I just found out tonight that a dear friend, Jeanie Peay, passed away after a long battle with cancer. I am in shock right now, and what words I type for the sorrow I am feeling cannot come close to describing what is on my heart. But I know God is speaking to my heart right now, comforting when all that can be found are tears wrought with anguish. For I know that there are many reasons to be joyful at her homecoming, and as a Christian I must find solace and smile through the pain. I pray that my words come close to doing justice for the memory of a woman who helped plant her seeds of faith in my heart.
When I was a child, our families were friends with each other. My dad worked with Jeanie's husband, Jeanie and my mom were friends, and their three children were friends with my brother, sister, and me. I have many fond memories of going to their farm to hang out with them, play tag in the barnyard and such games boys play with girls as children. When they moved away, it was difficult to remain close, and it wasn't until tragedy struck that I was led back to their family.
In 1997 the middle daughter, Amie, was murdered in a robbery as she worked in a sandwich shop in Wichita. She was in college at the time, and when I received the news, it hit me like a punch to the stomach. Though I hadn't talked to her in six months, it still felt like a part of me was taken away. That night I sat in bed in my dormitory, unable to sleep, unable to think, unable to forgive. God was number one on my list of enemies. Over and over I questioned how God could allow this to happen to a wonderful Christian woman, someone who dedicated her life to the Lord and His ministries with her various missions. It just wasn't fair. And the longer I thought about it, the madder I got until I knew that my soul was in danger. I knew I needed to pray, knew I needed to ask for forgiveness for such thoughts, but I couldn't. I just couldn't.
About three in the morning I called a friend on the phone, and to her credit, she asked no questions, but just listened to me. After I had demonstrated my lost faith, she cradled me in her prayer, loving me when I couldn't love anything. After I hung up, I fell asleep, but I didn't feel much better. That was until I went to the funeral.
The whole city of Wichita was up in arms over the senseless murder. The pews were packed, television crews lined the back wall, and from my vantage point towards the rear, I couldn't really see much.
But it was what I heard that changed my life forever.
It was mentioned that Amie had somehow known that her time on earth was quickly coming to a close. So in preparation, she had asked not for sorrow at her funeral, but rejoicing. So we stood and sang praise and worship songs, cheerful ones. I say "we" but at first it was "they" because I was shocked. All the hatred I had inside me was being tossed like a salad and I didn't know what was happening inside of me. And lost somewhere in the joyful music, I started crying and I found my words, words of joy that I sang at the top of my voice. I knew then that God had a master plan and as tough as it was (and still is) I knew Amie's death wasn't for nothing. She had died so that I could live. I immediately accepted Jesus into my heart and felt the love that Amie had felt all along.
Both of Amie's parents were models for me also. They spent many hours and days comforting Amie's friends with a covering of prayer. Her father told a newspaper reporter, "They would become enveloped by that prayer covering and go out to minister to other heartbroken friends. At this point I believe the scales began to literally fall from our eyes, and we now began to see with spiritual eyes, the plan unfolding that God had set in motion when He sent the gift of Amie to this world."
From that day on I have felt the mission of sharing Jesus.
That Fall I went hunting with Amie's dad, who told me that he and Jeanie had to forgive the men who murdered Amie. They sat with the murderers' parents and wept together. I hadn't forgiven those evil men as of yet, but there I sat at a table in a small diner, clad in hunter orange, listening to a life lesson from a man who had more right than me to harbor a grudge. I was ashamed of myself. I think of that conversation from time to time and I still am amazed at what love Amie's parents had.
Jeanie was diagnosed with cancer some five or so years back, though it seems longer. She was not given a very promising outlook, but if there was a person in the world who could lick this, it was her! Upbeat, positive, and full of faith, hope, and love, she fought it head on. Last Fall, the last time I was to speak to her, she called me on the phone for a hotel listing in Ponca City, the town I live in, because, I found out, she was taking flights out of Ponca to go to Houston for treatments. Of course it wasn't just a five minute conversation. We got to talking about everything important about life. We talked about Amie, how she affected so many lives, and I couldn't help but think that the same was true of the Godly woman I was talking to. She said that every time she talked to the doctor, the doctor would give her the same prognosis: essentially that she had a very short time left. Of course the doctor had been giving her the same news for years! How she had the strength to keep fighting, keep proving the doctors wrong, I'll never know.
