My Story

Stuff about my life. The good, the bad, and everything in between.

The One Where I Realize I Really Can Change

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

My wife made a very interesting statement last night. When referring to an individual we know, she said that regarding his life and his future he has an “employee mentality”, rather than an “ownership mentality”.

When pressed to elaborate, she explained that he does best when he has someone telling him what the next step is. OK, the next thing you need to do is X. And after that you’re going to go to Y.  If he doesn’t have a clear cut path to follow, he tends to wander, go nowhere, and do nothing.

THAT IS SO ME! I didn’t tell my wife this, but I figured the same thing out about myself several years ago.

I did well in school. I made good grades from kindergarten all through high school and graduated with a 4.0 GPA. I did well in college also. I never cut class, I did my assignments, and I graduated (almost) on time.

However, my life since college has been a different story.

In the years just after graduation, I held a number of different jobs in several different careers. One year I had five different jobs, having been fired from three of them (sales positions), and abruptly choosing to leave the other two (also sales positions). I guess it’s obvious what line of work I don’t need to pursue.

I finally found a decent career and have had the same position for a number of years. It’s comfortable and doesn’t stress me out most of the time, but it’s definitely not my dream job.

I’ve always felt like I’ve had a settle-for kind of life as an adult, at least as far as my career path goes – not too bad, but not great either.

I believe this is because I’ve never been proactive about my career. I’ve always expected that things would just fall into place. They always did throughout my school years. Surely, I could expect more of the same as an adult. Right?

Ahhh, but that’s not the way life works. After college, the path is wide open – at least for me it seemed it was. It was as if I’d reached the end of a narrow path through a dense forest, and suddenly before me lay a vast open stretch of virgin land. Untrodden, untouched. My choices were only limited by my desires and creativity.

Alas, I floundered. Having no clear direction laid out before me with step-by-step directions, I retreated as it were. Too many choices equaled no choice at all for me.

What is the lesson I’ve learned from all this?

Even though I “wasted” a good number of years in jobs I didn’t really want to do, I did pick up valuable career skills and a ton of experience in my specific industry.

At this point in my life I can parlay my skills and experience into a career I really want. I believe that the world once again offers me great opportunities. I need simply to transition my strongest skill – writing – into a marketable product. Perhaps easier said than done.

At any rate, this has become the focus of my mid-life career adjustment, and how I will at last embrace an “ownership mentality” of my life.

See you when I get there.

Just one more question, please…

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

Am I a closet deist? I think I might be just a little bit. I struggle greatly with the question of how much control God exerts over the world He created.

A big part of me thinks most of the time that God created the natural world and all its many, many systems and now just pretty much lets things take care of themselves.

For example, humans have sex to create more humans. Whether or not a woman conceives is up to one, mighty sperm to break through the walls of her egg. God created all these individual components of the reproductive systems of both the male and the female. Now they do their thing. Conception is totally left up to nature, as are the myriad of other systems in our world, and only rarely does God intervene to change the course of nature (in order words perform a miracle). Why should He have to step in? He set the world up long, long ago, and now it’s running just fine on cruise control.

That’s one theory of mine.

But what if things are not like this? Perhaps God always guides the one sperm He wants to penetrate the egg, having a plan all along to create this one particular individual that He will watch and cheer for from his or her birth, all the way through life, up until the moment of death.

If a lion attacks a group of zebras, snagging a young one in its powerful jaws, is that Providence? Or is it just nature? Or is nature Providence? Does God will that the lion catch the zebra, or is He sitting high up in the stands in Heaven watching all the action take place? He knows what will happen of course, but does it happen because of the excellent programming He put into His world so long ago, or at that moment does He point and say, “That lion will catch that zebra right there”?

Is the world running off of God’s huge program, Universe 1.0, or is God actively calling the shots at each moment for each person?

Perhaps I’m asking too many irrelevant questions. We will never know the answers this side of Heaven, and maybe not even then.

 

But that’s OK.

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

Even though multiple sclerosis is kicking her butt right now, my sister is tough. She has the will to fight through her disease and finish strong.

She was diagnosed over two years ago, but I didn’t know about her illness until recently. When she told me about it one Friday afternoon on the phone, I cried a little. I think what hurt most is that she’d been dealing with the pain and steady decline in her abilities all this time without my being available to her for support. She has a husband, as well as a strong network of friends nearby, but I was sorry that as her brother, I had not been there for her to lean on if she wanted that.

Shaky, wobbly, legs requiring a walker, and fingers that have a mind of their own are only a few of the things she’s had to endure. She had to quit work last year because she would often bump into walls, as well as forget important details after just a few minutes. Her depression deepened at this point. An occasional seizure and the inability to drive have also added to her problems.

