“I have depression.”

My father died ten years ago in Dallas at eighty-two-years old. He passed from this life after three months in the hospital, triggered by congenital heart failure. He suffered from a septic coma for the last few weeks, kept alive on a cacophony of machines. Even with his eyes open, he did not react to any sort of visual or vocal stimulation. When his eyes followed your movement, they were like a camera lens without film; vacant, expressionless. The doctors said that any of his mild movements were “likely” neurological responses only. After a lot of council, reflection and prayer, we agreed to move him into hospice and removed all the connections. I received the call from my brother two days later around two o’clock in the morning that he had passed. He said that his heart failed.

My father suffered from depression. His heart failed.

Two years after my father’s death, during a session with my counselor Jim, there I am ranting about an incident involving a client and their lack of appreciating the value I brought to their organization. “I am so damn frustrated with having to constantly explain what I do and why my process is essential to achieving their stated goals. And it always seems to happen just about the time when they are on the verge of breakthrough momentum.” Characteristically (and tremendously annoying), Jim sat there in his comfy tobacco leather chair nodding in rhythm with my staccato complaints.

“And the major thing is that I’m beginning to think that I am becoming my father; that everything I try turns to shit.”

Having stated my carefully rehearsed case, I caught my breath and eased back into the couch. I eagerly awaited some nugget of reassurance that I was fine and that, in fact, they were the ones not taking the time to fully embrace my special gifting and selfless commitment to their success. Their loss. Their stupidity.

After a long pause, sans nodding, Jim responded. “So Brian, am I right that you recently committed your life to faith; that you have broadened your Hebraic roots and are embracing Christianity?”

“Well, umm, yes I have. Why do you ask?”

Without further clarification, he continued. “And would you say that you are a blessed man?”

“Absolutely. Yes, I am.”

Jim nodded like a relief pitcher acknowledging the catcher’s signal for the “3 and 2” pitch to close out the game, and sent the hardball screaming across home plate. “So, how does a bless man behave?”

I responded elegantly with, “Huh?”

Expressionless, and with increased emphasis he repeated the question, “How does a blessed man behave?”

STRIKE THREE; YOU’RE OUT!

If you have ever wondered what it must feel like to be a deer caught in the headlights of an approaching car, wonder no more. Not only now paralyzed from his comment, Jim actually aimed the car directly towards me, sped up and sent me into orbit upon impact.

“If you were really a blessed man you would likely find another way to deal with this situation other than whining, complaining and acting like a spoiled teenager who just got teased by some other kids.”

Nice, huh? But, he was only getting warmed up.

“Here’s the deal. Your father had depression. He wasn’t depression. It’s one of the many ambiguities in life. Like diabetes, you have it; you have the choice whether to “partner” with it and treat it, or you can let it devastate you. Your father chose to let his depression define him, it ultimately destroyed him. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yes.”

Leaning forward slightly he continued. “You are not your father. God gave you a gift of depression. Given this ambiguity, you now have the choice to partner with it or you can let it define you. What do you choose?”

My mind swirled and I suddenly pictured myself as a shabby horse on a carousel; chipped paint, nicked and scarred from countless riders but going round and round nonetheless.

“Brian, one of the challenges being a man of faith is surrendering to God’s will for your life, or choosing to believe that you are victim to the circumstances that are laid in your path…and that somehow if you’ll just complain enough you can have power over the outcome. Your behavior does not sound like that of a blessed man. So, I ask you again, what do you choose?”

________________________________________

It is now eight years since my meeting with Jim. I chose to partner with my depression that day, and that decision characterizes how my life is playing out; serving others by giving away my gifts, so that I can give my gifts a way to really matter. All it took was a little shock therapy from Jim, and a lot of faith in God.

Given the choice of being upbeat or depressed, I’ll choose depression every time.

In the embrace of the brackets - (b)

"I just learned that farting at the dinner table is OK."

I attended a men's retreat last weekend and came away gaining some new truths about manhood. The weekend involved:

• 86 guys gorging on 24/7 snacks;
• 86 guys bundled as roommates in an inharmonious symphony of snoring;
  
• 86 guys playing selected guy games: dodge ball, sumo suit wrestling, human Foosball and a variety of fantasy role playing board games;
• 86 guys singing together praising God;
• 86 guys grappling with the concept of Grace;
  
• 86 guys sharing stories of life, faith and what it means to me a man.

During the closing session we were invited to stand up and share important takeaways from the weekend and, transparently and vulnerably, to ask for personal support and prayer from the fellow warriors. That's when one guy shared the following:

"I was glad to learn from one of my fellow sojourners that it is acceptable for men to fart at the table during meals."

So, whether this is a fact endorsed by the Society of Social Etiquette and Good Manners it gave me pause. What's the deal with guys' obsessive expressions about odoriferous gas, toilet moments and other body parts? Granted, I admit that the famous campfire fart tournament scene in Mel Brooks' Blazing Saddles is an all-time favorite and that I can't resist sharing a good burst of tasteless humor with the guys. Still, there must be something more with this natural event than meets the senses. Some research into the gaseous matter reveals accepted cultural uses in language, such as:

• "I was just farting around." (nothing serious)
  
• "Oops, I just had a brain fart." (forgot something)
  
• "Hey soldier, roll up your fart sack and move out." (sleeping bag)
  

So, if it is such a common and seemingly nontoxic expression, why then do we avoid it with responses like:

• "Timmy, did you just have a fluff?" (why a pillow reference?)
  