She confided to me that she missed Amie a lot, and I agreed. She said that she was so ready for God to bring her and Amie back together, but God has other plans, and as a servant to Him, she would go on living life and loving until it was time for Him to call her home. When we said our good byes, I didn't think it would be the last time. If there was anyone who could have the strength to keep fighting, it was Jeanie. I knew she would continue to struggle, but I prayed for God to bless her and those with whom she came into contact.
So tonight I found out that she had lost her battle with cancer back in March. Just like twelve years ago, the news took my breath away. I just knew that she was still going strong. She had to be. In my own cowardice, I lived through her to find strength, just as I had when Amie died. I somehow thought that I too might be strong just by knowing her, just by being a small part of her life. And it hurts. It aches inside because it reminds me of the pain I felt when Amie died, but it is somehow different now. Amie did her work with me. She placed me on my feet, and many people since have showed me how to walk. In Jeanie's case she showed me how to keep walking, even when I feel I can't. Through my selfish tears right now, I can't help but smile, knowing that Jeanie and Amie have been reunited. Oh! To feel that love! What it must be like!
"My ears had heard of you
but now my eyes have seen you."
Job 42: 5
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Saved by the Bell
I love Saved by the Bell. There, I said it. Notice the present tense. I didn't use the word "loved" nor did I qualify the statement with some sort of deflecting argument. It was great back in the late eighties and early nineties when I was the same age as the kids at Bayside, and it's still great now. And much to my wife's chagrin, I am no longer in the closet about this topic.
Every morning I get up and turn the television to Sports Center while eating breakfast. It's a masculine move that satisfies the masculine front that I have acquired over the years, which is all very good. My wife does her best to oblige my need for sports in the morning, making casual conversation about the Viking's 5-0 start and how much of that can be attributed to Brett Favre's leadership. But as soon as she leaves the room and the sports coverage turns to racing or something equally boring, I turn it to TBS to catch a re-run of the best teen show ever.
Now this was a secret I managed to keep from her for quite some time, years in fact, but somewhere along the way I got sloppy. Maybe I left it on while putting a dish away in the kitchen. Maybe I was tending to my kids' breakfasts. But when she would enter the room and see what was on, I could only deny it for so long. "Honestly honey, I was channel surfing. I was looking for Dirty Harry on AMC. Channel 46 and Channel 48 are almost the same! I must have hit the 8 on accident. It's an honest mistake!"
But somewhere along the way, she stopped believing me and I stopped trying to hide it. I'm sure that she enjoyed the show when she was a kid also, but her tv viewing has matured to Fox News in the morning. Me? I'm just trying to take a trip down memory lane.
In high school I idolized Zack Morris. I had my hair cut like his, wore preppy clothes, and even my best friends like Bobby called me "Preppy." I always longed for Zack and Kelly to work things out, for A.C. Slater to dump that nut job Jessie Spanno, and for Lisa Turtle to be civil to Screech. I grew bold with Zack's antics and ploys to win over Kelly and fool Mr. Belding. I lifted weights to look like Slater (that didn't work out very well.) And when I was a freshman in college, the Bayside Boys also experienced their first year of dorm life. So when the show started to fail with nighttime audiences, I was overjoyed that they brought back Kelly's character and wondered why Barton County C.C. couldn't also have coed dorms! How cool would that have been? It would have been like a compromise between real life and Ally McBeal's coed bathroom (which, for the record, I was against and still am.) When Saved by the Bell, The College Years was canceled, I became depressed, so depressed that the cheesy movies the group did like the one in Hawaii and Zack and Kelly's Vegas wedding didn't do anything to give me closure. All I had left was 90210.
And so I became a closet Bell head. I grew older, started losing my hair and gaining table muscle, but Saved by the Bell kept me young, and keeps me young today. As a teacher, I see that kids have changed since 1993 and it makes me sad, much the way any generation is saddened by its youthful passing and all that goes with it. I look back at old pictures of myself and what my wife calls funny, I call home (girls' big hair, fuchsia pink and lime green shirts, Z Cavarichi's, and high top basketball shoes.) When the Saved by the Bell Reunion edition of People Magazine came out in August, I quickly coveted it, reading the article before even picking up my Field and Stream. The era never dies because every morning at 6:00 I can turn on the tube and know that this art has transcended time, as most art does. And every time Mr. Belding sends Zack Morris to detention, I can secretly live my past vicariously through him.