Through this all, however, she has remained steadfast. Too many times to count, I’ve heard her say, “But that’s OK.”  Tripping over a rug and crashing to the floor — But that’s OK. I’ll make it through.  Isolation and boredom — But that’s OK. I’ve got my cat. Another medication to try, maybe one with awful side effects — But that’s OK. I’ll take it moment by moment.

faith
I remember a particular Peanuts comic strip from when I was a kid. Charlie Brown is talking with one of his friends and he remarks that he used to take life one day at a time, but now he’s down to only half a day at a time.

This reminds me of my sister. When you’ve got nothing but time, all you can focus on is the next moment or you’ll drive yourself crazy with the what ifs.

She’s been an inspiration to me in her illness. I’m dealing with my own physical problems, the outcome of which is unknown at this point. I look at her and think, If she can deal with her disease and all that comes with it, then I can handle what little I’ve got in front of me.

She’s shown me what to say to myself when I’m faced with yet another challenge. But that’s OK. Those words have power; they bring the spirits up. I can say that because I’ve used them.

An unexpected bill in the mail — But that’s OK. God will provide just like He always has. Feeling helpless when I wrap a hand around my wrist and my fingers almost touch because there’s so much less muscle there now — But that’s OK. God’s overseeing all this. He has a plan.

Neither she nor I are experiencing anything He doesn’t already know about — that’s for certain. If He believes in us enough to allow these circumstances, we can both push through. Whatever comes our way, we can both make it — But that’s OK.

Some thoughts on depression

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

Life really sucks sometimes; sometimes I just say to myself that this whole experiment we call life just really hasn’t worked out for me. This is a familiar theme for me; I have written about it often over the last three decades.

In fact I really feel that my whole adult life has been some kind of awful comic tragedy. Nothing that I aspired to be or do when I was growing up has happened for me. I’m sure much of this is my fault, but it’s hard for me not to feel like the deck was somehow stacked against me from the beginning.

If I could just quit it all I would. I’m not implying suicide; I could not do that. But if I could somehow just quit, walk away from it all, I believe I would do so. If I could be reassured that my family would not realize my absence, and that there would be no weird cosmic repercussions, then I would just cut my losses and go cash in my chips. I would never know the difference.

However, if I choose to look at things differently, to flip the chip over so to speak, I might have a different view. It’s true — nothing has quite worked out how I wanted it to, but does that mean that my life is as bad as I think it is? If my dreams have not been fulfilled, does that automatically mean that the end result is bad?

Many (maybe most) people would say no. I think right now I’ll have to agree with them. If I only envision one outcome, one life, as “good”, or “successful”, then I’m definitely going to be disappointed. Flexibility is crucial to enjoying life.

Even though I realize that adaptation is the key, the stubborn side of me still wants to resist. Deep down I have a sense of entitlement. I feel as though I shouldn’t have to adapt, that however I am, whatever I want, whatever I dream of being and doing, should happen just like that. The way I am is the right way and the forces of the universe should align themselves with me.

To say that this kind of thought process is crazy is really putting it mildly. I know this; I’m not trying to kid myself.

However, old habits acquired in childhood are hard indeed to break. When circumstances turn against me, quite often I just don’t feel like trying to adapt, to look on the positive side. I don’t want to change and don’t feel like I should have to — the end.

I’ve noticed something important about the way depression works in me. If I am depressed, one of two mindsets will be true. Either I will want to try to feel better, or I will wallow in self-pity and not want to change. If I feel the second way, then my belief at that time is that things outside myself should change — not me.

I believe this last sentence is a major key for helping me understand and overcome depression.

Has anyone else found this to be true in their own lives?

Sags and Bags

/ Clay D. / 1 Comment

Looking back through old high school yearbooks is always fun for me. Taking time to sit down and revisit old memories is one of the things I like to do best. Usually it happens when I’m not expecting it. I’ll be cleaning out a closet or going through some old boxes, and all of a sudden this wonderful book of memories is in my hand.

I’ll see an old friend’s picture and I’ll think, Boy, he looks really young. Nowadays he looks old and wrinkled, telltale signs that he is losing the battle with time and aging. He’s got the same face as he had then, but it is definitely more complex now — more wrinkles, lines, and sags. Underneath is still that fresh-faced teenager, except that the passing years have added baggage to it.

It reminds me of using Photoshop to enhance a photo or drawing by adding layers to it. The original image of the person, landscape, or object is still there, only now it has been deepened with additional features.

I believe that the process and experience of writing is similar to the way a person ages.

Periodically I will take time and look through old journals of mine that I keep safely locked away in an old suitcase I bought at a yard sale. Some of the entries date back almost 30 years, but the most interesting ones I wrote in my high school and college days.

