Winn Collier's Blog, page 52

Nothing Wasted

While writing last week, I bumped into a character I wanted to know, a man I wanted a conversation with. That's how I met Rainie.



The conversation took shape from bits I've gleaned from other characters, real flesh-and-blood types. In several places recently, I've been reminded of our very powerful fear of failure, of making such a mess of things that nothing (or no one) could ever pull the shattered bits back together again. I see this in myself, my fear that I'm going to screw something up or squander something or get something or other irretrievably wrong. I see this obsession in others as well: on the back side of life, it can be an unrelenting regret that murders the soul and on the front side of life, it can be an unyielding drivenness that, well, murders the soul.



We are convinced that if anything is to happen with our life, we are to make it happen. We are convinced that mistakes are the grand enemy, those dementors of our best laid plans. I believe these bewitching notions are as lecherous as they are common.



However, if Scripture tells us anything, it tells us this: God, ever the creator, makes much of little. Sometimes God makes much of almost nothing. We can live foolishly by flittering our life away. We can also live foolishly by always fearing how we might be flittering our life away. I'm tempted to provide the expected caveats to this line of thinking, but I won't. Not here. Sometimes, words need to stand alone. Sometimes we need to fret less about how we're living and get on with actually living.



I believe this: with God, nothing is wasted or ultimately ruined. Nothing.

Rainie

Gravity had done a number on Rainie's soul. Rainie's shoulders were desperate for the ground, sagging, groping to heave onto the earth and cease their labor. It's a mighty burden to carry a life's worth of disappointment and failed attempts and outright foolishness. It's a mighty burden to look back and see clearly what might have been, what should have been.



For years, Rainie made excuses. For more years, he promised a fresh start. But here he was, broken-down and worn out. Even Rainie, the man always concocting a fanciful story, had no stories left to tell. The years had slipped away, and the far-away horizon now stood close, staring him down.



Rainie came by the house last Fall, asking for work. "Anything at all," he said. He painted the garage, then fixed our back deck. Since then, I've handed him odd jobs whenever I could. We became friends, and Rainie and I met for coffee once or twice a week. Rainie has plenty reason for his heaviness. A broken marriage, a distant daughter. A string of blunders. More ruined schemes than I can count. He's broken promises; and he's had promises broken. He's not so different from anyone else - only most of us land just enough success to keep playing along. Rainie, on the other hand, was only dealt cards from one side of the deck.



One morning, Rainie stared into his coffee mug, looking for something he couldn't find. He never looked up, but he found the words he wanted. "I've wasted my life, thrown it away. And now it's done."



Do you know that rare moment when you discover you believe something -- fervently, absolutely -- that you didn't even know you had inclination toward a moment previous? You discover you believe something so much you'd stake your life on it, so much it will explode in your gut if you don't let it loose?



"Rainie," I said, waiting awkwardly until he looked up. "Nothing is wasted. Nothing. Not a damn thing."

Dolly Sods

All beauty in the world is either a memory of Paradise or a prophecy of the transfigured world.

{Nicholas Berdyaev}



Dolly Sods, Joseph Rossbach
Last weekend, several friends and I took a backpacking trip into Dolly Sods Wilderness, a rugged section of West Virginia's Monongohela National Forest. The mercury peaked at 104° as we motored West. I'd be lying if I denied having second thoughts about the whole affair. I do love the mountains and the streams, the wood-quiet which is so very different from the city-quiet. I love discovering new territory. I do not, however, love to sizzle. On principle, I stand opposed to camping in the South, in the scorched God-forsaken month of July. However, this was the only date that (after great machination) worked, and our friend guiding the trip promised the mountains would grant us a cool gift. I doubted, but I swallowed my principle and my wariness and followed.



I wanted to fill my lungs and stretch my legs, tromping into the oaks and finding that odd joy that comes from carrying all the goods you'll live by on your now-weary shoulders. There is a leisure that I know only in the wild. When I enter these hallowed spaces, I remember what I've missed. I welcome an old friend, and I wonder again what has kept me away so long.



On Saturday, I spent a stretch of four hours alone, under the canopy of green trees, in a hammock rocked by a cool (God, thank you) breeze. For these gentle, shaded hours, I read Vigen Guroian's Fragrance of God , this Orthodox-theologian-gardener's meditations on finding God amid both the human and the humus. There are those moments when text and space collide. This was such a moment.



It's as good as it is rare for the soul whenever we move completely off the grid. Not so long ago, it was normal to disconnect from the every-way that the rest of the world can, with merely a click, track me down. Traditionally, I am a late adopter. I was a holdout until the last possible moment on cell phones. Not so long ago, when Miska or I travelled, we'd have to have a calling card if we wanted to check in. I miss those days. It has been far too long since I was truly inaccessible.



But there I was, reading Guroian amid a world of stillness.

Farewell to Friends

Only a handful of times in your life (and that's if you're lucky) will you receive the gift of encountering a person so selfless, so generous, that it cuts at all the cynicism you've accumulated, all the broken down ways you've come to expect the world works. I've had the good grace to have a couple such people befriend me over the years. Two of these are Stuart and Shannon Hayes.



