A few tidbits

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

My cat is filling in for me. He wrote today’s post.

I’ve seen a lot in my ten years. I’ve watched many others come and go, but I have outlasted them all. My beginning was not promising. I was scrawny and weak. No one suspected that I would grow into the fine male specimen I am.

I watch everything, taking it all in, safely out of reach and mostly out of sight from my perch high atop the bureau.  M was the only one who had been here longer than I, but she perished two years ago. Now I have seniority over all the rest. None other can challenge me on this.

Even though M is long gone now, she and I were the best of friends. Sure, she was slightly abusive at times. I grew weary of her dragging me across the hardwood floor and using me as her chew toy. But we romped and played together every day throughout the entire house.

Too often she got the best of me, because I have no claws or real defense after all, except for a menacing hiss. However, I know she meant well; it was all in the spirit of love and the bond of kinship. Canines can be great companions, if you can find a good one, that is. And she truly was a good one.

My unintended “vacation” away from the family was both unannounced and unpleasant.  My siblings and I played peacefully outside that winter after I was born, but SHE thought I needed to be indoors. So SHE marched two houses down the hill and snatched me from my home. SHE tried to make me want to stay there, even going so far as to remove my most private parts. Simply put, that was uncalled for. I’ve never really been the same since. The whole experience was the worst nine months of my life.

However, I’ll never forget that frigid December day the next winter when I was finally able to sneak out that foul woman’s back door. I’ll be forever grateful for M’s role in my safe return.

After I found my way back to the family’s yard M, thinking I was a vagabond, cornered me in the shed and began barking her head off. The woman of the family then came running to see what was wrong. Let me tell you, she was very happy to see me. And I was happy to be back in a home where I knew I wouldn’t lose any more body parts.

Now I sit at the top of the heap. Even though L is almost as old as M was, she has lived in the home for a shorter time. She isn’t nearly as friendly as her older sister was. I guess she didn’t get the memo that canines are supposed to bounce around and romp joyously all the time.

The two younger canines can be a handful at times, but I notice them mellowing more as they mature. I certainly need a break from all the drama. I’m still at the top of my game, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a good afternoon nap, or morning nap, or even a good evening nap. The peace and quiet does my body good.

Ciao. Here’s hoping the next decade is as good as the the first.

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Not one of my better days

threewordsaday

/ Clay D. / 4 Comments

My entry for today’s threewordsaday challenge:

“Did you check for evidence at the crime scene?”

“Umm, no. Actually I forgot. Sorry.” The new recruit wrung his hands nervously, his eyes darting between his boss’ glare and Headline News blasting on the TV.

“That’s what I thought. You’re fired.” He turned to his secretary. “Lucy, where are my Tums? And aspirin? And turn down that TV!”

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Nighttime

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

I slowly open the back door of my house and step outside, careful not to awaken any sleeping souls. As I step across the threshold into the spring night, a cool breeze caresses my face.  The myriad stars are tiny points of light on the sky’s black canvas.

Another day is nearly over, written in the history book of my life, never to be opened again.  It can and will be recalled, but never reopened, never relived, never improved.  It is truly wonderful to pause and reflect, stretching my thoughts and dreams past the mere happenings of the day.  This was only one of the thousands of days of my life, quite unremarkable from all the others.  Yet, as I reflect on it I am glad it is over.  Even as a twinge of anxiety about tomorrow slyly pinches me, I am grateful that I can say I have survived this day.

Ah night!  Such a wonderful time.  The world sleeps as I stand still in blissful solitude.  Nighttime is truly my time.  That’s when I’m free to be myself, left alone with no interruptions, able to ponder my existence.  When others retire for the night, that’s when I come alive.  Recognizing the opportunity for solitude, my mind awakens from its fog and I make the most of these times simply to think, read, or just sit.  Alone at night is when I feel the most natural and comfortable.  There is no one to interrupt my flow, no one to compete with my thoughts.  My thoughts are mine alone.

As I stand on my deck and look out across the neighborhood at rows of dark houses, their occupants nestled in and slumbering away, I feel superior.  I don’t need sleep at this particular moment.  In a few minutes perhaps I will, but not now.  I win, as it were.

In a few hours, when the sun is peeking above the horizon and showing itself for the first time that day, these same people will begin to stir, will renew the process of convening for the day.  They will once again form little groups in offices and workplaces across the city, repeating their daily rituals. They will compete among themselves to put forth the newest and best ideas, in hopes of solving the problems of the world, and perhaps gain notoriety, fame, and ultimately riches.

But that is all for later.  For now there is simply darkness and quiet, peace and bliss…

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.