In particular, I have an old, blue, single-subject Mead notebook that we were required to journal in for my English class my senior year in high school. We would write in them, and every couple of weeks the teacher would collect them, read them, make comments, and return them to us.

The content of this particular journal is not nearly so personal as most of my other writings, due to the fact that I knew someone else would be reading it. Our teacher told us over and over to “write what is personal, but not what is private.”

Richard Nordquist does a wonderful job here of explaining the difference between public and private writing. He also tells us how keeping a journal can be therapeutic and gives us a few suggestions on how to get started. His article would have been helpful to me back in high school,  as I was often stretched in trying to find suitable topics to write about, something that was interesting to me and that I thought the teacher would find worthwhile.

Every time that I go back and read through my old Mead notebook I am amazed that some of the thoughts, feelings, and fears I had as a 17- or 18-year-old are still there, bouncing around in my brain.

I was so worried about the future back then. Many entries detailed my fear at choosing the right college for the following year, and what my life would be like one year from that day, and about girls that I liked but were too afraid to ask out. I still think in much the same way as I did then; many of the fears I have now fall along similar lines, although with more adult themes..

Even though a lot of times the subject matter I write now is very similar to what I wrote as a teenager, my emotions and my writing style are more mature, more elaborate now than when I was younger. I may write the same things I did then, but hopefully I write them better now, with more layers, more depth.

Same face, more wrinkles. Same writing style, more depth.

My years of life experience — with all its pain, sadness, happiness, and tears — makes this added dimension possible. It is something that can not be substituted with something else, nor can it ever be taken away.

  When I sat down recently to read through this treasured old notebook, I noticed a couple of very intriguing things. After a long fall and winter of lingering, grinding depression, in March of 1987 — the latter part of my senior year — I wrote down four occupations that interested me:  Air Force pilot, drummer, psychologist, and writer.

I don’t know exactly how I came up with this list, and I don’t really recall wanting to pursue any of those occupations back then (except maybe writing, but that would have been a far-fetched idea at the time).

I suppose that I did dream of these others, however, because the ink on the page still can’t lie even after all these years.

The interesting part of this story is that of the four occupations I had written down so many years prior, in the weeks leading up to this last re-reading of the journal, I had spent time thinking about three of them (the Air Force would never have let me fly with my eyesight).

It’s amazing that after all these years, and all the jobs and careers I’ve experimented with, I still return to this same core of interests.

I’ll be forever grateful to my English teacher that year, Mrs. C., for requiring us to maintain a journal. Rereading it periodically over the years since graduation has been a wonderful source of joy and inspiration.

I recently found this blog entry from Mya. It’s amazing how similar her experience is when she looks through her closet and sees clothes and accessories dating back over the years and decades. She calls it “my window to myself”. This perfectly describes how I feel about my high school journal.

The tendency to romanticize the past has always been a significant weakness of mine; it goes hand and hand with my depression. I read in my blue journal that even as an 18-year-old I was longing for a simpler time.

In my journal I recalled camping out in my backyard with my best friend when we were in fifth grade. I was nostalgic for the movies and music of that wonderful summer. Reliving those childhood days, if only in my mind, helped me deal with the stresses of facing an unknown, potentially harsh future after high school graduation.

Nowadays my writing as an adult often reflects a longing for the simpler days of high school, when my biggest concerns (as recalled almost three decades later) were homework and girls — not a mortgage, kids, health concerns, and a job that is less than glamorous.

It seems I’ve never been satisfied with my present life.

I continue striving to take joy in my life on a daily basis. Maybe I just need to listen to God a little more closely.

Church Depresses Me

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

DISCLAIMER/WARNING:  You have probably heard everything in this post somewhere else before, maybe several times.

Church is hard for me. Not the worship experience itself, but being around the other worshipers.

If your parents were like mine, when you were a little kid they probably made you dress up in your best clothes for church. When I was 4 or 5 I had a solid white suit that I wore with a solid white shirt, solid white tie, and solid white shoes. I don’t know why, but I loved wearing it. Too bad I kept growing.

Even though many people wear casual clothes to church these days, it seems they still try to look their best and act their best when they show up for church.

Here’s where the hard part comes in for me. It begins when I drive into the parking lot and see streams of people headed toward the door.

Wow! They look really good! Nice clothes, nice shoes, nice hair, nice makeup (on the ladies).

Then I look across the parking lot at all the cars.

Nice new SUV’s, nice clean minivans. Hey, that’s a nice BMW!

And then I look at myself.

OK, I guess I look alright on the outside. Not too bad I suppose. But look at my old Toyota. It’s got dents, a few scratches, and it could definitely use a bath.