By the way, what's up with Screech nowadays? What a moron!
Every morning I get up and turn the television to Sports Center while eating breakfast. It's a masculine move that satisfies the masculine front that I have acquired over the years, which is all very good. My wife does her best to oblige my need for sports in the morning, making casual conversation about the Viking's 5-0 start and how much of that can be attributed to Brett Favre's leadership. But as soon as she leaves the room and the sports coverage turns to racing or something equally boring, I turn it to TBS to catch a re-run of the best teen show ever.
Now this was a secret I managed to keep from her for quite some time, years in fact, but somewhere along the way I got sloppy. Maybe I left it on while putting a dish away in the kitchen. Maybe I was tending to my kids' breakfasts. But when she would enter the room and see what was on, I could only deny it for so long. "Honestly honey, I was channel surfing. I was looking for Dirty Harry on AMC. Channel 46 and Channel 48 are almost the same! I must have hit the 8 on accident. It's an honest mistake!"
But somewhere along the way, she stopped believing me and I stopped trying to hide it. I'm sure that she enjoyed the show when she was a kid also, but her tv viewing has matured to Fox News in the morning. Me? I'm just trying to take a trip down memory lane.
In high school I idolized Zack Morris. I had my hair cut like his, wore preppy clothes, and even my best friends like Bobby called me "Preppy." I always longed for Zack and Kelly to work things out, for A.C. Slater to dump that nut job Jessie Spanno, and for Lisa Turtle to be civil to Screech. I grew bold with Zack's antics and ploys to win over Kelly and fool Mr. Belding. I lifted weights to look like Slater (that didn't work out very well.) And when I was a freshman in college, the Bayside Boys also experienced their first year of dorm life. So when the show started to fail with nighttime audiences, I was overjoyed that they brought back Kelly's character and wondered why Barton County C.C. couldn't also have coed dorms! How cool would that have been? It would have been like a compromise between real life and Ally McBeal's coed bathroom (which, for the record, I was against and still am.) When Saved by the Bell, The College Years was canceled, I became depressed, so depressed that the cheesy movies the group did like the one in Hawaii and Zack and Kelly's Vegas wedding didn't do anything to give me closure. All I had left was 90210.
And so I became a closet Bell head. I grew older, started losing my hair and gaining table muscle, but Saved by the Bell kept me young, and keeps me young today. As a teacher, I see that kids have changed since 1993 and it makes me sad, much the way any generation is saddened by its youthful passing and all that goes with it. I look back at old pictures of myself and what my wife calls funny, I call home (girls' big hair, fuchsia pink and lime green shirts, Z Cavarichi's, and high top basketball shoes.) When the Saved by the Bell Reunion edition of People Magazine came out in August, I quickly coveted it, reading the article before even picking up my Field and Stream. The era never dies because every morning at 6:00 I can turn on the tube and know that this art has transcended time, as most art does. And every time Mr. Belding sends Zack Morris to detention, I can secretly live my past vicariously through him.
By the way, what's up with Screech nowadays? What a moron!
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Smiling
Yesterday I came home from work, my shins aching, knees creaking, and temples pounding. My lectures were met with blank stares and the proverbial rolling of the eyes. One class challenged my every word with arrogance, flippancy, and the general hostility that is usually reserved for parents who "unfairly" ground them because they didn't do what they were supposed to do, like make the grade. Frankly, they were hoping for this part-Irish man to blow his stack (a general occurrence nowadays with the pressure I put on myself to make all my students pass,) so that their attitudes would be justified. Sternly, I let them know that my job is to force them to pass this class and that I would use all means necessary to "steer" them to the same conclusion, including calling their parents. Of course this meant groundings which made me target number one for their anger.