To Hair is Human, to Relive Divine

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

I love heavy metal from the 80’s.  It is my all-time favorite genre of music, and I like all kinds of music.  However, it is always what I go back to, time and time again.  For me, there will never be better music than this – good ol’ Def Leppard, Motley Crue, Poison, Scorpions, Cinderella, Guns ‘N Roses, Skid Row, and a slew of others.  Oh yes, I know this music is routinely derided, deemed devoid of any meaning or substance.  It is often referred to as  “hair metal” or “glam metal”,  but understand this:  we never referred to it like that.  It was simply “heavy metal” or just “metal”.  Sure, there was harder music like Metallica, Megadeth, or Black Sabbath.  That was metal also, just not what I generally liked.  I remember the term “New Wave of British Heavy Metal”, referring to Def Leppard, Iron Maiden, and other bands from across the pond.  I don’t know if the metal coming out of Los Angeles had a specific moniker at that time.  As far as the term “hair metal”, I can hardly stomach it.  It demotes the music I love to something only as important as what’s on top of the band members’ heads.  I was not even familiar with the term before the late 90’s, or even 2000, although I’m sure it had been around for a few years.

For teenage me in the 80’s,  heavy metal was all the world.  It was what I longed to be, but could not be.  Growing up in a small, rural, conservative area, to conservative parents with high standards for both morality and academics, it was very hard for me to rebel on any significant level.  When I was first introduced to this music by way of Def Leppard’s “Pyromania” in the spring of ‘83, I quickly became enamored with it.  I gobbled up any bit of news, photos, or anything related to the bands I loved.  Mostly, this came in the form of magazines such as “Circus” and “Hit Parader”.  From these magazines I carefully cut out pictures of my bands, taping them to my bedroom walls.  Within a year or so, my room was almost completely covered with images of long-haired, snarling, writhing musicians.  I’m sure my mother hated all this, and I can’t say that I would have blamed her.  I don’t remember her, or my dad ever saying much about it, however.

The reason I could hardly blame her is because deep down I know that it really is not the kind of music I should listen to.  When I accepted Christ at the age of 15 in 1985, I began a slow change.  Pretty soon I began to feel a disconnect from heavy metal.  The images on my bedroom walls didn’t hold as much value or place for me anymore.  Before long I realized they needed to come down – so they did.  I also got rid of the metal albums I had, mostly LP’s.  I remember leaning them up against the base of a tree in my backyard and blasting them into bits with a shotgun.

I wish I could say that was the end of the story, but it is far from the end.  Over the last 27 plus years, I have wavered in my faith, and consequently my passion and desire for metal has waxed and waned as well. I have never been able to divorce myself fully from the music that I love.  There have been, and are, times in my life when I really have no desire to listen to Motley Crue, or Poison, or Guns ‘N Roses.  But then, circumstances will change in my life, leaving me in a state where I want to reach out and reconnect with all that I loved as a teenager.  Perhaps my adult life has not been as fulfilling as I dreamed it would be when I was a kid, so I attempt to relive my youth in the music I dove into at that age.  Whatever the reason, it has been a long struggle to try to find a place of balance in my life between the music I love and the Christian principles I hold close to my heart.

Recently I have been watching a lot of old metal videos on YouTube.  It gives me a release and helps me relax and unwind.  The world just seems a lot better when I have some loud 80’s metal on my headphones, and I can watch the videos I used to wait for patiently when all we had was MTV.  The raw energy and feeling in those songs strikes a chord with me.  I can truly relate to the drama, the edginess, and all the emotion gushing forth from the metal from that era.  There is nothing better.  In fact, it is hard for me to keep writing this, because I want to go plug in my headphones and rock out to some Skid Row or Motley Crue right now.

That is the struggle I have dealt with all these years – trying to do what I know is right in my heart, trying to keep my thoughts positive, and live my life according to how God wants, while at the same time longing to emote along with the bands I love – maybe even rebelling against society along with them.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always loved this music.  I’ve never really felt like I fit in with society’s image of what I should be.  Even though I’m academically talented and try to maintain high morals, maybe I never wanted to be and do these things.  Perhaps in a different family, with different parents I would have lived a much different life.  Maybe I would have been more like Judd Nelson’s character in “The Breakfast Club”, rather than Anthony Michael Hall’s character who he picks on.

This loud, raucous music spoke to me perhaps in a way that pop music never did.  Eighties metal fit perfectly with me, solidly between the likes of Madonna and Michael Jackson on the one hand, and Metallica and Motorhead on the other.  It was over the top, but not so much so that the whole ship went down.  Being a Crue fan placed me squarely on the edgy side, but I was not so dark as a Megadeth fan.  I could be rebellious while also maintaining my self respect.