I go inside the church to the huge auditorium. All around me are smiles and laughter as people reunite with friends after a week’s absence. Everybody looks so happy.

I don’t feel so happy myself. How am I going to make my mortgage payment next week? My wife and I had a huge fight this morning. The kids are sick. I stepped in cat puke on my way out the door. I’ve got to go back to work tomorrow for another long week. All I really want to do right now is go home and go back to bed.

Do you see the difference in the two approaches? I’m not in any way being fair to myself. I can only see the outside of the guy sitting next to me, but I know everything going wrong in my own life. I’m comparing his outer best with my inner worst. There’s no way I’m going to feel like I measure up to others taking that approach. It’s no wonder that most Sundays I feel depressed within a few minutes after getting to church.

I can’t continue these kinds of thought patterns if I hope to approach church in the right frame of mind. If I truly want to be there to worship God, then I must change the way I think.

Realistically, the way these people look may be the best they look all week. Today, they’ve got nice clothes on and are all shiny, smiley, and happy. Tomorrow morning at 9:00, they may be wearing a drab uniform or a business suit and tie they hate, have a scowl on their face and be dreading dealing with their awful boss all day.

I have no idea what is going on in the lives of all the other people seated around me at church. Logically, I know that every single person in the room has some sort of struggle that they’re dealing with. Nobody has a perfect life. The following quote is sometimes attributed to Plato, but nobody seems to know for sure who first said it:   “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

I applaud whoever came up with it, because it certainly makes sense. We never really know what pain somebody may be hiding just to keep up appearances on the outside. When it’s all said and done, we’ll all in the same boat.

Image

Assume Nothing

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

ImageI had been enjoying talking to Pete; he is a very friendly kind of guy. Then I happened to glance down at the chest area of his button-down shirt. There is was — the little horse and rider. Polo. Because I was in mid-conversation I didn’t spend too much timing analyzing the significance of the emblem. I do remember thinking, however, that wearing that icon seemed rather uppity of him. My impression of him immediately changed to a perceptible degree. Gone was the approachable middle class image I had of him, replaced by an upper middle class image of someone who was well to do and didn’t mind showing it. At first take I wouldn’t have picked him as needing to display this on his shirt. All these thoughts went whirling through my mind and in a couple of seconds they were gone.

I went downstairs to sit in on the lesson part of my son’s high school church youth group. The lesson this evening happened to center on materialism and possessions, not placing “stuff” over God. As images of techie gadgets popped up on the big screen TV, text across the screen reminded us that our new car will someday be a pile of rust, our iPhone’s days are surely numbered, and even our designer jeans will be out of fashion this time next year.

My mind went back several years to the day the realization struck me that the brand new PS2 my wife had stood in line outside Wal-Mart to buy for our son was no longer brand new; it had become somewhat iffy and hanging onto life by a thread. After pouting a few minutes that day I began to realize that no matter what it is, if it’s man-made and money can buy it, sooner or later it will be old and maybe even worn out or broken.

I looked over at Pete and again the little horse and rider image popped into my head. Polo. Again. Ostentatious by any means. For some reason I glanced down at the shirt I had quickly slipped on to come here. What was I wearing anyway?  As my eyes landed on the blue of my shirt, reality sunk in. I cautiously glanced slightly to the left at that part of the fabric covering my heart. There it was in dark blue, almost imperceptible against the medium blue cloth. A horse and rider. Polo.

How could I have been so dull in the head not to realize this before I had judged Pete so critically? Am I a hypocrite? Yes, I guess that makes me a hypocrite. I must frame this by saying that that was my one and only Polo shirt, PLUS (and much more importantly), it was bought by my wife (not me) at the Goodwill store for $3.

At any rate, by wearing this shirt — no matter where it was bought — I have placed myself in position to be judged just as I judged Pete. Maybe people were imagining me to be vain and showy by wearing such a shirt that night. How far from the truth that is, I would have to correct them. If they only knew that I originally had on a $5 Old Navy T-shirt, but I thought I would try to look a bit nicer. After examining the Polo shirt for any obvious stains, I decided that the one or two small ones would not be too noticeable, so I slipped it on instead. Obviously, I need to be more careful in judging others. Nobody can ever know the whole story of another person’s life, especially what struggles that person faces day in and day out.

While experiencing mixed emotions of humbleness (at my quickness in judgment) and pride (interestingly, because of the realization my own clothes status), my gaze fell on a teenager seated directly across from me.  As I sized up his attire, even at 20 feet away it would have been hard to miss the bright blue emblem on his orange shirt. The familiar horse and rider. Oh how wonderful it must be to be 17 and supplied with gorgeous, fashionable clothes by your parents, I thought. Life must be simply grand for this lad! I envisioned a wonderful home life, full of joy and love, plenty of discretionary fun money, lots of gadgets, new cars, and plush furniture.

