#The importance of being irrelevant

“Damn!  Where is it?”  muttered a fellow chaplain at a recent meeting as he frantically pawed through his briefcase.   From the degree of his anxiety, I thought he had lost his wedding ring or an irreplaceable document.

     He met my questioning look of concern with a sheepish grin, “I forgot my smart phone.  I just can't function without it.   I feel like I don’t have any pants on!”   

     While I felt for my beleaguered colleague, I couldn’t relate to his angst at being separated from a relentless barrage of e-mails for a few hours.

     However much modern technology promises to connect us and make our lives easier, that promise often goes unfulfilled.  We seem more stressed out and separate from each other than ever. I’ve observed people sitting around a table, obsessively fiddling with their tablets or phones instead of conversing with each other.  The nightly news regularly airs the latest video of someone getting shot in the back or beheaded. And while a cat playing piano on U tube goes viral, there are whole invisible populations getting quietly wiped out by genocide or starvation.  Apparently, as the movie Birdman so brutally points out, if you’re not trending, tweeting, hash-tagging, or posting, you’re irrelevant and don’t exist. 

       In a culture which grows increasingly dependent on the latest personal devices, I fear that the day of George Orwell’s Big Brother and the Machiavellian scheming of Hal the computer has finally arrived. I saw a piece on CBS Sunday morning that featured yet another “must have” gadget.   You wear it on your wrist—it tracks your every move—it tells you how many calories you burn and how many hours you slept.  It gives you motivational pep talks and vibrates every hour reminding you to get off your butt and move around.   The reporter wryly commented, “It’s like living with your mother.”  When it was demonstrated that this information can be made public for the whole world to see, she asked, “Does the need for this gadget reflect an unhealthy level of self-absorption?” 

     Good question, one I’ve been asking a lot lately because I suspect that all of these ingenious doodads are ,indeed, cultivating a society of inconsiderate boorish narcissists.

     Case in point, last week, my husband Frank and I treated ourselves to a couple of days at Ojo Caliente Hot Springs in New Mexico, which is supposedly a sacred and quiet place of utter relaxation and freedom from worldly distractions. Yet we noticed that the rule banning cell phones from the pool area went largely ignored.  On the way home from New Mexico we stopped for lunch at a small café in the mountain town of Buena Vista Colorado.  Not two feet away from our table sat a young couple loudly “face timing” on their computer.  We had no desire to eavesdrop on their conversation, but we were pretty much a captive audience, forced to listen to the intimate details of their lives intruding upon our lunch. The whole time, they remained clueless that they were bothering anyone.  I dread the day when air travel becomes even more of an affront to human dignity once they allow the use of cell phones in flight.    

      Call me old-fashioned, but I would prefer that people leave my face to their imagination during a phone conversation and I like to keep my conversations private (remember the days of private phone booths?).    Nor do I need to globally broadcast what I ate for lunch, not that anyone besides Frank  would be remotely interested in my diet.    I still like to navigate with a clunky paper map that doesn’t fold right after the first time you use it.    At least it doesn’t talk back and slyly insinuate what a dummy I am when I make a wrong turn.  And I certainly don’t need an expensive apparatus overseeing my daily activities, much less suggesting that I’m lazy for lying on the couch hours on end. 

     Back in the olden days, I traveled the world when Al Gore was only dreaming of the Internet.   I stayed connected with family and friends through Fax, snail mail or international calling cards. I managed to find my way around with a dog-eared Lonely Planet travel guide, or by asking people for directions.  Yeah, it was inconvenient and even scary at times to be all alone and thousands of miles from home, yet that was part of the adventure. 

     Just so you know,  I'm not blind to the obvious benefits of these technological advances nor am I adverse to incorporating some of them into my life.  Even if I’m only taking a walk in the park three blocks away, my “dumb” phone goes with me; I can’t imagine life without e-mails, especially when I’m traveling in a foreign country. I text, and of course, I’ll post this blog on my Facebook page.  But that’s as far as I’m willing to go right now despite the attempts of friends and family to shame me into keeping up with the times.  I've learned to ignore the bemused, slightly pitying glances every time I whip out my antiquated cell phone. When it finally dies, I guess I'll have to give in and invest in a smart phone.   Until then, I remain skeptical that a device smarter than me will enrich my life and enhance my relationships. 