• "Wow, that guy just let loose a raspberry." (come on, fruit?)
  
• "OK, who let fluffy off the chain?" (animal bondage?)

Farts have been elegantly used in literature by such greats as Chaucer, Ernest Hemingway and Jonathan Swift...and DID NOT even make the cut for the late, great comedian George Carlin's famous list of Seven Dirty Words.

In summary: Language is rich with meaning, expression and emotion. Language uses words to create dialogue and enhance human interaction. God created man. He gave us a sense of humor to help cope with all the serious stuff life puts in our path. I take being a man, life and my path of faith seriously... and I have a gas any time I get to poke fun at how we tend to make too much about things that are really nothing more than a lot of hot air. So, go ahead, let it rip.

But what do I know; I'm just an old fart.

In the embrace of the brackets - (b)

*If you'd like to read more of my personal expressions... visit www.HImpact.me.

"My New Year Revolution: 'This happiness thing is over-rated.'"

To my male readers: You are likely anatomically familiar with the shrinking feeling and effect on our bodies when we jump into cold water, right?

To my female readers: You are likely familiar with the (generally) caveman-like behavior of the male species, so you can probably imagine the aforementioned effect, right?

(Hold that thought.)

This is exactly how I felt during a recent plunge with my counselor-therapist-coach-mental antagonist, Jim. On the backside of a separation and subsequent divorce from my 25-year marriage, I had returned to Nashville. I had lived in Minneapolis as a part of my solitude. In no way meaning to minimize the wounds associated with this profound loss, I was blessed by the men, women, books, writing and reflection time I had to process and grow through this tumultuous season of change. And, for first time I can remember since my post-teen years I was feeling “happy” as the cumulative effect from:

· Living alone for four years and finding I actually liked myself;

· Getting out of seemingly insurmountable debt;

· Purchasing a car by myself;

· Purchasing a condominium by myself;

· Traveling globally and experiencing “God Sightings” in the mission field;

· Rebuilding damaged relationships;

· Building new relationships;

· Writing three books.

· Starting this column

Jim began our meeting with the characteristic question I hoped he would ask.

“So, how are you doing, Brian?”

I felt my chest puff up and my feathers spread open with majestic flourish. I took a deep breath, allowing my peacock smile to amplify.

“Jim, I am so thrilled to tell you that I have never been happier in my entire life.”

There it was. I had finally crossed a decade-old therapeutic battlefield and was still standing. Scarred, muddied and shrapnel ridden, but nonetheless blissful. I had made it to the other side of what had felt like an endless battle and was reporting “mission accomplished” to my commanding officer, feeling triumphant. Jim delivered his response without pause.

“This happiness thing is over-rated.”

Splash. Brr. Shrivel.

Jim allowed just enough time for the icy impact of his statement to eradicate any semblance of my ecstasy before continuing.

“You see, essentially there is not a lot of difference between the extremes of happiness and sadness. Both are temporary. They come. They go.” A chilling pause allowed adequate penetration of this mental enema. “Might I suggest another word that might be more appropriate for what you are feeling? How about ‘content?’ Contentment acknowledges the presence and fleeting qualities of happiness, sadness, joy and despair; however, it gives you healthy context in which to embrace life’s ambiguities.”

Curious, I consulted the dictionary:

con•tent [kuhn-tent]

Adjective:

1. satisfied with what one is or has; not wanting more or anything else.

I am content with that.

On October 20, 2010, I exchanged covenants of love and life with Lynn while standing in the Sea of Galilee in Israel. In the five years we have come to know each other, we have shared countless conversations about life, love, brokenness, grace and commitment. I have struggled with these issues all my adult life. Don Henley’s song, “For My Wedding” says it all:

"For my wedding, I will dress in black
And never again will I look back
Ah, my dark angels we must part
For I've made a sanctuary of my heart

To want what I have
To take what I'm given with grace
For this I pray
On my wedding day

For my wedding, I don't want violins
Or sentimental songs about thick and thin
I want a moment of silence and a moment of prayer
For the love we'll need to make it in the world out there

To want what I have
To take what I'm given with grace
For this I pray
On my wedding day
On my wedding day

I dream, and my dreams are all glory and light
That's what I've wanted for my life
And if it hasn't always been that way
Well, I can dream and I can pray
On my wedding day

So what makes us any different from all the others
Who have tried and failed before us
Maybe nothing, maybe nothing at all
But I pray we're the lucky ones; I pray we never fall

To want what we have
To take what we're given with grace
For these things I pray
On my wedding day
On my wedding day"

Want what you have.

Take what you're given with grace.

For these things let’s pray.

Content New Year.

Embraced by the brackets -

(b)

PS – Thanks, Jim.