So falling back on my more patient English side, I kept my cool, informed them that their poor attitudes only feuled my desire to make them succeed, and that I would win in the end. I then informed them that I was expecting thank you letters in the year 2020 when they would be twenty-five and mature enough to understand why I was being so tough on them. Struggle diffused, we finished the lecture notes, learning may or may not have occurred and the kids went their own separate ways which brings us full circle now, which is oh so interesting.
At 3:11 when my last student vacated my room, I wasn't smiling.
But difficulty brings out two sides of me: the philosophical side and the cynical side, but not necessarily in that order. Okay, not in that order at all. While fuming I remarked to a collegue that one of the toughest parts to teaching is not getting to see the finished product. I've been teaching for ten years now, which is more than enough time to start receiving said letters from former students to justify my headaches, but such have been few and far between.
But I have to remind myself that God works in his own time and that His time is perfect. So to speak generally about His perfect timing, I received an e-mail today from two former students who had moved away. Students such as they are mature beyond their years and constitute the minority that I should focus on in times of hardship in the trenches of my classroom. I won't break the confidentialities of these two cherished students (and I do cherish and love all my students, tough love included,) but I will say their vote of confidence was encouraging. It's nice to hear that I made a difference and I will use this on Monday when I bring my blue collar attitude, pick axe, and lunch box back to my trench and try again to make a difference in a student's life.
P.S. Thank you, you two!!!
So falling back on my more patient English side, I kept my cool, informed them that their poor attitudes only feuled my desire to make them succeed, and that I would win in the end. I then informed them that I was expecting thank you letters in the year 2020 when they would be twenty-five and mature enough to understand why I was being so tough on them. Struggle diffused, we finished the lecture notes, learning may or may not have occurred and the kids went their own separate ways which brings us full circle now, which is oh so interesting.
At 3:11 when my last student vacated my room, I wasn't smiling.
But difficulty brings out two sides of me: the philosophical side and the cynical side, but not necessarily in that order. Okay, not in that order at all. While fuming I remarked to a collegue that one of the toughest parts to teaching is not getting to see the finished product. I've been teaching for ten years now, which is more than enough time to start receiving said letters from former students to justify my headaches, but such have been few and far between.
But I have to remind myself that God works in his own time and that His time is perfect. So to speak generally about His perfect timing, I received an e-mail today from two former students who had moved away. Students such as they are mature beyond their years and constitute the minority that I should focus on in times of hardship in the trenches of my classroom. I won't break the confidentialities of these two cherished students (and I do cherish and love all my students, tough love included,) but I will say their vote of confidence was encouraging. It's nice to hear that I made a difference and I will use this on Monday when I bring my blue collar attitude, pick axe, and lunch box back to my trench and try again to make a difference in a student's life.
P.S. Thank you, you two!!!
Friday, October 2, 2009
The Irony of Getting What You Want, Part II
In high school in the early nineties, my biggesgt goal was not to do well academically, but to make it to State in any sport. Well, I stunk at wrestling, so that was never going to happen. Our football team my senior year, fell just short of knocking off Scott City, the four-time undefeated defending state champions, in a game that would have sent us to the state playoffs. That next spring in the tennis match to determine who would make the state tournament, the team my doubles partner and I played against cheated on ten line calls and we lost a close third set. I had done everything I could to win the match, but it wasn't to be. I remember the feeling of rejection as I climbed a hill overlooking the tennis courts in a park in Pratt, Kansas, thinking, "That's it. Three strikes. There are no more chances. IT'S OVER." Doom. Impending doom.
I was given a second chance my Sophomore year in college in 1995. Playing the number six spot for a good junior college team, I had match point to go to Nationals! All I had to do was win ONE POINT! I served a huge kick serve down the middle to the deuce court, a strategy that had successfully gotten me to that point, and my opponent, some surfer punk from California, returned the ball right at me. As I came up to volley, I had an easy shot to put the ball away. I had hit that very shot thousands of times for winners. There was no way I was going to screw it up. Then fate reared its ugly head. As it came at me, the ball, instead of hitting the net or crossing over it cleanly to connect with my racket, instead clipped the net cord, jumped up into the air and over my head, landing in the court behind me. Guaranteed victory turned into the agony of defeat five minutes later and after the match, I sat down on my rump besides that stinking net and let the tears flow. There were no two ways about it. I was destined to be a loser. That was as close as I ever made it to Nationals.
