: external and internal. I listed external first because it is the more publicized. Just watching the news this week, I felt the fear of sharks, tornadoes, Russians, buffalo (!), greedy companies, forest fires, psycho people who could be anyone, and, of course, Trump. That is where we focus our defense mechanisms to combat our fear—on the external stuff. I suspect the devil likes it that way. But I think the fear that we repress and ignore and disguise is the internal fear. That fear can spread within us like the roots of a tree, but at its most basic essence, it is the fear to be ourselves. There is a cure.

My biggest fear is letting go. I have a recurrent, unsettling fear of heights. The root of that must be that I am afraid I will let myself go and jump. I don’t want to jump, I don’t plan to jump. But I am afraid that on impulse I will let myself jump. I ‘m scared of what will happen if I just let go. Do you see how internal that fear is?

But what does it mean to let go? I want it to mean that I put my complete trust in God: for every event, for every circumstance, for every decision, for every relationship, for every conversation; for every action, for every reaction. God has promised me He is with me every single moment of my life. I don’t always (actually, not very often) feel His presence. So the bridge is faith—I can only realize His presence by believing He is here. The genius of His plan is that as we believe He becomes more real. Dear Lord, increase my faith.

The biggest fear of my teaching career: How would I react in a school shooting situation? Before I retired, I used to pray I would stand up and throw my stapler at the guy and not hide under my desk. You don’t know for sure how you will react. That is internal fear.

What is the source of my fear? That there is a being more powerful than I, bent on my destruction, who I will eventually succumb to. That I will become evil. That I will choose wrong vs. right. When you are totally corrupted, you are lost.

How does my fear affect me? By making me become less than I am meant to be. By encouraging me to settle. By keeping things on a superficial level intentionally. By thinking of the worst-case scenario first. By thinking more about myself than others. By hiding Jesus rather than proclaiming Him. By navigating life rather than embracing it. By figuring out how to just get by.

Wow, I’ve described a neurotic mess. Lost, but not hopeless. Actually, I am far more optimistic than that. Because when you come right down to it, there are only two choices: be brave or let your fear hide you.

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. (Joshua 1:9) The bravest thing we can do is act in the light of His presence. It is a subtle commitment—most of the time you don’t know if He’s there. But you believe that He is and you act accordingly. That is the soul of bravery.

What I love is that we get so many opportunities to exercise our bravery muscle throughout every ordinary day. Every choice we make subliminally makes a statement to the throne: “I am for You” or “I am for myself.” When we choose beyond ourselves, we are being brave–the cure I mentioned earlier.

And so I vow to be braver. I believe our character only really changes as we allow God to change it, not as we strive to become a different person. Consequently, I invite You, Lord Jesus, to examine my heart, to separate the wheat from the chaff, to change me as I need to be changed, and to make me the person You want me to be. As You continue Your lifelong open heart surgery, I will be brave.

Afterword: I am pretty sure (still checking it out) that if you get a handle on the internal fear, the external will become far less terrifying.

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The Black Sheep

Bonus pts. if you can name who is on the t-shirt

From Wikipedia: …black sheep is an idiom used to describe an odd or disreputable member of a group, especially within a family…the term has typically been give negative connotations, implying waywardness. I love that term—waywardness.

You could ask any of my siblings (one brother, four sisters) and they would tell you I was the black sheep. One sister even gave me one for Christmas! (see photo) How did I become the black sheep? You got me. My oldest sister dated my two high school basketball heroes, graduated from the Wharten School of Business, and was always my father’s favorite. My older brother was a National Merit Scholar, a varsity baseball pitcher, and a whiz at Latin. I got kicked off the basketball team my sophomore year for bringing home a report card with two C’s. The die was cast. But I sure did make it easier for the three sisters who followed me.

I became the sole proprietor of the family title for all eternity when I dropped out of college and got arrested for possession of marijuana. It got worse. While on probation, I got busted again—for possession of one roach (marijuana cigarette butt)—during a St. Louis drug raid. The cop’s first words: “We got a rap on you, kid.” This time I was sentenced to a year in the St. Louis County Jail. Unthinkable for a Malmgren—my father never once visited me in jail—but my mom did. It took six or seven years for my father and me to reconcile—but that’s another essay.

So what exactly encompasses waywardness? Obviously, being a disappointment to your parents. I don’t think trouble with the law is required, but a problem with authority is. Profligacy is a prevalent characteristic. All of this can seem rather glamorously rebellious. Let’s face it; being wayward can be a lot of fun. But I ruefully admit the most basic trait of a black sheep is to put one’s own desires, objectives, aims and ambitions above anyone else’s. You’ve heard the old saw: the essence of sin is its middle letter.

