“I am dealing with a really sticky situation. May I spill my…Coke?” PRT=1:03

Multi-tasking (a more politically correct term for “ADD”) has its advantages. It also comes with challenges (a more politically correct name for “crap”). Today, I was doing some adept task acceleration at my small desk: reading a proposal, reading an agreement, reading my emails, copying 47 pages of handwritten notes to send to my team in Chicago for “Kagan decoding,” Googling the nearest Office Max or Office Depot in readiness for when my black ink cartridge would run out (warning already given), making and eating my hi-protein/hi-fiber/low fat lunch wrap (only 5 WW points!), arranging files for later file arrangement…and then the paper tray was empty. And then I grabbed a stack of paper. And then I reached to put it in the tray…and knocked over my glass of Coke.

What a %$@^$@#@#^)^%!! mess. It went everywhere: wall, chords, papers, under cabinet and “to infinity and beyond” (a little Buzz Lightyear humor).

Let me ask you a question: What is the expression, the exact word, you used the last time you really made a mess? Come on, not the politically correct version. Right, me too!

After my instant (and if I might say gratifying) response extolling the power of excrement (a more politically correct name for…“excrement”), I paused to survey the situation. You see, there was something different in my reaction this time. Yes, I made a big mess: the towel and (eco-friendly) surface cleaner would eliminate the problem. Yes, I was working in a lot of confused clutter: the forced interruption made me slow down, rearrange the mess I’d created and clear off the things getting in the way. Yes, I was trying to focus on way too many things at once…seems like focusing on more than ONE THING makes an oxymoron (out of us).

Here’s where it gets sticky. We are arguably operating in an ADD society: more, faster, more, faster. We each get 30,000 bits of advertisement messaging every single day. We have been largely de-humanized through the advantages of technology (why speak or meet with someone when you can simply IM or Twitter them). We are so consumed trying to figure out everything we can become, that in our bus(y)iness we are missing the chance to experience exactly who we are.

When it happened, I was able to catch the glass before it spilled out completely. Damn, I wish it had spilled out completely! You see, it reminded me that the answer to the proverbial question has nothing to do with whether the glass was half empty or half full; it’s all about the glass.

(Emptying and filling) for emphasis – (b)

 

"#2. How do you take you toast, Part 2." PRT: 38 seconds

As a follow up to my 5/20 post, I was going to write another portion to this story about my daughter Victoria’s pregnancy and the concept of legacy. And I realized that it is all said in what I wrote before.  There is nothing quite like being a parent, and in my case a father (it’s guy thing). For those of you who are grandparents, you know what I mean when I say that there are no words to capture what it feels like to meet yourself coming the other way down the road.

For those of you still young, in heart, my wish for you is to swallow each and every moment you receive. I mean, gulp them deep into your belly. Savor each nibble. Run outdoors when it rains, get soaked, lean your head back, close your eyes, open your mouth and taste the honeyed raindrops melting on your tongue. And above all keep talking to the people you treasure, share how you really feel about…whatever, listen and hear, hug, floss (trust me on this one!) and remember to say these simple words: “I am glad you are in my life.”

Here’s my toast to you  -- May you find every treasure you seek, live everything you dream out loud, share each moment with wide open arms, that your challenges melt away like snowflakes on your tongue, that you end each day with “I love you” and that you always hold the hearts you share high above your heads like a father who once lifted his tiny daughter, a single sparking diamond, up to the warm embrace of a summer moon.

Remember – all of God’s blessings are in the giving.

Always.

Brian

5.23.09

 

"What's in a name? Memorial Day 2009." PRT: 1:21

I was in Washington, D.C. last November on Election Day 2008. I had voted the day before in Minneapolis a day early knowing I’d be in the capitol. The day was wrapped in a chenille grey blanket that was thick with autumn mist. I pictured the millions of people busily making a choice between two names; the one name they hoped would move their world towards something better. I walked the length of the national mall, alone, on this historic day. The tremor of anticipation stirred everything; it was unlike anything I have ever felt.