Let's turn the clock back a bit now. In 1985 the Kansas City Royals won the World Series and we rejoiced. In ’88 Danny and the Miracles made their surprise run from the number 6 seed to the NCAA championship at Kemper, and we rejoiced again. Rooting for winning teams was easy when championships came so readily. We the fans found confidence in our own abilities because our heroes showed us how it was done. In '88 I was only eight years removed from the Steelers’ last Super Bowl title, so I just knew they would be coming around soon also. Law of averages, right? But then the drought hit and none of my teams won their respective championships. The Royals just plain stunk (and still do,) the Jayhawks came close a time or two but never made it over the hump, and the Steelers failed to put that fifth ring on their owner's thumb.
It was rumored that Fenway Park would be closing its doors, so in 2001 my friend Tad and I took a trip to New England to catch a Boston Red Sox game and pay tribute to one of three truly historic ball MLB ball parks. I wasn't particularly a Sox fan, but I rooted for them because they were about the only team that had a shot at beating the Yankees. By this time, the Royals had become nothing more than a farm club for the Yankees. The Royals would groom their players to maturity and the Yankees would welcome them with open arms and an open check book. Needless to say, I was shopping around for a team to root for. And on that trip I fell in love with the Sox.
So three years later when the Sox were down to the Yankees three games to zero in the ALCS, I had given them up for dead. The Sox were the American League version of the Cubs: lovable losers. But then something miraculous happened. Base hit, pinch runner, stolen base, rbi, Sox win. That little string of events took less than ten minutes to occur, but it started a turn around that hasn't seen an end yet. The Sox became the only team to come back from three games down in a best of seven series, and eventually took out the Cardinals in the World Series for their first championship since 1918. Sixteen years without without one of my teams winning a championship, and I just knew all the weight of losing would be off my shoulders. But what I felt wasn't relief. It was... nothing.
At first I thought I was just in shock, but a few days later, I still didnt' feel fulfilled like I thought I would be. My grandmother had passed away a few weeks before, so I thought it might just be residual depression, which would be totally understandable, but as time went on, I felt no great insights into what it meant to be a winner again. So I justified it. I hadn't really put in my dues to fully consider myself a member of Red Sox Nation, so I couldn't really share in their joy. Yes, that had to be it.
But the next year, my beloved Steelers won Super Bowl XL. Afterward, as I waited again for the feeling of relief, nothing came. Just as no happiness entered my soul when the Sox won the World Series again in 2007. Just as I wasn't fulfilled when my Jayhawks won the NCAA basketball championship in 2008, or when my Steelers added a sixth ring to Mr. Rooney's other hand just last February. Don't get me wrong. These were great moments, and five championships in six years is bordering on gluttony, but none of them filled the hole I had carved out in my heart for just such an occasion.
Maybe as a kid I would have appreciated these five championships more. Maybe I had grown up and I now saw sports as entertainment, not life or death (then why do I still yell at the TV?) But maybe if childhood dreams aren't fulfilled at a certain age, then they won't ever be. Maybe it's not merely enough to take pride in rooting for the winning team. I'm too old to be much of a competative player at any sport. I was down for a week this summer after playing in a tennis tournament in Wichita (in which I took 5th out of 8.) So if winning isn't important in life, what is? I guess that if I learned anything from all my near misses in high school and college, it was to accept losing as a part of life? To hold my head up high and know I gave it my all when my entire being knew that if I only had had a little more to give, then elation would replace the feeling of agony?
Holding oneself up to such lofty standards as champion is dangerous. Only the top one percent of one percent can claim that prize. But I think back to the RC car I mentioned in Part I of this post. I had simply yearned for it with not the slightest hope of ever receiving it, and once it was mine, it simply ceased to be special. It held flaws that lessened its value, not attaining the bar that my imagination had raised. If we had gone down the field and scored on Scott City instead of throwing an interception that was returned for a touchdown in the last minute, would I have felt complete? If those jerks had called a fair match my senior year, would I have been at peace with myself? If my serve had been returned by the beach boy one-half inch higher or lower, would it have atoned for all the agony of the past? At the time, and just a few years ago I would have said, "YES! A RESOUNDING YES!" But now... now I think it would have just been an empty feeling.