Then, then it hit me again —  I was this kid 25 years ago. I was the one wearing the pale pink Polo shirt in my tiny high school of 300 students. I was the one other kids thought had it all:  new clothes, nice cars, big house, family-owned business, plenty of money to go around, a sort of protected existence. In our rural area with a high poverty rate, perhaps their parents looked at me, just as I looked at this boy, and thought, Man it must be nice to have what his family has.  Maybe I just don’t measure up since I’m not able to provide my kids with those kinds of clothes. It’s tough feeling like you’re on the outside looking in, and even tougher to imagine your kids feeling this way.

Image

The next night my wife and I had plans to go to dinner with some other people who were graduating from the same college program as she was. I was meeting most of these friends of hers for the first time, so I wanted to look halfway decent. That morning as I was about to head out the door for work, she reminded me of the dinner and asked if I had taken clothes with me to change into after work. I made a mad dash back to my closet and finally decided on the trusty blue Polo I’d worn the previous night. A quick glance revealed no new stains from the few hours I’d worn it the previous night, so I thought it would be fine. She wasn’t keen on my choice, so she tells me she’ll go look for me a shirt that day while she’s out. Fine I say.

Later in the day she shows up at my work with her purchase for me to try on. As I pull the shirt out of the bag, I immediately notice the plush softness of the cotton. Then I notice something else. The horse and rider strike again (though only $29.99 at TJ Maxx). Not just any horse and rider emblem however. A bright orange emblem set again sky blue cloth — the exact opposite of the teenage guy’s blue-on-orange design from last night. So now I have two Polo shirts, for a total investment of $33. Not bad I’d say. But what image does this present to others? Did my wife’s classmates judge me as “uppity”, a “show-off” because of my attire that night? Some probably did.

More importantly, however, what does all this say about me? Am I too judgmental for my own good? I like to believe that I am shrewd, able to peg others to a tee with a minimum of given information. I’ve known of many instances over the years where my hasty assumptions have been completely inaccurate, but for whatever reason I continue to persist in assuming and judging. It seems that no matter how many times I am taught the lesson that I should not judge either myself or others by material possessions, I continue to do so. It’s hard to me not to consider my mistakes aberrations. To me it’s just natural to put those people around me into neat little categories based on their clothes, cars, houses, and even skin color and age. I’ve been doing it since I was a little kid.

Nonetheless, it is a character flaw I must continue to work on. As Jesus tells me in Matthew’s account of His life, “Judge not, that you be not judged.”

Memories of a Wonderful Old Building

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

The huge doors creaked as if squealing for mercy every time they swung open. Once passing through the old doors into the dim foyer, the darkness seemed almost comforting. How many times did I cross that threshold? I could probably do some quick calculations and come up with an answer, but it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that the old Methodist church was a significant part of my childhood, playing host for many wonderful experiences of the first 15 years of my life. These memories will remain with me the rest of my life.

I don’t know with certainty how old that building really is, however, I believe it dates back to the late 1800’s. It always was dark and musty-smelling, especially in the basement. The familiar “chonk” every time the old basement door from the outside would open or close still rings fresh in my memory.

When I was very young, maybe four or five years old, the church sometimes held potluck dinners in the basement. Specific memories of the food have faded over the years, but I do remember having a great deal of fun playing with my friend Dana. In fact, at that time she and I were the only kids our age who attended the church. While the adults were gathered in the fellowship hall, we would sequester ourselves in one of the Sunday school rooms down a short hallway. We alternated eating and playing with the assortment of toys stashed in a toy box.

One dinner in particular never fails to give me a chuckle every time I think about it. Dana and I were playing with a fire station with a crank handle on top that produced a very loud fire engine noise. It was my favorite of all the toys. I loved grabbing hold and spinning it for all I was worth. During this particular dinner I chose to do just that during the pastor’s prayer to bless the food. I’ll never forget the almost total quiet of the building, all except for the pastor’s gentle voice, being broken by the wail of the fire engine. I couldn’t help but start giggling. I’m sure Dana was laughing as well, although she at least attempted to shush me so that we wouldn’t get into trouble. I don’t remember if any adults came in to scold us, but it would have been worth it just imagining the startled reactions on their faces as their quiet thanksgiving was interrupted by a shrieking siren from the next room over.

When you’re not even 10 years old, it is difficult to imagine that whatever environment you find yourself in is not only typical of its kind, but is actually the best there is. This was the case with that dank old church. It was a tiny congregation; we had maybe 20 or 30 people on any given Sunday morning service. The attendees took up but a fraction of the huge sanctuary upstairs.  We tended to spread out over the rear half of it. For me, it was as natural as anything to have three or four empty rows of pews between you and the next person.