The five stages of insanity

Nothing bugs me more than misplacing my things and lately, I’ve been losing a lot. Last week, it was a credit card and this week, a tiny plastic clip that holds my measuring spoons neatly in place.  The credit card has been easily replaced and the plastic spoon clip is practically worthless.  But I GRIEVE when I lose things. The smaller and more insignificant the missing item, the more obsessive I get about restoring order to my world. Ever since I was a child and lost my favorite stuffed lambie Zipper, I've never been good at letting go.  I remember crying for days until my Dad suggested that I pray to St. Anthony whose job it is to keep track of everyone’s stuff. So I did—and magically, the next day, I discovered Zipper lying on a pile of junk in the garage.  I’ve been a believer ever since even when I learned in later years that St. Anthony doesn't work for free and will move you higher up his list if you slip him a twenty.

But I figure St Anthony can’t be bothered with such a trivial matter as a plastic spoon clip, so  I’ve wasted hours and hours frantically pawing through drawers and cupboards trying to find it.    Fortunately, Frank puts up with my eccentricities and cheerfully moves heavy furniture, while I get down on my hands and knees with the flashlight (an endeavor which is about as fruitful as a snipe hunt). Patient as he is, he doesn’t get why I can’t just let it go, “Don’t worry, honey, I’ll buy you another one.”  But he is totally missing the point—as with any form of grief, I'm more upset about losing control over my orderly environment than losing the thing itself.    

For me, accepting the loss of a mislaid item is a process not entirely unlike Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ well known five stages of grief:   denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. 

So here’s Angie’s version:

Stage 1-Denial-“I left it right here!  It can’t have grown legs and walked off—it’s gotta be somewhere!”  

Stage 2-Anger/ Blame- “Okay, who the hell took it?” (this is directed at anyone unlucky enough to be within hollering distance, including the cats)

Stage 3-Bargaining—“If I ever find the stupid thing, I’ll be more careful and I’ll never lose it again!

Stage 4-Depression—“God, I’m getting old and senile—won’t be long before independent living is a fuzzy memory.”

Stage 5-Acceptance—Well, let’s just say I’m not there yet.  I’m still looking for the jade stone that fell out of the ring Frank gave me on our first Christmas together.  And today I found myself combing through moldy coffee grounds in the compost bin hoping that the plastic spoon clip somehow landed there. 

Okay, so maybe I’m a tiny bit obsessive about maintaining control over my universe and I get somewhat overly attached to material things.   I’m no Dali Lama.    But he’d be the first to tell me to laugh and cut myself some slack.   

The Sand Dollars

On a late November afternoon, I am happily splashing around in the shallow clear waters of beautiful Las Palmas—a gem of a beach tucked away in a secluded cove near Todos Santos in Baja Mexico.     

After a fairly active week in Loreto by the Sea of Cortez, it hasn’t taken my husband Frank and I very long to fall prey to the soporific rhythms of the Pacific side. We’ve spent much of our time whale watching and sampling an impressive variety of beaches—all beautiful in their own right.  But we keep coming back to Las Palmas because it is one of the few beaches where it's safe to swim and also because it's one of the best kept secrets in the area, thanks to the almost impossible to find, rutted dirt track that leads down to the beach.    But hey, we’re from Colorado—back roads with rocks the size of giant ant hills do not phase us in the least. 

