The Gift by Guest Blogger Randy

Guest Post by Randy 

From LeGette:

 I am thankful for the gift of this guest post written by my brother Randy.  Every creative effort I have made has been inspired and nourished by him. As children, he taught me to create imaginary worlds where my Teddy Bear played in a hard rock band and lived in a fancy apartment in my desk drawer. A world where the ultra clean cut police from the TV show Adam-12 were replaced with cops more like Dirty Harry. A world where improvisational songs about his roommate's smelly shoes could tell an hour long story.  He taught me that as long as we can be creative, we are never confined to this earth. We can go anywhere and we can be whoever we want. 

Luke 24:5 “Why do you seek the living among the dead?”

The Gift

Often in literature and motion pictures, the question is raised, “what if you could have one more day with the departed?” My family received that gift last Christmas.

My mother had been valiantly fighting cancer for almost three years. Although she put up a brave front, in the final few months of the disease, it had clearly taken its toll. The double edged sword of chemotherapy had aged her tremendously. It had slowed her walk, shortened her breath, affected her mood and mental clearness, and revealed to the rest of us what we already knew but did not speak of. Her time remaining was short.

As we approached the holidays, this reality cast a dark cloud over our family and spirit. Joyous festivities of cooking, shopping, wrapping presents were replaced with hospital visits and doctor consultations.

Thanksgiving came and went; my mother was present at the table but had no appetite. She was unusually quiet and withdrawn.

Despite these changes that we all could see, my eldest brother planned a family reunion Christmas gathering at his house. It was scheduled just a few days before Christmas. We weren’t sure if my mother would even feel up to attending. However, invitations were sent and accepted, and our entire extended family, 25 strong and spread out over hundreds of miles, gathered on a Sunday afternoon.

And a glorious afternoon it was. The sky was of a brilliant blue that would have made Van Gogh envious.  On what typically would have been a cold day in our city, instead was a borrowed day from June, with temperatures flirting in the low 80s. And as if time was suspended for this one day, my mother arrived renewed, refreshed, her fashion reputation intact; dressed in her finest holiday attire with matching accessories.

Her smile was as brilliant as the sun, her disposition as light as the breeze that accompanied us as we gathered for an outdoor photograph. She relished holding the great-grandchildren newborns, playing with the toddlers, and engaging in conversations with the older grandchildren, about their lives and future plans.  My Dad never took his adoring eyes off of her, their 6 decade marriage on display as a life and love lesson for all gathered.

For that one day, we did not talk about doctors.

For that one day, we did not talk about hospitals.

For that one day, we did not talk about cancer.

For that one day, we got our mother back.

And on that one day, once again she was the strong, beautiful, radiant, rock of our family.

After exchanging gifts and many hugs, the day ended as quickly as it had begun. And reality returned on the back of the setting sun.

Mom passed away 8 weeks later, her frail body mercifully granted rest.  As long as I live I will never forget that December day. Out mother returned to us that glorious day, a Christmas gift above all others past and present.  

I thank God for that gift.

And I no longer look for the living among the dead.

Giving Thanks in the Face of Hoplessness

Thanksgiving will never be the same again. My mother was always at her happiest when family gathered together to share food and laughter. This year we will all miss the enthusiasm that my mother displayed for all things holiday related. I knew this was coming. I knew that it would be a difficult day. But until November 12, I had no idea how hopeless I would feel this Thanksgiving.

The election results kicked me in the gut and left me with a sick feeling. It feels like the time I wiped out on my bike and the handlebar made a direct hit to my spleen. I was bleeding internally. It’s a uniquely sick type of feeling. I was sweating, but cold to the touch. I felt completely wiped out. I could not catch my breath at first, and then felt an overwhelming desire to just let go and fall asleep. My parents arrived home just as the neighbor called to check on me. The neighbor had helped me get home after the wipeout, but assumed my parents were home because both cars were there. But my parents had gone for a boat ride on the lake we lived on.

It was not that unusual when I was a teenager to find me taking a snooze in the middle of the day. But after the phone call, my mother came to check on me. My mother was a certified medical assistant and had worked in the medical field for several years at the time of my accident. She gently woke me up. She had that motherly look of concern on her face. She asked me details about the accident. She asked what happened when I got home. When I reported that I had vomited, I saw the worry grow on her face. She felt my head. I might have said something like, “Don’t worry. I’m fine.” I was accident prone, but I had never felt sick in this way before as a result of any previous falls or crashes. Mom said that we needed to see a doctor.

Dad drove us to the hospital in the city which was about a 30-minute drive. I believe we made it much quicker than that. Hospital regulations required that I sit in a wheelchair. As we waited to see the Doctor, I began to start feeling like myself again. My parents were beginning to doubt the rush to the hospital as I started racing around and popping wheelies in the wheelchair. We might have left except that the doctor arrived at just the right time. If we had left, I would not be typing this sentence right now. I would have been the first in my immediate family to leave this realm. By earthly measure, it would have been a long wait for my mother to join me. In cosmic time, it probably would have felt instantaneous.