The following, however, is not about those other two names the world considered that day. It’s about a name you have likely never heard of before, or likely will remember after reading my writing. It’s about a man I met in a moment of reflection, a glossy scab upon which I see myself every day since in the screen saver on my cell phone. His name is Dale R. Buis. His is the first name listed on the wall of the Vietnam Memorial.

Major Buis was born August 29, 1921 in Pender, Nebraska. He was part of the Military Assistance Advisory Group sent in 1955 to train South Vietnam troops. He was killed at Bien Hoa, 20 miles northeast of Saigon. The Vietcong ambushed a mess hall where he and the other American officers were watching a movie. He was killed July 8^th, 1959. The first soldier to day in the Vietnam war. The rest of the story plays out in celluloid memories, like an R-rated film: Restricted due to excessive and graphic violence.

The monument rises, as if gutted from the ground; an ebony scab confronting your visual horizon. But it is not until you get closer that you realize the polished black granite holds the names of every soldier who was killed. 1959-1975. Each name meticulously carved into the granite tablets. Humbly presented. Quietly considered. Immovable, it weathers time, cleansed only by the seasons, tears and tributes left leaning against the structure. The pictures and folded messages eventually fade, wilt and tumble away down the neatly swept sidewalks. The names and blackness remain in timeless salute.

I couldn’t find a picture of Dale R. Buis on the Internet. Maybe I just didn’t take enough time. But, here is what I did find, for real: Approximately 940,000 Americans died in World War I (approximately 8-9 million people in total died). Approximately 418,000 American soldiers died in World War II (approximately 50-70 million people in total died). Approximately 36,500 Americans died in the Korean War (2.5 million people died in total). Approximately 82,600 Americans died in the Vietnam War (approximately 1.1 million people died in total). 4,302 Americans have died (so far) in the Iraq War (approximately 92K -100K people have died in total…so far). I do not know any of their names.

I know Dale R. Buis. I only know him  because I took the time to stop, look and remember. I only know that his is one name too many, for real.

So, let me ask you a question: What do you think might be the right response the next time we complain about the price of gas, the price for that loaf of bread, the price of our homes or everything else the value of which we seem to be losing?

On the ride home today: The train home from the Minneapolis airport passes alongside a large military cemetery. I have passed it hundreds of times noticing the headstones in perfect alignment and the plastic flowers that sit year round by some of those names that are remembered. Plastic flowers. Maybe it’s time to get real. 

This Memorial Day I will not remember the food, beer, or day of paid vacation. I will remember the memorial day. I remain in salute.

For emphasis.

(b)

 

 

"#2. How do you take your toast?" PRT: 1:58 (Really; it just looks long!)

On March 16, 2009 I wrote the following note into my journal while on a Puerto Vallarta vacation in Jalisco, Mexico:

"SPECIAL NOTE: I just spoke to Victoria who shared the news of her being pregnant with my continuing seed. To your glory, Lord.  Amen"

In November of this year I will be blessed with my second grandchild; through God’s grace and love. It is the first child of my daughter and her husband Rick. For me, a chance to be a “2X Grand Dude.” OK, I admit that I planted the seed of that name which has caught on with my 3-year-old grandson, Kinley (aka Captain Bubble Killer from a prior entry). I know some of you are saying “You’re supposed to let the child come up with the name they want to call you,” or “You should have let John and Schbvonne (Kinley’s parents) choose” and the other things “they say” you should and should not do. Well, being that my counselor Jim has officially diagnosed me as a “recovering narcissistic jerk” (he actually used “a*shole” in place of “jerk” but I didn’t want to offend anyone reading this) and I have given up on believing “they” because I refuse to listen to anyone…who is really no one; ergo, Grand Dude.