To access the beach, you have to hike through a shaded grove of elegant palm trees that remind me of Costa Rica (but without the monkeys).    As there are no amenities of any kind, we haul two backpacks crammed full of creature comforts, beach chairs and an umbrella.  Within minutes, we have gotten settled into our temporary encampment and contentedly sit back—anticipating a delicious afternoon of relaxation. As usual, there are only a half dozen or so other hardy beach-goers sparsely scattered along the half-mile stretch of sand making it easy to pretend that it’s ‘our’ private beach.   The waves are higher than normal today, so I am content with just dinking around in knee deep water, far from the reach of the pounding surf.    As I head back to our camp, I spot a sand dollar lying in the sand, right at the high tide mark.  I gasp in delight because it is so rare to find one intact.  I pick it up and examine the round surface which is delicately etched with five symmetrical petals—a slightly jagged eye in the center seems to be winking at me crookedly.     I carefully carry my treasure over to Frank, a wide grin on my face.   He, too, appreciates its beauty and comments on how perfect it is.  We handle it gently, like fragile Venetian blown glass. 

Encouraged by my find, I set off to hunt for more sand dollars.   Not too far down the wide beach, I find another one that looks like it’s been chewed up and spit out—the edges are ragged and the broken back reveals the empty chambers where its tiny inhabitants once dwelled.  Obviously, it has seen better days.  I quickly discard it as unworthy of any further attention.  

As I’m searching for the absolute best sand dollar I can find—I begin to wonder about my compulsive hunt for perfection. One of the benefits of my advanced age is that I’ve learned to accept my own little eccentricities and flaws—and in so doing, I’ve gotten a bit more mellow about accepting everyone else’s, too.   Yet here I am, scouring this wild beach in search of the Holy Grail of perfection-a ghostly skeleton that hasn’t been scarred and battered by what must certainly be a precarious existence on the floor of the ocean.    Where do I get off decreeing that one sand dollar is more valuable than the other?  I backtrack and find the discarded shell-examine it again with renewed interest. Both have lived out their brief life cycle, yet the first one is so perfect that it reveals almost nothing about its previous history, while the tattered shell’s appearance tells a compelling story about the natural forces that have shaped its destiny.    The sea, immune to any artificially imposed standards of beauty and perfection, has generously offered both sand dollars as a gift to the waiting shore.  Suddenly, it seems ridiculous to measure the worth of these treasures by my own shallow yardstick.   I decide that both shells are equally precious, each in their own unique way.  It is the deliberation with which they’ve been created, the unique purpose fulfilled, the lasting imprint they’ve left upon the soul of Life itself that matters more than their physical appearance.

I show the broken sand dollar to Frank.  “Should I keep them, do you think?”  Even as I’m asking, I know I shouldn’t.   The sand dollars are not mine to possess—if I take them home, they’ll end up in a drawer with other forgotten sand dollars I’ve collected over the years—they need to stay here where their life began. 

 I gently lay both sand dollars side by side—one perfect, the other misshapen--and before leaving, I scratch out “Thank You!” in the sand. 

Do It Anyway

Last spring when I was in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala to study Spanish, I befriended a ten year old boy named Andy.  Andy’s mom Dona Isabel would bring me a home cooked meal every day, often accompanied by her youngest son.   I found Andy to be a thoroughly engaging and bright fellow cat lover and a friendship between us quickly developed.  He would come over to my apartment in the afternoon and do his homework at my kitchen table or I would quiz him for an English exam.  He had an insatiable curiosity about my life in Colorado, so some afternoons, the schoolwork got put aside and I would patiently answer his tireless questions.  Conversations with Dona Isabel revealed that education does not come cheap in Guatemala, especially for a struggling family in a poor economy.  I decided to help Andy’s family with the cost of his tuition come fall.

So tonight, I trot on up to the local King Soopers with cash in hand intent on getting the money for Andy’s schooling sent off to Guatemala.  After circling the bustling parking lot in search of a parking spot, I patiently wait in line at customer service for what feels like an eternity (although it’s actually more like fifteen minutes).  Finally, I am beckoned forward to a cashier, who keeps me waiting for another ten minutes for some reason she doesn’t bother to explain.  Someone cuts in line and gets waited on before me to my major annoyance.  Eventually, I am brusquely informed that there will be no more Western Union transactions this evening because the machine is down.  I hold my tongue and march angrily out of the store, frustrated that my time and effort have been wasted.   

All the way home, as an added insult, traffic is terrible. So I sit and ponder the mysterious ways of the Universe. I guess I expected to be rewarded for trying my damndest to be a good person.  Instead, it feels more like I got kicked in the butt for no good reason I can discern.  I think of the cynical adage, "No good deed goes unpunished."  