When Miska and I moved to Clemson, South Carolina, the Hayes invited us into their world. Though they easily could have, they didn't guard their turf against the newcomers or hold back and let us flop around on our own. Instead, they welcomed us and began to live their life with us. With boys close in age, we shared war stories and picnics and, when we could, a night out with wine and wives.



I remember Saturday mornings when Stuart and I took our boys out on Bowman Field. Stuart coached the kids through soccer drills and I (if I remember correctly) was in charge of drinks. Stuart invited us on their annual grandpa/father/son camping trip; and though it may seem a small thing to him, I'll be forever grateful for including us. Those things go a long way with me.



I think of Shannon as the patron saint of hospitality. She never cared when we dropped by her house, always happy to push aside laundry or adjust her plans when her friends popped in. She beams infectuous joy and watches out for the forgotten people - and has a voice that, I swear, belongs on one of those vintage folk vinyls. Shannon lives with an open door. And she loves with an open heart.



My friends have packed up their belongings and will soon pack up their family for a move to Germany. This past weekend, a large number of people who love them - and have been loved by them - gathered in Clemson to wish them farewell. I had a previous trip planned with a group of guys from our church, and I wasn't able to make the weekend. I've told Shannon and Stuart how I feel about them, how much I appreciate them, but I want to say it again here. In case you haven't had the privilege, I want you to know them too, just in time to bid them safe journeys.



And - I encourage each of you to consider those few people in your life who have loved extravagantly and lived selflessly. I encourage you to tell them that you noticed - and to tell them that every bit of it mattered.

The Frugal Side of Me

You might not know this about me, but one of my many quirks is the delight and adrenaline rush I receive from landing a good deal. I have a bit of an economic fetish. Perhaps my psychiatrist and I should talk about this - but oh, there are so many others topics lined up in the queue. Economics was one of my favorite courses in high school (that and English). When I worked a stint in the corporate world, I was a stock broker - and I still enjoy each time Money magazine lands in my mailbox.



This penchant seems out of sync with the rest of my life and feels like that odd anomaly that counters my reaction to so many other interests and conversations, the ones that make me want to gouge an eye out (any eye, it need not be mine). Not that you care, but my suspicion is that since so much of my life is open-ended, free-flowing and so rarely shows tangible results - this is one arena where I can finish the job and immediately experience the joy of accomplishment. Save a buck. Done.



If you'll allow me a very odd detour here, I thought I'd share two that are no-brainers for me. Perhaps one of them will help you. If you'd like to add yours below, feel free.



Schwab Bank



I worked for Schwab as a broker, and I love their corporate culture. I've gone round and round with banks, and Schwab really is, in my opinion, the crème de la crème. So long as you have an automated monthly deposit, they offer a free interest-bearing account with no minimum deposit required and no monthly balance requirement. You get free checks (always), free online billpay and free ATMs (anywhere). Schwab will reimburse any ATM fee you are charged, up to $9 per month (unlimited if you are also a Schwab brokerage client). And their card is fabulous for international travel. They offer the actual exchange rate for that day and charge currency conversion fee. When we were in the UK, it was cheaper to get pounds as I needed them from the ATM than using a bank. The only downside to this account has been having to mail in check deposits (though they provided postage-paid envelopes to do this). However, as of last month, they have a phone app that allows you to take images of the checks and deposit them from your couch. I've been using it for a month now, and it's amazing. I receive a check in the mail, and I can have the deposit made in 5 minutes.



Blockbuster Express



Blockbuster may be dead, but Blockbuster Express is not. Like RedBox, Blockbuster Express provides kiosks with movies, $1 per night for most rentals (Blockbuster Express has a few hot releases that are $3.99 and guaranteed to be available). The best part, however, is how lavish Blockbuster Express is with their dissemination of codes for free one night rentals (hoping, of course, that you'll keep it an extra night or two). Coupon Dad lists the current freebie codes. I can't tell you the last time I paid for a movie at the kiosk. I almost feel guilty. Almost. If you don't have a Blockbuster Express near you, Inside Redbox offers codes, though RedBox is not as generous.

Fear

Fear and I have a history. We aren't friends, but we've arrived at a wary detente.



These are our current arrangements: I'll stop railing at fear, cease exerting vast energy toward banishment. In return, fear won't take offense when, after it bushwhacks me with its best shot, I simply shrug my shoulders and tell it to piss off.



I've learned that fighting against fear, needling it, setting it under the microscope, reasoning with it through every shade and crevice is a waste of time. Fear is a beast asking for your energy; if we play along, the game goes on and on.



Of course, we shouldn't banish fear even if we could. There are things to be afraid of in this world. I've come to believe that fear is a necessary cost for engaging the world truthfully. If we want to live with rose-colored glasses, then perhaps we will be able to arrange things delicately enough to whistle our way through the horrors. Keep walking. Don't look around you. Certainly don't stop. Don't engage. Pat a back here and there, push a platitude. Press on, always on, whistling and beaming, ever louder, ever forward. We could follow that trac and perhaps keep fear at bay (perhaps). I'd say your odds are slim, but if we tried hard enough and whistled loud enough, maybe.