My nephew Bryce is the black sheep of his family. We talk about it some, and I suspect that we both take a secret pride in our honorary title. Did I mention that another characteristic of black sheep is pigheadedness? Not every family has one. Many children only dabble off the way. I don’t think my immediate family has a black sheep—although I’m guessing all five of us would nominate the same person. Does your family have one? Is it you? Can a family have two black sheep…never thought about that.

What becomes of black sheep? I can speculate on three common alternatives: First, I am convinced that we have a higher mortality rate. A reckless, unprincipled life leads to questionable companionship, hazardous situations, and bad decisions—not exactly a formula for easy living. My second option is almost as unattractive—aging black sheep become selfish, hardened, bitter and lonely old people, like a tattoo on wrinkled skin. Living for yourself inevitably drives others away.

Ah, but the third alternative: the black sheep is redeemed! We have the best shot at discovering God’s love. Jesus spoke of the fallen woman in Luke 7: “I tell you, her sins—and they are many—have been forgiven, so she has shown me much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only little love.” Do you get it? We wayward ones are the very best candidates for a love relationship with the Creator of the universe. That’s why the parable of the lost sheep is one of my very favorites. The Good Shepherd leaves the 99 to go and find the one who has wandered off. He returns with it draped over his shoulders. The Bible doesn’t say for sure, but I’ll bet you that sheep was black.

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Being Pop Pop (the joy of grandfathering)

That’s me. I consider it one of the major roles in my current life, a role at least 95% great. I am not sure how I got that name—I think Kallie gave it to me. My recollection is that she even consulted with me about it. It stuck. I am now Pop Pop to my six granddaughters, to my children, and to their spouses (well, except Dylan). Even my wife calls me that when in the girls’ presence. Like I said, major role.

The Pop Pop role is pretty unique. I am not in charge. If the parents are not in charge, Grandma is in charge. I am back-up. I have proven that I can change a diaper, but that is hardly ever called upon. A Pop Pop should always be supportive of Mom, because, let’s face it, she is bearing the brunt of neediness. He should always be checking up on Grandma, making sure that she is not being overwhelmed. He should always be available for talks with Dad, but he should not force them (unless absolutely necessary). As you can see, it is a role with a lot of plusses and not many minuses. 95%.

We moved to Frisco so we could be nearer to my youngest son, his wife and our three granddaughters. It is amazing how many elderly people make that choice. Of course, I also have two with Bethany in Toronto and one with Nate in Port Townsend. Karen and I have made being with our granddaughters a priority in life, so that is where most of our travel is directed. Karen has the ability to win any granddaughter, any age, over within a half an hour. I do not shine like that. (Of course, I have the disadvantage of being related to two future members of the Grandfather Hall of Fame, Zack’s father-in-law Bobby and Karen’s sister’s husband, Steve. They are as charming as Karen, when it comes to grandkids.) Me, I have to take my time, pick my spots. But as they allow you to get closer—that is the height of the grandparenting game.

Ah, the glories of drawing near…this was after going to Harper’s (age 7) basketball game and out to eat because her parents were slammed. Me: Harper, do you see this handicap sign we have in our car for Faith? Harper: Yeah. Me: Let me ask you a moral/ethical question. Harper: What’s that? Me: Right or wrong. Harper: Okay. Me: Would it be okay for you and me to park in a handicap spot even though Faith isn’t with us? (We were circling in a parking lot.) Harper: (thoughtful) I don’t think so. Me: Why? Harper: Because, Pop Pop, we’re not handicapped. Her genius and my bliss. (A confession: I think one time I did take advantage of Faith’s sign…my sinful self. Never again. Karen and I call it “Harper’s Rule” now.)

Another example: I decided to take three of my granddaughters fishing. (two of Zack’s: 7 y.o., and 5 y.o..; and Edith, Bethany’s oldest, who is ageless). My only hope was that I would survive for an hour, hour and a half, and maybe we would catch a fish. Advise to other Pop Pops: bad idea, way too young, very short attention spans. But I should explain that Zack’s three girls are growing up in a nice Dallas suburb and Edith is a Toronto city girl whose parents love to go camping. My bait was nightcrawlers—which the two Dallas girls shied away from like me with snakes. But not Edith. By the end of the fishing excursion, all four girls had worms in their hands, each individually named, with domestic plans for their future. (We ran out of bait—but not before we caught a fish!)