The “seed” thing: For clarification, let me begin by saying that I adore and cherish my son and daughter. Each member of my family is life’s real treasure. And to those of you wrinkling your brow, those who know the story of my recent divorce from Valerie, let me say that we might not be married in the terms of this world…and my committed love for her and my children are eternal. That said, John is also my stepson; our lives merged when he was 4-years-old. I have only ever referred to him as my son…because that is what he is to me. I am blessed beyond words to play my part as one “Dad” in his life.

This writing is about the power of legacy. Those things we leave behind. A dictionary definition: anything handed down from the past, as from an ancestor or predecessor. Early on in their marriage, Victoria and Rick determined not to have children, largely due to the overwhelming issues with population and orphaned children in the world (the pain, size and discomfort thing also weighed in from Victoria’s POV). As the one “blood” connection to my seed, or as I like to call it - my Brian “ness,” I accepted the fact that the branches of the “Kagan tree” would end with Victoria. Totally cool; and I admit there was a sense of finality. Thinking of my Dad’s passing five years ago. Thinking about the whole Dad thing.  And that thought led me to a “Dad and daughter” moment some five years ago. A wedding day. A Jalisco afternoon by the water. Sunset. And a toast I gave and left behind to the new couple, inspired by the incomparable instrumental, “The Giving,” from Michael W. Smith’s Freedom. The following picture was captured at the moment when she played “The Giving” to me as the song to which she wanted to walk down the aisle with me. The other picture is what I turned to see at the moment I walked with her, into the giving.

In the Giving

Then…Now…Always

1.   Then… June 6, 1999

I see you sleeping in frog dreams, on moist green leaves floating…floating.

I see the roads of generations smiling upon each other.  Wrinkled. Soft. Precious.

I see myself meeting you coming the other way down the road.  The wind blows the leaves from the path with which I was familiar.

I see you under the envious eyes of a fat July moon.  Fireflies dance around your silken  hair and bless you with stars.  Your eyes spill in milk white confetti.

I see you from the other side.

I see you through the waves as they break lazily across my eyes leaving trails of salt and shimmering warmth.

I see you reaching out to catch the rest of your life.

I see you in the fluorescent green glow of the deco clock that has been my sole companion in the early morning hours as I wait for your car lights

to wash the pavement and soothe my fears.

I see you sitting on cabinet mountaintops playing hide and seek, and gathering

the distant shores of your imagination hiding them secretly in your pocket.

I see yesterday.

I see a blue and gold nick in time; your firework eyes illuminating the room

and exploding with laughter.

I see someone else in the hiding places that once were ours alone.

Then.

2.  Now… May 14, 2004

You drove away silently in the mist of a smoky Tennessee morning.

You left behind what was, for everything that is to be.

You left behind the warmth of laughter, innocence, and your sky of roses, folding memories between the sweet breaths of a black puppy.

You were not alone, the radiance of your new love lighting the road.

The roses remain, bowing in honor to the light and love with which

you fill each room that you enter.

I have seen your years unfold with the promise of adventure

and undiscovered lands.

And today confetti birds chattered and giggled all morning

in anticipation of the celebration.

Palm hosts with long slender fingers directed the evening guests with slow, crescent moon smiles.

Emerald voices mingled among the rolling Jalisco waves, cheering as they arrived on shore and filling the room with whispers of blessings and joy.

And then, I gave you away.

A deep part of me is now missing…and replaced with the glorious woman you have become, the wonderful son I have gained, and the image of your intertwined hearts that fills my soul like gossamer bubbles rising in the ocean of my soul.

Now.

3.  Always

Here’s our toast to you and Rick -- May you find every treasure you seek, live everything you dream out loud, share each moment with wide open arms, that your challenges melt away like snowflakes on your tongue, that you end each day with “I love you”, and that you always hold your shared hearts high above your heads like a father who once lifted his tiny daughter, a single sparking diamond, up to the warm embrace of a summer moon.

Remember – all of God’s blessings are in the giving.

Always.  Dad

5.14.04

________________________________________________

More to follow….

If you have an additional 3:18 to invest, and you haven't heard it, favor yourself and watch/listen to this (unauthorized) YouTube version of The Giving: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13vkWhKQq1Y. 

