Non-Fiction

My thoughts about things, mostly from a spiritual perspective. Some of this material could be considered creative nonfiction.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

This Uncharted Desert Isle

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

The question has been asked:  “If you were stranded on a deserted island with no hope of rescue, and all you had was a piece of paper, a pen, and a bottle, what would you tell the world?”

Many of us have asked ourselves this question at one time or another.  I know that I have.  I’ve often pictured myself sitting with my back up against a lone palm tree, wearing only a pair of tattered pants.  I’m pondering my fate and wondering what comes next.

My situation, alone on the island, could be described as a metaphor for my life up to this point.  I could make an attempt to explain my circumstances – how I often feel alone, and what I would have done differently to avoid this situation.  The more I ponder it, the more I believe I would go for the short version of how I arrived at this point.  I don’t think I would bother trying to give the world a synopsis of my life and my mistakes.  The only ones who would care are those who enjoy examining the minutia of everyday life, trying to figure out why things are the way they are.  At any rate, back to my island — I’m sure I would be quite lonely, understanding that this is how my life would close.

I suppose that lonely and destitute is exactly how many people with terminal illnesses feel.  They are intensely aware of the fact that their life will soon end, while the rest of the world will continue on in its steady pace.  They may die alone, in pain, on a bright and warm Saturday afternoon, while parents and children throw a frisbee in the park not far outside their hospital room window; young lovers lie on a blanket under a cool oak tree, gazing into each other’s eyes; and a single woman jogs steadily along the pathway winding through the park.  None of these people are aware of the misery overlooking them from high in the hospital complex, amid beeps and buzzes, nurses and doctors, needles and blood pressure cuffs.

Loneliness only begins to describe the state of the one confined to the hospital bed.  While those in the park may be looking forward to the new fall season of their favorite TV show, if the dying patient allows his mind to wander toward such thoughts, only more sadness and loneliness will likely result.  Realizing that he will be long gone before the first crisp fall evening, brings tears running down his cheeks.  He knows his body will be in the ground and the world will go on, none the wiser that he has left this life forever.

Is that how I would feel if I were on a deserted island?  Possibly.  I don’t really like the idea of the world continuing forward on its certain course, unaware of my passing.  Just like the dying person in the hospital room, the thought would probably send waves of sadness crashing over me.

The depth of my sadness and despair, however, would depend on how I viewed my life up to the point where I found myself on this island.  If I were happy with my life, satisfied that I had done my best in raising my children and contributing to society, then I would feel much more at ease than if I had a heart full of regrets about how my kids never visit, about projects left undone, and about other neglected relationships left in shambles.

The point is that I don’t know exactly what I would say about my life — mainly because I haven’t finished living it yet.  Maybe it would be better to take the high road and write on my little piece of paper some bit of advice to whomever might find it.  I could attempt to explain life – my version anyway, as big a task as that would be.  I would tell the world to be humble, considering others instead of only yourself, and above all, to seek God daily.  He is the answer, whether you realize it or not.  As somebody said, “Just because you don’t believe it, don’t mean it ain’t true.”

Seek God by believing in His Son, because that is the only way to find Him.  Any other pathway to God will only lead you to a false god, a wizard behind the curtain pulling levers and pushing buttons, and not the Real Thing that you were searching for.

Yes, the high road sounds like the path to take — provided my piece of paper is big enough.

Cruise Control Life

/ Clay D. / 1 Comment

For all of my adult life I have longed to live what I call a “cruise control” life.  Sitting back and having life come to me, without significant worry or stress, is the perfect picture of what life should be.  Everything is in place and I have plenty of money, to the point where I never even think of money.  It is just there.  My relationships are all good – my wife and I love each other, the kids are great, I have plenty of warm, intimate connections with friends and extended family.  Everything about my life and those around me is in place.  The basis for attaining and maintaining this idyllic life rests largely on money.  First and foremost, there must be plenty of it, not necessarily Bill Gates kind of money, just way more than I think I need or want, therefore allowing me the peace of mind to enjoy life, knowing that the funds are there, and keep coming in, for me to relax, not worrying about the unforeseen, and simply be in the moment, enjoying life in the present at all times.

Just imagining this kind of life brings to mind a very warm, perfect sort of existence where EVERYTHING is good.  I have to be very careful not to harbor on these images because they are in fact fallacies and do not exist as such.  It is so easy to fall back into that kind of thinking.  It is very comforting to imagine that that life is out there and that somebody somewhere has it; therefore I can possibly have it also if I try hard enough.  

When I was finishing up my college days, I did not have these ideas. I felt led to go into ministry, and was planning to enter seminary right after college.  Money was really not on my mind.  I did not have that mental competition to live as the world lives; I did not relate myself to the larger peer group of the world.  I only wanted to live and to serve God.

The turning point came when I was introduced to a multilevel marketing business.  To put it simply, in a very short time frame I became consumed with this idea of the cruise control life – plenty of money, high lifestyle, smiles all around.  In the world of multilevel marketing, individuals who have attained great success in the business in question are held in high regard, and paraded ad nauseum as examples of what the new recruit can someday be if he or she is dedicated and patient enough, and of course puts enough work into the business.