For all its dark mustiness, both in the basement and up in the sanctuary, it was a beautiful old building. The high ceiling of the upstairs foyer supported a large chandelier that helped light the otherwise dim entryway. Rows of large, colorful stained glass windows adorned both sides of the sanctuary, filling the room with the natural light of each Sunday morning.

Image

Two gently sloping aisles led down to the front of the sanctuary to a table with a candelabra in the center. Just as worship service would begin, two people would slowly walk simultaneously down either aisle with brass candle lighters in hand to light its two candles. At the end of the service, the same two individuals were responsible for extinguishing the candles. Dana and I had this privilege on a number of occasions.

Behind the pulpit and the choir loft, in the very front of the sanctuary, hung a picture of a long-haired man in a white robe. I remember one of his hands was lifted slightly as if making a point. One Sunday I asked my mother, as only a small child can do, if that was a picture of God, or of Jesus. I guess she told me Jesus, because from then on it was clear to me that Jesus looked like any other man.

Two sets of creaky stairs, mirror images of each other,  ascended from the basement to either side of the foyer. When going upstairs for the worship service, I usually chose the set on the left, the ones just past the only restrooms in the church. They felt more homey, more like they were “mine”. Maybe this was become they emerged nearest the side of the sanctuary that my family always sat on. Dana and her family generally used the stairs on the right, which were situated over the top of a storage room. As one might guess, her family sat on the opposite side of the sanctuary, almost directly across from us. I suppose we’re all creatures of habit; I seldom used the stairs on the right. Even at that young age, something about it just didn’t seem right. Those stairs were foreign to me in a way, not comfortable like “mine” were.

Image

A balcony sat above the rearmost part of the sanctuary. From my earliest memories of the church, I recall that my older brothers played in the band that perched themselves in the balcony during worship. One brother played the trombone, while the other played the trumpet. One of Dana’s older brothers was also in the band, as were a few of the other older kids in the church. My sister often played the organ downstairs in the front, behind the pulpit. I guess after a while interest in the band waned, because in later years, the only instruments we had were the piano and organ. Sometimes I would take the stairs leading up to the balcony, just to see what treasure I might discover up there. The only things I ever remember seeing were a few stands to hold sheet music, and maybe various other odds and ends. No treasure was to be found anywhere.

About 13 years ago, when my wife and I were visiting my mom, I borrowed a key to the church so I could reminisce for a while. Everything seemed smaller than I had remembered it, but much was still the same: the beautiful stained glass, the old Sunday school rooms, and of course, that old musty smell. One Sunday school room looked like it was being used as a catch-all for whatever didn’t have a place. In it I discovered a few of the old toys I remembered playing with (alas, the fire station was nowhere to be found); that truly took me back to preschool days. Then I glanced up at a cork bulletin board hanging on the wall. On it was scrawled my name just as I had written it long ago, and judging by the way it looked, not long after learning to write in cursive. I ran my fingers across the letters, amazed that it was still there.

All these elements of the old Methodist church– the Sunday school rooms, the stairways, the sanctuary, the balcony, as well as the members of the congregation — still make regular appearances in my dreams. Of course, the dreams don’t recreate the exact church experience as it was back then. The time frame is almost always in the present, often with people or elements from my adult life overlaid on those old childhood memories inside the church. What does this say about me as an adult? Is my subconscious brain hopelessly nested in the distant past?

I was sad when my sister told me recently that the church is closing its doors. I guess as members of the small congregation aged and died, without many (if any) new members coming in, it just became a matter of economics. I wonder what will become of the old building now.

Flying the Coop

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

ImageMy wife and I have spent a good deal of time recently preparing our son to leave the nest; for the first time he’s moving out from under our roof.

As I was explaining to my wife earlier, I see it as the end of an era. Our firstborn has lived with us for just over 20 years now. In August of 1993 he was just a tiny baby, only a few weeks into his life. I remember those days vividly. The Friday afternoon I brought my wife and him home from the hospital we were so exhausted that the three of us fell asleep on our bed. Our new little family was all together in our home for the first time. Yes, I know that’s a big no-no. Parents should never let their baby sleep in the bed with them, as the child could end up getting crushed and/or suffocated. I’m very thankful that after a much-needed nap, my wife and I woke up to find our little guy safe and sound.

Long nights of limited sleep followed his arrival, but those were times I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. It was mostly I who got up with him in the night. My wife was still recovering from an emergency Caesarean section, so to help her out I slept lightly and got up when I heard our son’s cries over the baby monitor.