The Doc took me to an examination room. He said that he was going to poke around my abdomen and I should let him know if I felt pain anywhere at all. He poked me under the left ribcage. I felt an immediate searing pain in my right shoulder. I remember telling him that it might seem strange but that his prodding in my gut had made my shoulder hurt. He stood up and said,” Yep. That’s your spleen.” They brought my parents in and explained that I had most likely ruptured my spleen. They would need to inject a dye into my blood and look at my spleen on an x-ray to see if it was bleeding. He explained that spleens were unnecessary organs and that if it was bleeding that they would need to do emergency surgery to remove it.

I’m much like my mother. Inside I am a ball of nerves, but I can display calm when crisis hits. So my mother and I both displayed calmness while our insides churned. This was major surgery. I watched on a screen the short x-ray video of blood leaking out of what they said was my spleen. I had never heard of a spleen before, but they made it sound no more important than tonsils or an appendix. Dying during surgery never occurred to me. But as a parent of teenagers now, I realize that must have been a real fear for my mom and dad at that moment.

My parents had to wait in the hall while the nurses prepped me for surgery. They had to shave the peach fuzz off of my belly where the incision would be made. They let my parents back in to see me off to surgery. They were all smiles and full of reassurances. I was in good hands. The doctor would take good care of me. As the nurse showed up to wheel the gurney to the O.R. my mother and father told me they loved me. My mother stroked my hair with one hand and held my hand with her other for as long as she could until the nurse said to them, “This is where we have to leave you. He will be fine.” I looked back at my parents and saw the color draining from their faces.

Then it was through the doors to the operating room and suddenly there was a rush of activity around me. A man dressed in scrubs and wearing a mask came to my side and talked to me. He said that he would be monitoring me during the surgery. He would make sure that I was OK. He also said that he was going to inject something into the I.V. that would put me to sleep and that when I woke up I would be in recovery. Then came instant darkness and all awareness was gone. It seemed only a moment passed and I was awake in a different part of the hospital. It took a minute to remember why I was there.

A friendly nurse greeted me with, “Good morning! Glad you decided to wake up!
There are people waiting outside who are eager to see you." 

My mother was first through the door. She had that look you get when you are bracing yourself for a potentially shocking sight. Would I look gaunt? Would I have tubes running everywhere?  Her face was prepared for these possibilities and more, but only for an instant. Her expression immediately changed to one of pure joy. Her son was fine. Dad was immediately behind her and was already smiling and saying, “How ya doin’, buddy?” Mom told me how happy she was that I was alright and how worried she had been. My parents loved me in that deep way that you don’t even know exists until you become a parent yourself. 

It is a burdensome kind of love. 

A love intertwined with hopes and fears.

It’s that love for my children that weighs so heavily upon me this Thanksgiving. I am afraid for them as I witness the emboldening of white nationalists. I watched in disgust as grown white people made Nazi salutes to our President-elect. I am discouraged by his weak response to the clear rise in hate crimes stirred up by his divisive rhetoric. I fear that my children have a long battle ahead. I worry that they will face bigotry because they are not Christian or white.  I struggle to put on the “everything is going to be OK” face that my mother was so good at.      

          Today we give thanks.

  And I understand that my privileged status gives me much to be thankful for, but with an awareness that finding comfort in that privilege is shameful. I am thankful that I am alive. I am thankful that my mother recognized an emergency when she saw one. I am thankful for the love that my parents gave me. I am thankful for the memories of my mother overseeing the family gatherings that made her so happy. I am thankful that I will create new memories with my wife and children.

And I am thankful for the burdensome love of being a father. Only this love can defeat hopelessness.

Veterans Day on a Creative Morning

Just when the last spark of hope seems to be surrendering to lack of oxygen, a few words can gently blow in through the ethernet, scrawled in shaky ink and offer a breathe that whispers the gray from it's surface and the heat glows visible for a moment. 

When I began writing blog posts I had no plan. I was just putting my thoughts on glass and sending them to the vague world of the internet. More people have read what I have written than I ever imagined. My post about my experience as a student in a class about the Vietnam War was published in a magazine called The Veteran. And just when I needed it most, the editor of that magazine sent me this note from a reader:

And on Veteran's Day, I attended a breakfast talk delivered by a co-worker at an event called Creative Mornings. She gave a powerful multimedia performance of imagery, acting, and speaking that moved a crowd of a few hundred. There is power in creating something. So the fact that I created something that meant enough to this man, who has lived such a long life, to take the time to write this note buoyed my spirit. Maybe I am creative in a way that can make a difference. 

Below, I have pasted some quotes from the posts that I have written so far. If they pique your interest, please click on them to see the context. Thank you to everyone who has supported me during this process of learning to blog, to write, and to share.