It would have been nice to find out though.
I was given a second chance my Sophomore year in college in 1995. Playing the number six spot for a good junior college team, I had match point to go to Nationals! All I had to do was win ONE POINT! I served a huge kick serve down the middle to the deuce court, a strategy that had successfully gotten me to that point, and my opponent, some surfer punk from California, returned the ball right at me. As I came up to volley, I had an easy shot to put the ball away. I had hit that very shot thousands of times for winners. There was no way I was going to screw it up. Then fate reared its ugly head. As it came at me, the ball, instead of hitting the net or crossing over it cleanly to connect with my racket, instead clipped the net cord, jumped up into the air and over my head, landing in the court behind me. Guaranteed victory turned into the agony of defeat five minutes later and after the match, I sat down on my rump besides that stinking net and let the tears flow. There were no two ways about it. I was destined to be a loser. That was as close as I ever made it to Nationals.
Let's turn the clock back a bit now. In 1985 the Kansas City Royals won the World Series and we rejoiced. In ’88 Danny and the Miracles made their surprise run from the number 6 seed to the NCAA championship at Kemper, and we rejoiced again. Rooting for winning teams was easy when championships came so readily. We the fans found confidence in our own abilities because our heroes showed us how it was done. In '88 I was only eight years removed from the Steelers’ last Super Bowl title, so I just knew they would be coming around soon also. Law of averages, right? But then the drought hit and none of my teams won their respective championships. The Royals just plain stunk (and still do,) the Jayhawks came close a time or two but never made it over the hump, and the Steelers failed to put that fifth ring on their owner's thumb.
It was rumored that Fenway Park would be closing its doors, so in 2001 my friend Tad and I took a trip to New England to catch a Boston Red Sox game and pay tribute to one of three truly historic ball MLB ball parks. I wasn't particularly a Sox fan, but I rooted for them because they were about the only team that had a shot at beating the Yankees. By this time, the Royals had become nothing more than a farm club for the Yankees. The Royals would groom their players to maturity and the Yankees would welcome them with open arms and an open check book. Needless to say, I was shopping around for a team to root for. And on that trip I fell in love with the Sox.
So three years later when the Sox were down to the Yankees three games to zero in the ALCS, I had given them up for dead. The Sox were the American League version of the Cubs: lovable losers. But then something miraculous happened. Base hit, pinch runner, stolen base, rbi, Sox win. That little string of events took less than ten minutes to occur, but it started a turn around that hasn't seen an end yet. The Sox became the only team to come back from three games down in a best of seven series, and eventually took out the Cardinals in the World Series for their first championship since 1918. Sixteen years without without one of my teams winning a championship, and I just knew all the weight of losing would be off my shoulders. But what I felt wasn't relief. It was... nothing.
At first I thought I was just in shock, but a few days later, I still didnt' feel fulfilled like I thought I would be. My grandmother had passed away a few weeks before, so I thought it might just be residual depression, which would be totally understandable, but as time went on, I felt no great insights into what it meant to be a winner again. So I justified it. I hadn't really put in my dues to fully consider myself a member of Red Sox Nation, so I couldn't really share in their joy. Yes, that had to be it.
But the next year, my beloved Steelers won Super Bowl XL. Afterward, as I waited again for the feeling of relief, nothing came. Just as no happiness entered my soul when the Sox won the World Series again in 2007. Just as I wasn't fulfilled when my Jayhawks won the NCAA basketball championship in 2008, or when my Steelers added a sixth ring to Mr. Rooney's other hand just last February. Don't get me wrong. These were great moments, and five championships in six years is bordering on gluttony, but none of them filled the hole I had carved out in my heart for just such an occasion.
Maybe as a kid I would have appreciated these five championships more. Maybe I had grown up and I now saw sports as entertainment, not life or death (then why do I still yell at the TV?) But maybe if childhood dreams aren't fulfilled at a certain age, then they won't ever be. Maybe it's not merely enough to take pride in rooting for the winning team. I'm too old to be much of a competative player at any sport. I was down for a week this summer after playing in a tennis tournament in Wichita (in which I took 5th out of 8.) So if winning isn't important in life, what is? I guess that if I learned anything from all my near misses in high school and college, it was to accept losing as a part of life? To hold my head up high and know I gave it my all when my entire being knew that if I only had had a little more to give, then elation would replace the feeling of agony?