Indeed.    


Before my pity party goes into full swing, I remember a poem often attributed to Mother Teresa called “Do It Anyway":

People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered.  Forgive them anyway.
 
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives.  Be kind anyway.
 
If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies.  Succeed anyway.
 
If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you.  Be honest and sincere anyway.
 
What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight.  Create anyway.
 
If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous.  Be happy anyway.
 
The good you do today, will often be forgotten.  Do good anyway.
 
Give the best you have, and it will never be enough.  Give your best anyway.
 
In the final analysis, it is between you and God.  It was never between you and them anyway.

 ....Point taken (although I’m no Mother Teresa).

Age is just a number

My mom used to say that age is just a number and I believed her... up until yesterday when I applied for Medicare—a sobering process which pierced through a blissful fog of denial that I’m well into the fourth and final chapter of my life. 

Just because I’ve walked planet Earth for almost 65 years, some faceless, nameless bureaucrats have officially decreed that I’m old.  But five year old Angie isn’t buying it.  Most of the time, she feels like she’s playing dress up, trying to act all wise and grown-up when she’s barely out of kindergarten. 

 

You will never convince her that it’s undignified to climb the monkey bars at the local playground or cuddle with her favorite stuffed lambie. 

The truth is that my inner five year old is still very much in charge of my life.  She insists on her right to stay up just a little bit later on school nights.  There is no discouraging her from gleefully anticipating the first big snowstorm of the season, hoping upon hope for a snow holiday.  Decorating the Christmas tree with her favorite Disney plush ornaments is an annual ritual which brings joy to her heart.   She’s still waiting for the perfect gift—the pretty pony with a silky mane and kind brown eyes that she’s been dreaming of her whole life.  Even though it hasn’t materialized in 65 years, she is absolutely sure that someday, she will run into the living room on Christmas morning and there it will be.    A trip to Timbuk Toys in search of a gift for the kids in her life is an exciting adventure—hell, she is a kid who goes on overload at the tempting display of dollhouses, butterfly pens, and Hello Kitty coloring books.   She loves sparkly, shiny things. Pink is her absolute favorite color and she cannot resist buying garish socks with puppies or kittens.

 My five year old firmly believes that maturity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.   Despite the occasional embarrassing temper tantrum and undisguised disappointment that the promised snow storm didn’t happen, I wouldn’t trade little Angie for anything.  She is the keeper of my innocence, she helps me to maintain a childlike sense of wonder and joy;  she’s the one who delights in the sight of a ladybug or gasps with awe when a double rainbow stretches across the darkened sky.  She still believes in magic and miracles.  Okay, so she can be gullible and naïve, at times, but isn’t this better than being a jaded old cynic?

Overall, little Angie is brimming with hope and optimism.  She persists in seeing the silver lining in everything.  She’s actually pleased that I’m about to cash in on old age benefits.  After all, it will free up more money to spend on toys. 

Failure Isn't Fatal

   The morning after the Super Bowl debacle, I texted my sister Dolores- a loyal Broncos fan- to offer my sincere condolences for the heartbreaking defeat her beloved team suffered at the hands of the Seattle “Sea Chickens” (as we here in Denver refer to them).  She was virtually speechless with shock and disappointment,

 “I could almost hate them” she spewed, “they are a disgrace to themselves and their fans.”

      I’m sure psychologists have a field day analyzing why people get so riled up about a game.  As anyone in my family will tell you, I'm not a sports fan, but even  I got caught up in all the hoopla preceding the big game (though I refused to wear orange).  Like most people,  I really wanted my home team to win and do Denver proud. I was amazed at how heartsick I felt when the Broncos fell flat on their face in front of the whole world.  The whole thing has prompted me to look at my attitude towards competition and failure and what it all means.  