Our son had been three weeks past due — we always kid him about his not wanting to come out. He replies that he was content to stay where he was. My wife’s doctor finally decided it would be best to induce labor, so after we checked into the hospital bright and early on that sunny Tuesday morning, her nurse gave her Pitocin to begin the induction process.

After a long day of waiting, around 7:00 that evening our son’s heart rate dropped for the second time to an alarmingly low 40 beats per minute. The doctor promptly rushed her into the operating room before there were any further complications. He said that most likely our son had come down the birth canal so fast that his head and neck were turned at such an angle to cause his pulse rate to drop so dramatically.

In the operating room I stood just behind my wife’s head and, as she drifted off from the anesthesia, I prayed for a safe delivery. The C-section went off without a hitch and we welcomed our healthy baby boy into the world a few minutes later. Well, I did anyway — it would be several hours before his mother would be alert enough to hold him.

Pitocin, it seems, may not be a wise choice when it comes to a baby’s health. I recently read of a number of studies making a connection between autism and mothers having been given Pitocin during the delivery process. While many healthcare providers maintain that Pitocin in no way harms the baby, results of various studies would seem to indicate differently.

Pitocin, derived from the pituitary glands of cows, is a synthetic form of the natural hormone oxytocin. Oxytocin plays a crucial role in delivery by stimulating uterine contractions, as well as in facilitating social and emotional bonding. Before and during labor, Pitocin is often given to moms-to-be to make the contractions stronger, longer, and more frequent.

Because a significant number of autistic children have abnormally low levels of oxytocin, one theory put forth is that flooding the fetus with a synthetic form of the hormone may damage or reduce the number of oxytocin receptors in the brain. Several years ago Dr. Eric Hollander of New York’s Mount Sinai School of Medicine reported that 60% of the autistic children he was treating in his clinic had been exposed to Pitocin in the womb.

Pitocin’s possible connection with autism aside, the contractions it produces may put undue stress on the unborn baby as he moves through the birth canal. Stephanie Marohn, author of The Natural Medicine Guide to Autism, likens the intensified contractions to “using the child’s head as a battering ram to force the pelvis to reshape to accommodate it.”

ImageOver the following weeks and months, I continued as primary caregiver during the night shift. I remember this time fondly, and feel sorry for those dads who are not able to have this wonderful experience. I was able to bond with my baby boy in a way that I never would have if my wife had been the one heeding his nocturnal calls. She, of course, was with him all day while I was at work. At night, however, it was my turn. Countless times I got out bed and stumbled into his room half asleep.

First I would check his diaper — it would almost always be wet (or worse!). I knew if I changed him first, as he fell back asleep I could gently return him to his crib and head back to bed myself. After a fresh diaper, I would prepare a bottle of formula for him and settle in on our sectional couch, cradling my pride and joy in my left arm, while holding the bottle in my right hand. It was pure joy to watch him take it in his tiny mouth and receive instant gratification; his needs were so simple then. His crying would stop almost immediately and his little face would begin to relax. Soon, his eyes would be barely open, as he would continue gently sucking on the bottle. When it was empty, or when he was asleep, I’d remove it, slipping a pacifier into its place. Most of the time he would sleep contentedly at this point. He really was a good baby.

I feel so blessed having the opportunity to spend that time with him. Yes, it was a little hard on me, having to get up for work the next morning. I’m grateful, though, that the job I had at that time allowed me the luxury of waiting until 9:00 to arrive.  I have many, many wonderful memories of those days. It was truly a golden time in our lives.  Image

Now our baby has become a man and is moving out into the world on his own. Naturally, he’s excited about the experience, but with seven guys in a five bedroom house, I’m not sure I would if I were him. He’s very responsible and mature, and my wife and I have few concerns about his leaving. He’s serious about college, plus he and the other guys are all active at the Christian fellowship on campus. For the second year in a row, he will be one of the leaders for their weekly get-togethers for food and worship. We are truly very proud of the godly man he’s become.

His new home (I hesitantly use that term, because his home will always be with us) is only across the railroad tracks and a few blocks over from my first apartment away from my parents’ home. After living in the dorm my freshman year at the same college our son attends, a friend and I moved into a third floor apartment beginning my sophomore year.

In the last 20 years, much has changed in the area around the apartment building. What was once a large grass field next to our building has been turned into a looming parking structure for the university. Old houses have been torn down, replaced by gleaming new research and office buildings. Across the tracks and nearer to my son’s house, a strip mall and a few restaurants were added several years ago, replacing a barn and another field.

I’ve taken both our kids to that old apartment building, just to show them where their mother and I lived as newlyweds. After living with my friend for two years, I moved into a one bedroom apartment on the first floor of the same building, where I lived alone for a year until we got married.