The question to ask is not whether or not we'll encounter fear, but what will we do with the fear when it comes? Will we step into it? Will we risk and love in spite of it? Will we throw caution and good reason and every self-protective instinct to the wind and, fear be damned, walk into the chaos? Any sane person knows the chaos we're afraid of is indeed something to fear. It just might pillage us. What will we do then?



To be fearless is not to not feel fear. As Stanley Hauerwas said, "The courageous have fears that cowards never know." If we truly know no fear, we either have a disorder or are paragons of denial. To be fearless means to feel fear's dread, the press of its stifling weight and the pinch of its fangs - and to run and to hope and to love anyway.

Waco

We just returned from Waco, Texas, the place I knew as home for so many years. I went by the house where I came of age, ran that same pavement I pounded so many times and caught up with one of my high school football coaches. I sweltered under that familiar Texas heat (in the 100's). I saw old friends and, most importantly, our whole brood spent time with my mom and dad, sister, brother-in-law, my two delightful nieces - and my 91-year-old grandmother.



This is the kind of place that, you come to find, has become not only part of your memory but part of your being. You may leave a place, but a place like this never leaves you.



I see it with new eyes now. That theater on 25th street that was for so long merely an eyesore - now I wonder about the laughter those walls have heard, the back row make-out sessions those seats have endured, the stories those moth-eaten screens have offered. I wandered into neighborhoods I thought little of years ago. I think more of them now.



There's that shopping center that offered the best arcade on our side of town, $10 for all-you-could-play video games. The arcade is long gone, but there's still a snow cone stand on the edge of the parking lot.



Home may be where you find yourself, but the places that have made you send you off into the world with bits and pieces of home to take along. These places will always participate in whatever home means for us now.

Watching

A few nights ago, Wyatt shared his latest ambition. "I'm going to be like Justin Bieber and make a singing video and put it on the internet and become famous." We aim high in our house. I smiled and told him to start practicing. As I left his room, Wyatt added, "Hello, Youtube."



Of course, Wyatt has already moved on to other visions. Last night, he described his future dream house with rooms for 1,000 cats, a cheetah and a machine that popped out any and every food imaginable, with the mere wave of a hand over a sensor. If I recall, there was even a go-cart track in this house somewhere.



My suspicion is that Wyatt will not go the way of Bieber and will most likely never herd 1,000 cats (mercy upon us). But he will sing a song. He will love creatures in this world. These places where his imagination wanders (wonders) offer clues to the contours of his heart. Wyatt enters fourth grade this year, and the conversations we're having carry a new tone. He's seeing things. He's listening. He's watching. I'm listening and watching too.

The Diary of a Plain Pastor: Wonder

The shabbiest tuppeny doll will rejoice a baby's heart for half the year, but your mature gentleman'll go yawning his head off at a five-hundred franc gadget. And why? Because he has lost the soul of childhood. Well, God has entrusted the Church to keep that soul alive, to safeguard our candour and freshness ... I'm not stopping you from calculating the process of the equinoxes or splitting the atom. But what would it profit you even to create life itself, when you have lost all sense of what life really is? Might as well blow your brains out among your test-tubes.                                      {Diary of a Country Priest}



There's lots of talk in the church about getting the soul alive. I don't hear as much talk about keeping the soul alive.



The old wizened priest, the one who'd live many years and served a simple parish and outlived most of his superiors as well as the various ecclesiastical fixations, had come to believe that the church was a caretaker, a guardian of the soul. There are lots of things the church does. There are many areas to which we speak. However, none of it takes precedent over the most basic function of assisting people in staying alive. Alive in God.



At the core, this means we do simple things. We remind people of who God is. We remind people of who they are. And then we teach people to keep their eyes open, watching for all the wonder God is crafting in us and around us.



Theological precision, astute and engaging preaching, missional initiatives, well-crafted liturgy - each of these, important as they are, must not be ends in themselves. They are the soil in which the soul grows. They are the fruit from a life lived awake in God's garden.



Wonder is an important word here. I'd like to add it to our routine vocabulary. Perhaps as often as these questions: Is it correct? Is it effective? Is it scalable? We could ask Does it evoke wonder? Does it give me a greater sense of self and control or a greater sense of God? Does it move me to love?



When I ponder the many (and varied) expectations now prevalent for us pastors, the truth is that I don't meet up well to many of them. Some of them I need to work on, and some of them I need to let go. But I think a prime calling for me is to help a person guard their soul, to ask them if they're alive - and to encourage them to walk among the living.

Paradox

At the center of our faith stands wooden timbers and melded iron. Hackles and jeers. Arms stretched taut. Bewilderment. Utter loss. Chaos. A sobbing mother. An abandoned son. Love.



At the center of our faith stands raucous joy. The shock of relief. Grave clothes tossed. Embrace and laughter. Empty, empty. Arms stretched wide. An overwhelmed friend. The giddy delight of sweet surprise. Love.



Love is always a paradox.