The entire album is totally amazing. Just sayin.

"Come on in, the party's swine." PRT: 2:01

There's a fine line between the pig sty and the party: That's the biggest takeaway from my reading of Henri Nouwen's classic Return of the Prodigal Son years ago. It's a remarkably candid and piercing glimpse through the storms of Nouwen's life, based on his being captured by Rembrandt's painting of the same title.

I hadn't thought specifically about Nouwen (my second favorite author after C.S. Lewis) in some time. I was reminded of its disarming relevance at Sunday's Birthday Bash celebrating the first birthday of Living Stones Covenant Church yesterday http://livingstonescov.org/. PJ (Pastor John) was the host for a day filled with sunshine, events with hosters and hostettes walking around in their brand new brown (the new black) Living Stones t-shirts meeting, greeting and welcoming the visitors from this ethnically diverse neighborhood in Minneapolis. The back of their shirts on the back proudly displays the tag line ("positioning line" or "brand promise" for us brand snobs) I recently helped them define; the promise; the credo; the passion; the invitation from these delightful One-Year-Olds: Be. Home. Here. The event held in the parking lot of the high school where they meet had all the trappings of a festive moment:

Hoola Hoops. Street hockey. Putt putt. Live music. Face painting. Crafts. Moon walk. Food. Drink. And of course the ubiquitous Sno Cones.

Hispanic. African-American. Asian. Anglo. Messy Messianic (that would be me). 

Young. Older. Even Older (that would be me). Single. Married. 

Excited. Curious. Tentative. Engaged. Wandering. At home. Lost. Found.

Let me say that this church, versus so many houses of faith that invite you in without always welcoming you in (read Barna's Unchurched...or just ask the next ten 18-25 year-olds you meet what they think about church, or synagogue or....), lives out what it says. They really, honestly, genuinely, passionately care about every single person who walks through the door.

After 90 minutes of fun, PJ gently addressed the crowd before sending them to the food feast. With his magical smile that shines brighter than the sun, he welcomed everyone and shared the story of the prodigal son from Luke 15. As the story goes, the younger of two sons had taken his inheritance, left home and squandered it all food, wine and women. Now broke, he ends up working at a pig farm where he laments:  "He longed to fill his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, but no one gave him anything."

Here's my favorite part that follows, conveying the idea of what happened when he came to his senses: "When he came to his senses, he said, 'How many of my father's hired men have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired men.' So he got up and went to his father. 

"But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him. 

“The son said to him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.' 

"But the father said to his servants, 'Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let's have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.' So they began to celebrate."

Ran away. Squandered. Forgot. Realized. Lamented. Went home. Covered with the stench carried from the pig sty. Humbled. Embraced. Celebrated. 

Let me ask you a question: Have you ever known you have chosen a path ( or a moment) where you squandered some or many of the gifts of your life? Are you like me, that those times carry a nauseating stench of that just does not seem to wash off? Even worse have you felt as though no one will accept you back if you let them know the truth?

After PJ's message I, by chance, ended up speaking with a Stoner (couldn't resist) who I had not met before. He told me how much he enjoyed the message I had shared a few weeks earlier at a service about "The Power of [your] story." And then, something unexpected happened. He began with, "I want to tell you something I have never shared with anyone outside of my family or close circle of friends." It was a heartfelt story of his personal struggles through a difficult time in his life. He felt lost. Unworthy. Soiled. I told him I had lived that picture as well. And that's when the oil of our stories brushed and mingled together on the canvas of that moment. Stinking to high heaven, we were there; sitting before Rembrandt's masterpiece. Embraced in the arms of acceptance. I think we then both heard the soft whisper: Be. Home. Here.

We rejoined the party.

For emphasis - (b)

 

"Wow, what an ass!"

It’s amazing how a menial beast of burden could have impacted history so profoundly? I got a kick from one example this morning while reading 1 Samuel 8 in the Old Testament. It was about the whole “Geez, God, we sure think we should have a king like all the other kids. It’s not cool to be stuck only with judges” Israelite whining thing; aka Complaint #763.