Last example: Karen and I were recently in Port Townsend, visiting Nate and Annalisa and the beautiful Ayla. The two women wanted some girl/shopping time, so Nate and I stayed home to babysit. We took her into her playroom, sat on the floor with Ayla between us, and for over two hours we talked while she scooted around in between us, demonstrating the various functions, real and imagined, of innumerable toys, climbing on us, laughing and smiling without one single tear or pout. Angelic.

So this is what I’ve learned—and I have to praise my Maker. Every single individual is created unique. I watch these six beings develop and I am in awe. Every quirk, every inclination, every idiosyncrasy—every I-am-who-I-am. Karen and I can talk about them for hours,. We watch their interactions with their parents—with each other—with us, and we marvel at the newness. If every good gift comes from God, this is one of His specialties. Karen repeats this prayer (that I love): Lord, let all our granddaughters come to know Jesus at an early age. This is not any ideological demand—it is to make their lives even better.

Another reality I’ve observed: as they get older, we are going to become less important. Especially me, but even Grandma! That is the nature of the role. I believe it is God’s wisdom. I want to fade away gracefully, not like a dumped boyfriend who keeps trying to get back together.

I think about how I want to be remembered. (When I taught Creative Writing, I required a six-chapter autobiography. Only occasionally, I would get a chapter from a kid about their beloved grandfather—what an honor!) I hope mine think of me as wise and kind—I hope they know I was on their side every moment, good and bad. I hope they smile when they think of me. I hope God’s love shines through me to them. I take my role of Pop Pop very seriously.

Afterword: in case anyone was wondering what the other 5% was about, I have two words: worry and sympathy. I worry because I don’t trust the direction this world is heading, and they will inherit our mess. And I have sympathy for their parents, whose job is so much more demanding than mine

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The Willow Tree

Photo by Meredith Shadrach

I became a Christian when I was 26 years old. Since I had virtually no church background and since I had spent my previous young adult years in varying states of dissolution, my conversion demanded a drastic change in lifestyle. I immediately became an initiate of a house church comprised of college students and dropouts just off the campus of the University of Missouri. The Bible was our guide as we attempted to recreate the lifestyle and fellowship of the early church as delineated in the opening chapters of the Book of Acts. Street evangelism, communal property, brother/sister relationships—we were a loony bunch of fanatics. The Word of God was literal and not to be parsed by the secular world. Yes, by God, we knew where we stood in the creationism/evolution debate.

Except that I didn’t, not really. I avoided all such debates. I believe my reticence was spurred by two separate observations: the first was that my fellow believers who most fervently espoused a strict interpretation of the Bible were the least pleasant Christians to be around. The second was that I personally found it easy to believe that I was descended from monkeys. The willow tree taught me that.

It grew in our backyard, its branches almost reaching to my upstairs bedroom window. From our backdoor or from the side door into our “recreation” room, a quick sprint and a simple kip up on my favorite branch would find me perched like a chimp, surveying the world below from my beloved tree. I knew every branch, every angle, every scar on that tree as well as I knew my own body. I could go from ground to highest possible vantage point in under ten seconds, and back down again considerably quicker. A willow tree has a kind of umbrella shape, and I could move around the circle of my umbrella with lightning speed. One day my mother was out in the backyard, and she watched me soar in my tree. “You look like a monkey,” she said. But she said it admiringly.

I took my nicks and scrapes and bruises from that tree. One time from the upper branches, I miscalculated how much weight a young limb could hold and I fell through all the way to the ground, clutching at branches to break my fall. There was another branch that grew parallel to the ground about eight feet high, a natural high bar. With no formal training, I became a pseudo-gymnast, doing hip circles and handstands and dismounts (couldn’t do a giant because of other branches). One time I slipped and landed flat on my back. I lay there trying to decide if I was dead or unconscious or paralyzed. Then I noticed how beautiful the sky was through her branches and leaves.

I can’t recall ever being in that tree with another person (with a brother and four sisters, it must have happened). I remember watching people. I could see into the kitchen window from a certain branch, and into my brother’s bedroom window from another. From my highest roost, I could see over the small hill in our backyard and onto the catholic school playground. I used to love watching kids play without them even knowing I could see.

When my own children were young, we went on a vacation back to Drexel Hill, Pennsylvania. The house was there, different paint, smaller than I remembered, but the same. No willow tree in the backyard—not even a trace. They hadn’t even planted a replacement tree in its place. Damn evolutionists.