The best part of it all is that about a year later this 400 square foot apartment is where our son was conceived. Whenever we happen to drive by the old building, I always jokingly remind him of that. “Right over there is where it all began for you.” Even though he’s a little grossed out thinking about that, I think he probably gets some satisfaction in knowing some of the details of his heritage.

Today we were out looking for ideas and materials to use in customizing his new bedroom. We grabbed lunch at a little hole in the wall restaurant not far off campus. Afterward, when we were driving near our tiny old apartment, I said to him, “How does it feel…” I paused for effect, then continued, “coming full circle back to your roots?” I was referring, of course, to the fact that the old apartment and his new place are geographically quite close. He just rolled his eyes at me and kept driving.

Everyday I try to be thankful for what God has blessed us with — two vibrant kids who are healthy, happy, and well-adjusted. Even though our son’s entrance into the world was dramatic and a little frightening, he is a thriving man of God today. His younger sister is equally as amazing in her own right, making my wife and me two very proud parents. We fully expect them both to be world-changers.

Image

To Smile or Not to Smile

/ Clay D. / 1 Comment

Some days life seems really good and then other days it really stinks. I can’t say certainty why I feel differently about life at different times. One interesting thing I have noticed, however, is that in the mornings when I get out of my car to walk into work, the way I feel physically will usually be mirrored by my emotional state.

For example, If I feel well-rested, without too many aches and pains in my middle-aged body, not only will I walk at a brisker pace, I’ll also feel more optimistic about the day. I may even look forward to greeting my coworkers. On the other hand, if I feel like death warmed over, I’ll  sort of stumble across the street toward the door, maybe even in a weary, zigzag manner. The thought of being cheery that early in the morning nauseates me. I just want to be left alone.

So, instead of asking myself, Which came first, the chicken or the egg?, I’m asking myself, Which comes first, physical energy (or the lack thereof) or emotions?. I believe the answer lies somewhere in between. I think one of these can both influence and reinforce the other. How then, do I break the cycle if I’m down in the dumps emotionally, AND feel exhausted and weak physically?

I have learned from various readings and seminars, that it’s possible to lift the emotions by making small physical adjustments. I know from my own personal experience that simply softening my face slightly with the smallest of smiles, causes my outlook on life to brighten immediately; everything seems better. Sitting up a tad straighter in my chair and tilting my head up slightly as if peering into the distance will also positively affect my emotions. If this seems simple, it really is. As superficial as it may appear, complex mechanisms are at work here. There is science behind this to be sure, but the processes taking place when you smile are not clearly understood yet.

In recent years several studies have been conducted that have largely come to the conclusion that your facial expressions can have a significant impact on your emotions. One study in particular that I found very interesting involved individuals whose frown muscles had been weakened or damaged by Botox; they were unable to frown. On the whole, these people reported feeling happier than individuals who had not received Botox. Interestingly, the Botox recipients also reported that they felt no more attractive than they did before Botox, thus helping eliminate the possibility of optimistic feelings based on supposed better looks. The conclusion of the study was that being unable to produce a frown kept these people in a happier mood. Other studies have made similar conclusions.

So, if you find yourself in a dreadful situation and you put on a smile to help your mood and outlook, is this a fake smile – one that denies the awfulness of the situation at hand? Or are you shrewdly altering your emotions through an intentional physical manipulation?

These questions are hotly debated for sure. In the past, I rested firmly in the camp that smiley people were simply stupid. They were ignorant of their environment and the world around them. Obviously they had not made any real attempt to look at the seriousness of life. If they could blindly smile and laugh in the face of so many critical issues and decisions to be made on a daily basis, then I wanted nothing to do with them.

Somewhere along the line, however, my opinion on the smile issue changed. Most likely it was due to numerous self-improvement teachings I encountered as I matured into adulthood. Certainly I have wavered back and forth in my beliefs over the last 20+ years, but deep down my core belief is that the world is as you make it. Smile and the world smiles with you, as the old saying goes. Two people can encounter the same negative situation with polar opposite reactions. The person who is positive and optimistic will be poised to move forward with a solution to the problem. The negative person will remain stuck, either in the present, the past, or both, asking himself, Why me?.

I can make this statement because I’ve spent a lot of time at both poles in my life, though mostly the negative pole. At this moment I’m approaching problems (challenges!) from a positive perspective, putting on a smile and looking at the world around me optimistically. Not long ago, however, I sat daily on my stump of criticism, cursing the “beautiful” people who seemingly had more stuff than I did.

I’m sure I’m not done being negative; the depression I battle often knocks me off the tightrope on which I try to balance my emotions. The only thing I can really do is to keep working on myself on a daily basis. That’s all any of us can do.