In the business I was introduced to, one particular individual caught my attention, and I quickly became enraptured with trying to attain his lifestyle.  To me he had it all – pretty wife and gorgeous kids – but much more importantly, he exuded peace of mind that could only come from having more than enough money.  In fact, this is the image he portrayed – almost that he had so much money, he didn’t even know what all he had – not exactly, but sort of.  He described his huge house with a pool and basketball court set on a large wooded lot, his several cars – including a Rolls Royce – his condo on the beach, and on and on.  I remember once hearing him say that his investment income (not the income from the multilevel business) was six figures.  As part of the motivation process we were able to go to his house for an hour or so while in his hometown for a business conference.  I was in awe to say the least.  The house was amazing, as was the outdoor barbecue area and all the beautiful landscaping.  We did not go inside the house, but I didn’t need to – I was firmly hooked at that point.

This man had it all as far as I was concerned.  I wanted what he had.  Over the time I was involved in the business, about four years, I went not only to his home, but also the homes of several other kingpins in the business.  All during this time, this idea of the cruise control life captivated me.  This guy exuded such calm and peace.  I NEEDED what he had.  The idea of no worries was especially enticing to me, someone with known anxious hangups.  I held him in the highest regard, not only because of what he had attained financially, but because all the while he seemed so humble, and gave God the credit for his success.

How could I lose with this scenario?  This seemed to be the ultimate life for where I was at this juncture.  I had wanted to serve God, and now I wanted money, so how could I go wrong?  I could serve God by introducing people to this wonderful business, so that they could also live a peaceful life with no struggles, or problems (all because of the abundance of money they would have), and at the same time I would become fabulously successful (read rich) myself.  It was definitely a win-win situation as far as I could tell.

I cannot fully comment on the theology of all this, especially in this writing.  I do know, however, that over the years I have begun to realize the error of my thinking – there is no cruise control life.  Nobody has everything together in every facet of his life, no matter how much money he has.  There is a struggle somewhere, with something.  Life still comes at you, because we live in a fallen world, and there are still issues and challenges to deal with on a regular basis.

Years later I found out how true this was.  This businessman, this family man, this man of God who I had held in such high esteem, ended up losing his wife because of an affair with his secretary.  Whoa!  How could this happen?  He had it all, didn’t he?  How could he ever need to seek out another woman when he had the perfect wife, the perfect family, the perfect life already?  I don’t know how it could happen, but it did.  Not only did they get divorced, but a large number of the people in his downline (the recruits of recruits of recruits) ended up disassociating with him.  I have no way of knowing how all this affected him financially, or even emotionally, but I know it could not have been for the good.

I feel sorry for the situation he is in, even though it would appear to be from his own doing, but he now serves as a vivid reminder to me of the fallacy of the cruise control life I had held so dear.  If he couldn’t hold his life together with all the apparent accoutrements he had, then I should in no way hope to do the same.  He had exactly what I wanted.  I knew that if I had his life, everything would be perfect.  I’d have no problems, I be more than happy, I’d be content forever, and I’d die happy knowing I’d lived life exactly how it was meant to be lived.  Alas, the life he had on the outside was not enough for him.  Without judging him, it is apparent that he was driven to seek satisfaction outside of his wonderful, beautiful life.

This can and should serve as a powerful reminder to me of the huge error in the thinking I have held dear for two decades.  I’ve never fully been able to reconcile all this in my mind.  A large part of me has still longed for this lifestyle, even after leaving that business long ago.  I have continued to hold to the idea that somewhere out there are those who live this kind of life, and if they have it, then it is possible to attain, and so I must strive for it as well.  It is a struggle that I have battled for far too long.

I try to realize that there is no such lifestyle.  Life will continue to present us challenges on a daily basis, no matter how much money we have.  We live in a world controlled by evil and as such we are not immune to suffering.  God tells us this over and over in the Bible.  How arrogant it was (and is) for me to think I could be above this, especially when there are billions of people in the world with a much, much lower standard of living than I have.  I read a statistic (not verified by me) that said only one out of nine people in the entire world owns a car.  I have not one, but two cars.  I also have a beautiful house with a garage where I can put those cars out of the elements – those same elements that pound the estimated one billion people worldwide (again, not verified by me) who live in inadequate housing such as cardboard boxes, tents, and shacks.

Obviously, I am rich, and for that I will do my best to remain grateful to God.

Dodge City 50 Years Later

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

The Internet is a funny, wonderful thing. On a recent Friday night as I was lying in bed late I realized just how diverse the Internet had proven to be to me that day.