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To thine own self be gentle

Artwork by Annalisa Barelli

You cannot be judged by status; you cannot be judged by success; you cannot be judged by Facebook friends or neighbors’ opinions; …by your spouse;…by your parents or your children; and you should not be judged by yourself. There’s only one Judge. And, let’s face it, you have been found guilty, and, thank God, you have been forgiven. There’s only one response to the whole judgment thing: humility.

It’s a huge epidemic out there: “I am not what I should be.” So you’re dissatisfied, with yourself and the world. You know there is something wrong, internally and externally. The problem is not illness, it’s perspective. Of course you are not what you should be! How many people do you know who are? Not many, if you can see beneath the veneer. Here is the litmus test: are you willing to stay the way you are? If you are, nobody can help you. But if you aren’t, the possibilities are endless. Only be willing to be changed.

To be changed.This flies in the face of the whole self-help industry. All the books, all the dvds, all the You Tube videos that promise to create a new and better you, if you will only promise to do what they say and stay with the program. You can do it. After tons of programs and years of trying, I’ve come to the tremendously liberating realization that I can’t do it.

Where to go next? One of the most quoted and most beautiful verses in the Bible is: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” There are two sides of the equation: neighbor and self. Can never downplay neighbor, but you also have to lift up self. Once we accept that we need to be changed and are willing to be changed in a positive way, we can be blissfully changed. Buy in.

The next step is the tricky one: faith. If you’re not satisfied with who you are (who is?), and you know you cannot change yourself (how many failed resolutions?), but you simply must change, how’s it going to happen? The most elemental part of the tricky step is: ask for help—the Other, the Force, the Oneness, the Way, the Truth, the Lord—seek and ye shall find, knock and the door shall be opened, ask and it shall be given… Because, and I love God for this, there’s only one requirement: you gotta believe.

Part two is patience. God never hurries. All your flaws and neuroses and bad habits and egocentricities and selfishnesses took years to develop—do you think He’s going to clean it up in one swipe? How did He make mountains? Very very slowly.

AA calls it a higher power, which is kind of insulting to my Lord and Savior, but I don’t think He cares so I won’t either. Offer yourself up to be changed—after that you only have one basic responsibility: believe (patiently). How simple is that?

Because when you believe, you have completely taken the onus of responsibility off your shoulders: He will take care of it. The beauty is that you can never pull a fast one—you can’t fake believing (not inside)—and if you believe, you will respond. It makes every day exciting—how real are you today?

This is the lesson I am being taught: I will always fall short. This is the lesson He is trying to teach me: it doesn’t matter, keep trying. Press on to the upward calling. Let your mind be transformed.

And be gentle with yourself. Don’t puff up and don’t get down. You are walking with a Potter who has promised to turn clay into gold—or whatever metaphor you prefer. Believe (patiently).

By the way–if you admired the artwork for this blog post as much as I did, you can see more of Annalisa’s work by googling Annalisa Barelli.

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X#%&*@$! (Profanity)

I made a vow to stop cussing when I was 23 years old—not sure why. I hadn’t become a christian at that point—didn’t carry any conscious guilt feelings—certainly had no peer pressure—and I was pretty good at it. I suppose it seemed unnecessary to me. I was reading more at that time and becoming more engaged with words (raise your had if you ever had a new-word-of-the-day tear off calendar). We used swear words so generally—could fit them into almost any sentence. I kept the vow pretty well—it wasn’t that hard. (Yes, I’m sure I’ve cussed since I was 23, but very rarely—don’t be a Pharisee!)

When I wrote the rough draft of my first novel, The Whole Nine Yards, my protagonist Storm Russell had a very foul mouth. I thought that was the way teenagers, especially boys trying to be cool, talked. I wanted realism. My sister, a junior high librarian, advised me to cut it down. When my publisher at Dell said they wanted to buy it, he told me to cut it out almost entirely. His reasoning: “Why would you want to keep your book out of high school libraries?” Here’s the thing: when I made the cuts, it didn’t affect Storm’s personality at all—it just made him a little more likeable. (And I wanted you to like him—he was me, for goodness’ sake!)

That same sister who advised me to cut, along with her husband, subscribed to the theory that words were words—neutral—and that whatever value you attached to them was due to your own neuroses—hang-ups. So on a visit, he would hold up my six-month-old daughter and say, “Hello, you little fucker, how you doing today?” I would swallow my tongue as I felt my wife’s psychic energy meter go bonkers.