        I speak with absolutely no authority when I theorize that a lot of fans pin their hopes and dreams onto these young players. Maybe that's why when they take it so personally when their team loses.   They believe that it somehow reflects on them.   I used to be critical of the ridiculous amount of money that professional athletes get paid for throwing a ball and getting banged up, but lately I’ve been thinking that they definitely earn their keep trying to fulfill the expectations of a society that worships at the altar of achievement.

     Let’s face it.  Everyone loves a winner.   My parents, bless their soul, were proud of all of their children’s achievements—I remember them carrying around a plastic bag containing newspaper articles and video clips touting our successes which they would show to anyone who demonstrated interest.    I used to be obsessed with winning awards, just so my parents would brag about me as much as they bragged about my very accomplished siblings.  In my mind, accomplishment could be used as currency which would win me love and approval.   I began to link success with self-worth—a gross misinterpretation that haunts me to this day.  

      I don't remember my parents or teachers ever encouraging me to get out there and fail.   Instead, I got the unspoken message that failure is a shameful humiliation to be avoided at all costs.   Fear of failure for me is like an unwelcome guest that periodically shows up on my doorstep to discourage me from venturing beyond my comfort zone.  I'll just bet I'm not alone in this struggle.   

     Last week, Peyton Manning’s Dad told the media that his son has always tried to maintain a healthy perspective on his career by focusing on his love for the game.   Win or lose, he remains at peace with himself. Personally, I find this attitude way more inspiring than any championship.  Consider for a moment how liberating it would be if we didn't allow any outcome to determine our self-worth; if we viewed victory and defeat as flip sides of the same coin—you can't have one without the other. 

 Some of the greatest men who ever walked this planet would probably tell you that their failures, excruciatingly painful as they can be, taught them how to become a stronger and better person.  Without a doubt, they disappointed and let people down but what made them great was that they refused to allow their defeats to define them; they had the grace to learn from their mistakes and  the courage to stay true to their dreams even in the face of public derision.   

       A very wise basketball coach named John Wooden once said, “Failure is not fatal, but failure to change might be.”   Small consolation for those fans who are still licking their wounds, but hey, there's always next year! 
   

 

 

Grace walks the halls

     One night shortly before Christmas, as I begin my shift at St. Joe’s, the Palliative Care chaplain asks me to check on one of his patients, an 87 year old man, who is dying from heart failure.  (For privacy purposes, we will call him David).  Nothing more can be done medically for David and the family has agreed to transition him to comfort care (meaning no further medical intervention other than pain medication will be provided to keep him comfortable).    My colleague briefly sketches the portrait of a World War Two veteran who has led a rich and colorful life.  He is the head of a well-known mariachi band, married with at least ten biological children and four or five more foster children.   On the elevator up to the Intensive Care unit, I meet one of David's grand-daughters and a great-grand-daughter.    I escort the young women to David’s room, where no less than twenty assorted family members are already gathered around the beloved patriarch’s bed.  I squeeze into the crowded room and quickly identify his wife, Edna, an exhausted looking woman who is steadfastly holding vigil by her husband’s side. Her mascara is smeared and her hair is in disarray.     Her hand is resting lightly on David’s chest.   Occasionally, she leans down and whispers soft words of encouragement in her husband’s ear.   I introduce myself as the chaplain on duty.  Edna requests a prayer, but asks me to wait until the last of her sons arrives.  While we’re waiting, I glean a little more information about the head of this very large family.   He is an active member of a Catholic parish and has been performing mariachi music for forty years in churches of all denominations in the Denver area.    A son in law tells me that horns were once considered unseemly instruments for Catholic mass, so David wrote to the Pope asking permission to perform with his band in a Catholic church.  Permission was granted and the rest is history.

One of the daughters suggests that we sing, and immediately, the cramped hospital room comes alive with the familiar lyrics of “Amazing Grace.”  After that, the family breaks into familiar Mexican folk songs, De Colores and Las Mananitas, followed by a few other Latin hymns I have never heard before. The dying man moves his lips to the beautiful music that he has brought to so many people over the years. 
 
Finally, the son we have been waiting for steps into the room, takes his father’s hand, and says softly, "Hola, Poppy, I'm here. "  He  begins to sing “The Impossible Dream” in a rich contralto voice.  He forgets some of the words and falters, so I quickly jump in and fill in with as many of the lyrics as I can remember.  