At lunch that day I was listening to the radio while relaxing in my car at one of my favorite parks in town.  A song came on that I didn’t know, so I whipped out my smartphone, and utilizing a couple of choice apps, was able not only to identify the song and artist, but pull up a video along with the song lyrics – all in a matter of seconds.  I’m sure this would have blown my mind if I had known back in college that someday this would be possible.  I remember hearing a good song on the radio back then and having to hustle to grab the phone book, look up the number for the radio station, then try to get through to the DJ so that I could ask what the name of the song was.  Paula Abdul’s “Straight Up” was one of those songs back in the winter of ‘89.

I often sit and think about the ability we have with Google to access data and information at our fingertips – it is truly amazing.  What did I do 20 years ago when I wanted to find out the name of the actress in a certain movie? Or try to figure out the name of an old song when I knew only one line of the lyrics?  I guess I did nothing.  We had no way to search for these things.  The library was of course very limited for these kinds of pop culture queries, although certainly valuable for “hard” data searches.  Now at 43, I can’t even imagine not being able to search for information on anything, anytime, anywhere and have the results instantly at my fingertips.  Of course my 18-year-old and especially my 14-year-old really don’t know it any other way.  With their smartphones they literally have access to the world in the palms of their hands. It’s a little scary to be honest about it.

Later that night, after my relaxing lunch in the park, I stumbled upon an app that gave me access to dozens of streams of old radio programs from the middle of the 20th century.  Bear in mind that I have NEVER listened to these kinds of programs, even as a kid.  They were well before my time.  I never had any sort of interest in them and certainly didn’t realize that they were still out there in cyberspace waiting to be enjoyed not only by those who heard them as kids, but by younger generations such as mine.  I really only ever knew color TV and, starting when I was 13, cable TV with (gasp!) 22 channels.

As I was lying in bed, old episodes of “Gunsmoke” streamed from my phone, as well as several other programs I’d never heard of before.  While these programs are enjoyable – it takes quite a different acting skill set to pull off drama on the radio rather than TV – what I found most intriguing were the commercials that were still intact in the middle of the programs.  An old Budweiser commercial was pretty amusing, touting its almost wholesome goodness.  I’ve always enjoyed looking at old magazines just to see the ads.  It’s interesting to see how marketing approaches evolve over the years (almost imperceptibly) as the culture changes.  I remember back in college doing research at the library for a project and finding old magazines on microfiche; I felt like ’d discovered long lost treasure when I saw the old cigarette and alcohol ads!

With the discovery of these old radio programs, the Internet had allowed me to enjoy a piece of Americana that would have been lost to me forever.  I now had access to the same entertainment that my parents might have enjoyed right after they got married in 1950.  The nostalgia of imagining whole families gathered around the radio, waiting anxiously for their favorite program to begin, is very comforting to me.  Maybe that was the highlight of the kids’ day.  After playing outside all day in the surrounding creeks and fields, coming home, eating a hearty supper and catching up on the latest trouble in Dodge City would cap off a perfect summer day.  It was definitely a simpler time, and some would say a better time.

It’s not that we don’t enjoy the same kinds of pleasures today – we just require more sophisticated entertainment.  And who knows, I’m sure one day, 50 years from now, people will get warm and fuzzy feelings imagining our generation quaintly watching DVDs and streaming movies on our 50” widescreen TV’s, tweeting and texting with our smart devices.  They will say ours was such a simple, wonderful time, and perhaps wish they could experience such a quaint life as we have…

At Church

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

As I was sitting in church this morning, I looked over at the pew across the aisle.  I noticed a cute little baby girl standing up in her father’s lap.  She was not more than a few months old.  Of course he was supporting her so that she didn’t go tumbling over into the pew in front of them.  She was having the time of her life, laughing and giggling while her father was singing.

My mind drifted in thought as it often does.  Pretty soon I was no longer concentrating on the song we were singing, but instead was lost in thought while staring at this young family across from me.  I thought about how basic the father’s role was at that point in his daughter’s life.  At that moment, his was almost entirely a physical role – he was supporting her upright and keeping her from falling and hurting herself.  Of course he has other roles:  food giver, diaper changer, bread winner.  But as the years progress, his role will evolve dramatically in her life.  Soon, he’ll be filling a much more emotional need for her.  She’ll actively realize and appreciate the security he provides in her young life.  But, as she grows and matures, reaching her teen and young adult years, his role will continue to evolve, becoming that of advice giver and an ear to listen to her problems as well as her joys.  As she becomes a mature woman, perhaps with a family of her own, he will no longer provide much if any physical protection for her, but will support her almost entirely in an emotional role.

I thought about my own life at that point.  Both of my children are teenagers, my son in his late teen years, and my daughter in her early teens.  When my son was about 17 or so, it seems I more or less checked out of being an active parent to him.  Perhaps deep down I thought that he was close enough to being an adult that he was capable of making his own decisions – I don’t know what the reason was.  If that was all that would be enough.  However, I also unconsciously stepped back from the father role with my daughter as well.  I figured, I believe, that if one child had made it this far, then surely the other one must be ready as well.  For the last couple of years I’ve been on autopilot.  I’ve felt like a father not so much of teenagers, but of young adults who don’t need me as much.

I realize now how wrong I’ve been.