My wife, on the other hand, only cusses when she is angry. Extremely. It is her signal. I could probably count on one hand the times she has cussed at me—and it wouldn’t surprise me at all to learn she has never cussed at anyone else. It wasn’t fun.

So you can see where I am going with this. This is my thesis: (I’m not supposed to say that, am I?) Profanity almost always casts a negative vibe on the room. Subtle, miniscule, unnoticed—but negative. Like my publisher said: Better left out.

Don’t misunderstand: I don’t think there is anything more wrong with profanity than potty humor than puking than farting. Not evil—I guess I can be accused of my own prejudice here—just unappealing.

I played golf with one of my friends the other day—a really good guy. This man brings a box of dog biscuits to the course with him every time he plays (our course is lined by backyards). The dogs wait for him with joy. Then he hits a terrible shot on #13 and unleashes a stream of invective aimed particularly at the Father and the Son. It was so discordant—shook me up a little.

So if you are reading this and it is ringing any bells, ask yourself why you cuss. I will issue a challenge: take the vow for one day (a twenty-four hour period). Was there any appreciable difference in the tone of your day? Was it hard to do? I’d love to know.

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Sorting out the past

I could be wrong, but it seems like a natural current for my age group. You start to look back. I’m not talking about dwelling or obsessing or recapturing or idealizing or mourning—just reflecting. Even if you are not an adherent, your dreams probably are. At least, mine are. Dylan said, “Anybody who lived through the ‘60’s probably doesn’t remember them anyway.” I feel that way about my whole life.

Honestly, everything is hazy. Is that just me? I like to think that so much has happened that I just can’t remember it all, but I suspect the truth is that I just wasn’t paying attention. I spent so much time looking inward that the outward tended to blur. Love goes outward. I’ve never been that good at love, but I hope I’m getting better.

In most of my reminisces, I tend to remember the bad more than the good. I have more unhappy dreams than happy ones too. What would Freud say? I’d say that I’m damaged goods, just like we all are. Dylan (a mentor of mine) said, “If my thought-dreams could be seen, they’d probably put my head in a guillotine.” We can’t go around pretending we have perfect minds.

Most of us have come up with a crutch to deal with this inner turmoil. We don’t think about our past, and we don’t think about our dreams. Or if we do and it’s uncomfortable, we blame someone else or fate or God. Ah, but that doesn’t make it go away. I think of those unpleasant memories and unsettling dreams like the giant worms in Tremors. You don’t see them, but they’re underneath there doing damage—and they’re coming after you!

My contention is that past-diving can and should be a healthy activity, especially for us older folk. (Why us? Perspective, more than anything.) Exploring your past has to lead to self-knowledge. I don’t want to get spiritual on you, but self-knowledge has to lead to humility. Humility leads to God. You may not realize it, but God has been involved in every one of these past events, the good and the bad, impossible to understand but true.

People used to participate in your life, then exit. Your first best friend, your first crush, your first enemy, your first real hero, your first love—then they would disappear and your life would evolve. Then came social media—your past is no longer behind you, it’s walking right alongside. Of course, the danger is letting the past entice you out of the present. Is this a Pandora’s box you’ve opened? Is it, more than anything, a portal to temptation? Is every reach a buried desire?

No, of course not. It’s what you make it. Along with maintaining contact with people you wish you could spend more time with, social media gives you an opportunity to stay in contact with people you probably wouldn’t otherwise, along with people maybe you shouldn’t. It has an upside and a downside—which side are you feeding?

If social media is a connection to your past, music is an even stronger one. How many specific songs do you connect with specific events in your past? Tons, I bet. “Soldier Boy” has me slow-dancing with a girl in a junior high school gym, “Bad Moon Rising” has me tripping on the streets of Virginia Beach, and “I Want You” has me relishing the beauty of my wife. More than triggers—touchstones.

There is another aspect of sorting out your past that I haven’t touched upon—exploring it with the people you shared it with. Joy and conflict—the highs and lows. Honest interactions. But that’s a topic for another essay.

So I’m making a case for opening yourself up to your past. Remembering. Consciously, on purpose. What is the value of such an endeavor? Mostly repentance. Did I mention humility earlier? If you can look back on your past without some regret, you are probably a liar. But if you can see that regret as a positive thing, an I-won’t-do-that-again reminder, that is called growth. Next after repentance would be gratitude (…all that and I’m still going? Thank You!) Finally, motivation. In light of my past, I vow to be a better person. Ernest Hemingway said: “There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.” Amen.

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