Even after God warns the wise elders that the “king” mojo is not going to pan out for them, God agrees to give them their wish; their very own a king. “Yay.” And who gets the nod? None other than the dashing, charismatic, strong (I hear he had a rippling 12-pack), “impressive young man without equal among the Israelites—a head taller than any of the others” 1 Samuel 9:2, and might I add slightly narcissistic Saul. And a Benjamite no less!  Get this: To claim his prize as Numero Uno Ever King of Israel he gets this thunderous, heralding message to send him on his way to glory; it comes from his father Kish – "Take one of the servants with you and go and look for the donkeys." 1 Samuel 9:3. Or translated into modern syntax: “Go look for those smart asses that got away.”

The story goes on that Saul takes the long way around, ends up with Samuel, where after a meal, some oil dousing and small talk he gets instructions for even more stops along the way until arriving at Mizpeh… where he is finally made king…or something sort of close to this. Once again, I humbly apologize to those B.C.  among you – Biblically Correct.

First King of Israel; brought to you by, that’s right, a lost donkey. Now, who out there refuses to accept the fact that God has a great sense of humor? Sort of reminds me a bit of that other great Mule of Valor from La Mancha, Donkey Hotee. Or do we dare to “pooh pooh” the famous sage Eor.  There’s that jackass who “shreked” all responsibility, Donkey. And let’s not forget about that oft ignored majestic “hee” who grandly “haw(l)ed” Jesus into Jerusalem.

So, let me ask you a question: Think you are not pulling your load? Saddled with doubt? Things out of your control getting the beast of you? Think that your place in the team doesn’t make a difference?

Think again, then consider this the next time you assume something less for yourself: When you ASSUME, it makes and ASS out of U and ME.

Ride on.

For emphasis – (b)

"Hey, get lost; that was really a sheep trick!" A (found) memory just for ewe.

Great message at Living Stones today: http://livingstonescov.org/

Pastor John rocked me, using some metaphors and a passage from Luke 15: 1-10. Love the idea of the parable Jesus used about the 99 sheep and the one lost one that the shepherd looked for, found and carried home on his shoulders to his home. (I did try to do a parody on the "99 bottles of beer" song, but couldn't get the last word: "99 wandering sheep on the..." ??) But for me it really came home when he then referred to this great quip from Ezekial 34:11-16 - 

¹¹ " 'For this is what the Sovereign LORD says: I myself will search for my sheep and look after them. ¹² As a shepherd looks after his scattered flock when he is with them, so will I look after my sheep. I will rescue them from all the places where they were scattered on a day of clouds and darkness. ¹³ I will bring them out from the nations and gather them from the countries, and I will bring them into their own land. I will pasture them on the mountains of Israel, in the ravines and in all the settlements in the land. ¹⁴ I will tend them in a good pasture, and the mountain heights of Israel will be their grazing land. There they will lie down in good grazing land, and there they will feed in a rich pasture on the mountains of Israel. ¹⁵ I myself will tend my sheep and have them lie down, declares the Sovereign LORD. ¹⁶ I will search for the lost and bring back the strays. I will bind up the injured and strengthen the weak...." 

I don't know about you, but I have experienced my doses of the "lost things syndrome" while grazing away from the herd. Any of these sound familiar?

"I lost my car keys."

"I lost my wallet."

"I lost control."

"I lost my job."

And my all-time (continuing) favorite: "I lost my mind."

Here's what I found while grazing where I wasn't supposed to be:

- I didn't really need to drive the car: I gave the wheel away and am on a ride.

- I didn't really need my wallet: I gave my old identity and assets a way.

- I didn't need control: I gave it away so I can be out of control.

- I didn't need the job: I am employed to do the work.

- I didn't need my mind: I have never minded any better since.

Stop looking for what you might have lost. Ewe might just end up with some found memories of your very own. 

Goodbah for now.

For emphasis - (b)