Holding oneself up to such lofty standards as champion is dangerous. Only the top one percent of one percent can claim that prize. But I think back to the RC car I mentioned in Part I of this post. I had simply yearned for it with not the slightest hope of ever receiving it, and once it was mine, it simply ceased to be special. It held flaws that lessened its value, not attaining the bar that my imagination had raised. If we had gone down the field and scored on Scott City instead of throwing an interception that was returned for a touchdown in the last minute, would I have felt complete? If those jerks had called a fair match my senior year, would I have been at peace with myself? If my serve had been returned by the beach boy one-half inch higher or lower, would it have atoned for all the agony of the past? At the time, and just a few years ago I would have said, "YES! A RESOUNDING YES!" But now... now I think it would have just been an empty feeling.
It would have been nice to find out though.
The Irony of Getting What You Want, Part I
When I was eight, I fell in love.
It was Christmas season and the family ran up to Great Bend one Saturday to do our Chrstmas shopping. I remember Mom needed to go to Sears to pick up a package she had ordered, and when we got up to the desk, right there in full sight of all kids who visited the store was a remote-controlled race car! Now it wasn't one of those expensive gas-powered ones that real RC owners used, but for twenty-five or thirty dollars, it was all but out of reach. Remember that this was 1983 and we weren't exactly rolling in the dough. Santa Clause would visit our house every year, but to even suggest that Saint Nick might find me good enough to warrant such an expensive gift was a bit wishfull. Be that as it may, I didn't care. I was drunk with the passion of the spirit of receiving and only came back down to earth after Mom took one look at the price tag.
Still for the next few weeks, all I could think of was the car. Teal with a silver racing stripe on the hood and a fierce looking lobo on the side, I could just picture myself at the controls, weaving through a slalom course littered with such obstacles as Lincoln logs and G.I. Joes. I envisioned myself as James Bond (the Sean Connery version, of course) saving the free world from imminent danger. In fact, I wasn't just behind the controls, my imagination put me behind the wheel and the green shag carpet of our living room became a jungle I had to traverse in order to steal some secret Soviet documents. So even though I got a bad vibe in the store, I just knew Santa would come through, especially since I had been so nice to Ms. Strauss, my second grade teacher who I swore must have spent most of her time sucking on lemons to achieve the look on her face when I raised my hand to ask a question. Never mind that I day-dreamed in her class all that month about the car.
On Christmas morning, my brother Chris and I snuck downstairs at 5:00 A.M. to snare our stockings, an annual tradition that I still keep, and I couldn't help but peer under the tree for any new developments. Sure enough, in the dim light of the colored bulbs on the tree, I could make out Santa's face on the wrapping paper of a few new presents. And about an hour later, high on the sugar content of pecan logs and heightened expectations, we woke up our parents (who probably hadn't gotten much sleep while taking care of our nine-month-old baby sister.) Like a ticker-tape parade I tore the wrapping paper into confetti and screeched with delight to see the teal RC car that I had dreamed about and just knew was out of reach. Mom made me wait until after breakfast (and sunrise) before I took my dream present out for a spin.
The first course I decided on was our front-yard sidewalk, not exactly an obstacle course, but a hands-on lesson in plate tectonics. With controls in hand and excitement pounding through my veins, I pushed the accelerator button with my thumb and unleashed fury. The wheels didn't spin out like I had expected, and the car took a few seconds to get up any speed at all. Of course before it could reach its terminal velocity of two mph, the allignment forced the car to the left and it flipped upside down in the yellow grass by the big elm in front of our house. Undeterred, I righted the ship and gave it another try, ten feet to be exact until the front bumper came to a rather abrupt stop at one of the aforementioned tectonic plates that had risen from the sidewalk like a mountain range. I was only starting to get discouraged.