The music flows out of the room and wafts into the ICU—blessing anyone lucky enough to be within hearing range of this touching outpouring of family love.  The nurses all have tears in their eyes as they go about the business of caring for their patients.  

There is a hush in the room as the last poignant notes echo in everyone’s heart.  Edna asks me to lead them in prayer and our voices join together as we recite the time-honored words of the “Our Father”.     Shortly after we finish praying, I am called down to the Labor and Delivery unit to comfort a woman who has been abandoned by her family after she delivered a baby boy.    The nurse tells me that the woman’s husband and teen-aged daughter had gotten into a heated argument and stalked out of the hospital in anger. 
 “I don’t know what you can do for her,” says the nurse, “but I think it would help if she had someone to talk to.” 
 I find the upset mom sitting up in bed, her long brown hair carelessly gathered into a loose pony tail, lending her the appearance of a disheveled Madonna --the baby,  is sleeping peacefully in a crib by the bed. 
 I tiptoe softly over to the crib, "Have you named him yet?"
With tears in her eyes, she nods, "His name is Darren, after my husband." With that, she breaks down and begins to sob.

 The contrast between the loving family tableau upstairs and the lonely young woman down here in the delivery room is heartbreaking.    In between sobs, the woman, who I will call Ann, describes the turmoil which has plagued her family over the past year. The daughter is struggling with her sexual identity and attempted suicide last summer.  
“We’re a good Christian family and we're just having a hard time accepting that my daughter is gay”, she explains.  
Ann and her husband had briefly separated because of the tension in the home caused by the daughter’s issues.  When Ann found out she was pregnant, they reconciled, but their issues are not even close to being resolved.  Ann tells me that her daughter- an only child for seventeen years- has unfortunately reacted to her new brother’s birth with resentment and hostility, saying she feels 'left out'.   What should have been a happy occasion has been marred with the ugly drama of family dissension.  When I offer to bless the baby, she perks up and quickly gives her consent.  I hastily go online and research the significance of the name Darren and discover that it means 'little great one' in Irish. I don't know if the child has any Irish blood, but my hope is that he has come into the world to reunite the beleaguered family he has been born into.   I bless the little guy and hand him over to his mother’s waiting arms.   I fuss and coo and take pictures—in short, I try to do everything for Ann that her family should have done had they not left in anger and hurt. 

  As Ann gently lays Darren on the bed and inspects him from head to toe, she tearfully tells me, “I’ve been praying so hard for all of us—I want my baby to have a happy family!” 
 "Would you like for me to say a prayer?"  She nods and I begin to pray softly (so as not to wake the baby) for a peaceful resolution of this family’s problems.   Darren's eyes (which have been closed tight the whole time) suddenly snap open.    He levels me with a knowing stare that literally gives me chills.   I see the wisdom of an old soul who has not yet forgotten who he is and where he came from.  I imagine that he is reassuring me, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this!”  In that moment, there is little doubt in my mind that he is indeed a little great one--an early Christmas gift sent as a  symbol of the mutual understanding and love this family needs to bring them together. 

I leave Ann and her baby to rest and go back to the ICU where David’s family is softly singing Christmas carols at his bedside.  The nurse tells me that David’s blood pressure has stabilized.  It is her belief that the singing is keeping him alive. I ask the nurse to call me if there's a change.   With that, I head back to the sleep room in the basement, in awe of the incredible spectrum of life that I have been privileged to witness.

 You hear people bandy the word “grace” around a lot.  It is defined as God’s infinite love and good will, but never have I felt it as strongly as I have on this cold winter night one week before Christmas.  It has walked the halls of St. Joe’s hospital- a palpable presence, flowing gently in, through, and around all those whom I have met—touching their hearts and lifting their spirits.   It has come to escort a loving soul out of the world, and to bring an old soul into the world; it has brought comfort to the loved ones who will be left behind and filled the hurting heart of a new mother with promise, light, and hope.  Most of all, it has made me grateful to be a chaplain.