If I was born a blank slate, it did not take long for the world to write the word WAR uponme. 

This has been true since the beginning of time. We can be as one. It’s madness that only the prophets, the artists, and the poets seem to be able to see this.
  

Whenever one of the disciples would ask Jesus a very direct question about the nature of G-d or heaven, he would typically answer with a parable. Often the followers seemed frustrated by this. But Jesus understood that he could never explain the true nature of these concepts without the use of imagery. 

Still looking directly into my eyes, Dad firmly said,” You have to assert yourself.” He continued on with some tough love advice. “Have some self-confidence. They got your order wrong. Make them fix it.  You are going to have to standup for yourself for the rest of your life. You can start now.”

Then we saw the sign. “Public Welcome, Sunset Worship Service.” Then I noticed the 8’ tall wooden cross that had been planted like a beach umbrella in the sand.

The universe itself was about to pay tribute to our divine creator, so what did we need loud musicand amplifiers for?

I was still a lump of clay plopped on a scooter.  I could still become anything. The only thing is, I cannot think of a photo that captures that transformational moment for me. Maybe that moment hasn’t happened yet.  Maybe I’m just finding myself right now. 

Bigotry has a universal lexicon.

We have not been back to China. It’s been Ten years. We traveled there to bring home our beautiful, spirited daughter. I walked to a fruit stand to get some bananas and got more than I bargained for. A lesson and a gift. I got a lesson in generosity and honesty from a stranger. The gift came from the man who clutched at my shorts and begged for help. The gift came in the form of his unforgiving wails as I left him tumbling down steps and his tin cup that clang-clanged out with each bounce downward. Those sounds have haunted me. And I hope they always will. They are the sounds of humanity.

Under no circumstance within my near infinite imagination can I arrive at a scenario in which the officers ignore my wife and I end up dead. This, my friends, is white privilege. And it stinks.

It was unconventional. And if I am ever in a job interview and they ask me about a moment that I am proud of from my work experience, I will tell the story of Thomas. I’m proud that I was open-minded, that I recognized the strengths of everyone involved, and facilitated the series of decisions that allowed Thomas to keep knocking us out with his smile for a few more years.

Thomas later passed away from complications of HIV. I will never forget him.  May he rest in peace.

I learned not to judge people too quickly, as I had done with her when she barked at the class and gave me an F. Ms. White taught me how to be a better writer. But she also showed me why it was important to give my best effort. Earning a top grade was hard work. But more importantly I discovered that working hard and asking for help made me happy with the finished product. 

Happiness 

with a big circle around it. 

I was tethered to a boat, but alone. Everything else seemed to fall away. All that existed in the moment was me and the water. The hum of the engine seemed like distant white noise. I would lose myself in the joy of skating over a lake at 30 miles per hour.It felt like 60 miles per hour. At this speed, the water was as solid as it appeared.  I could trust it to hold me up. And I could push myself and test the limits of the surface tension to hold me as I made deeper and deeper turns back toward the center of the wake.

It feels like the earth is wobbling on its axis. The stars don’t line up in the sky quite the way they used to. I need to get to the ocean so I can look at the horizon and make sure it’s still there. Is there still a sharp line that separates the ocean from the sky? Or has the sea begun to leak into the atmosphere blurring the delineation between heaven and earth? I need evidence that our world is not tumbling off course. I need assurance that the sun is still holding fast to us, not letting us slip from the safety of its gravitational embrace. 

Maybe tomorrow the earth will right itself. The stars will take their normal positions. Maybe the sun will shine a reminder my way telling me that it is holding fast to us, that we are safe, and that my mother is just a phone call away.

my date and I made a quick exit out the backdoor, practically falling on one another. 

Laughing out loud.

Emotional soot lingering

Beneath the visible structure

I’m sinking.  I’m sinking right through the floor of that bus. 

But she was a livewire!  She grabbed at things and put things in her mouth like she wanted to take it all in, hold on fast, and ingest the whole world! Ha!  Failing to thrive?

The world is not fair.

The puppet master has incredible leverage.

Snaps are meant to disappear.

I didn’t start out in Terry’s class a tabula rasa. I had words and phrases. I had images. I had music. But his class didn’t just add new information to my slate. He taught met hat I was an ever expanding canvas. New space was being created all the time. Clean, white space to paint colorful new ideas. Blank space not just to record music but to recognize its power. I learned that ideologies were not meant to be permanent tattoos. I learned to find confidence in my voice. And that I could use my voice to speak up in the hope that there will be a day when we come into this world and it etches only the word LOVE on our slate. That our world will not even have a need for the word PEACE because it has no opposite.   

I hope that you hear my mother’s voice. I hope she dials straight into your voting booth from her cell phone in heaven and reminds you to vote compassionately for social justice, for equality, for education, and religious freedom. She will remind you what a special person you are and how important your voice is. Let it be heard today.