It took a few tries, but I finally managed to keep it going in a straight line, save for the cracks in the sidewalk, but my imagination wasn't spurred like I had expected. I couldn't see myself behind the wheel like before. It felt more like having a glorified match box car, but even the match box cars I had allowed for more imagination than this. After fifteen minutes the batteries went dead and I walked in the house dejected. I'm sure I replaced the batteries and raced it more than that one Christmas morning, but no other memories stick out. The toy was put in the toy box and my imagination took over any time a Saturday-morning commercial would show me the newest toy on the market. What went wrong?
I had built it up in my head to be better than it was. Even if the car would have been a gas-powered beast, it probably wouldn't have lived up to my daydreams. That's the problem with imagination. Is this how we view life too?
It was Christmas season and the family ran up to Great Bend one Saturday to do our Chrstmas shopping. I remember Mom needed to go to Sears to pick up a package she had ordered, and when we got up to the desk, right there in full sight of all kids who visited the store was a remote-controlled race car! Now it wasn't one of those expensive gas-powered ones that real RC owners used, but for twenty-five or thirty dollars, it was all but out of reach. Remember that this was 1983 and we weren't exactly rolling in the dough. Santa Clause would visit our house every year, but to even suggest that Saint Nick might find me good enough to warrant such an expensive gift was a bit wishfull. Be that as it may, I didn't care. I was drunk with the passion of the spirit of receiving and only came back down to earth after Mom took one look at the price tag.
Still for the next few weeks, all I could think of was the car. Teal with a silver racing stripe on the hood and a fierce looking lobo on the side, I could just picture myself at the controls, weaving through a slalom course littered with such obstacles as Lincoln logs and G.I. Joes. I envisioned myself as James Bond (the Sean Connery version, of course) saving the free world from imminent danger. In fact, I wasn't just behind the controls, my imagination put me behind the wheel and the green shag carpet of our living room became a jungle I had to traverse in order to steal some secret Soviet documents. So even though I got a bad vibe in the store, I just knew Santa would come through, especially since I had been so nice to Ms. Strauss, my second grade teacher who I swore must have spent most of her time sucking on lemons to achieve the look on her face when I raised my hand to ask a question. Never mind that I day-dreamed in her class all that month about the car.
On Christmas morning, my brother Chris and I snuck downstairs at 5:00 A.M. to snare our stockings, an annual tradition that I still keep, and I couldn't help but peer under the tree for any new developments. Sure enough, in the dim light of the colored bulbs on the tree, I could make out Santa's face on the wrapping paper of a few new presents. And about an hour later, high on the sugar content of pecan logs and heightened expectations, we woke up our parents (who probably hadn't gotten much sleep while taking care of our nine-month-old baby sister.) Like a ticker-tape parade I tore the wrapping paper into confetti and screeched with delight to see the teal RC car that I had dreamed about and just knew was out of reach. Mom made me wait until after breakfast (and sunrise) before I took my dream present out for a spin.
The first course I decided on was our front-yard sidewalk, not exactly an obstacle course, but a hands-on lesson in plate tectonics. With controls in hand and excitement pounding through my veins, I pushed the accelerator button with my thumb and unleashed fury. The wheels didn't spin out like I had expected, and the car took a few seconds to get up any speed at all. Of course before it could reach its terminal velocity of two mph, the allignment forced the car to the left and it flipped upside down in the yellow grass by the big elm in front of our house. Undeterred, I righted the ship and gave it another try, ten feet to be exact until the front bumper came to a rather abrupt stop at one of the aforementioned tectonic plates that had risen from the sidewalk like a mountain range. I was only starting to get discouraged.
It took a few tries, but I finally managed to keep it going in a straight line, save for the cracks in the sidewalk, but my imagination wasn't spurred like I had expected. I couldn't see myself behind the wheel like before. It felt more like having a glorified match box car, but even the match box cars I had allowed for more imagination than this. After fifteen minutes the batteries went dead and I walked in the house dejected. I'm sure I replaced the batteries and raced it more than that one Christmas morning, but no other memories stick out. The toy was put in the toy box and my imagination took over any time a Saturday-morning commercial would show me the newest toy on the market. What went wrong?
I had built it up in my head to be better than it was. Even if the car would have been a gas-powered beast, it probably wouldn't have lived up to my daydreams. That's the problem with imagination. Is this how we view life too?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
