Men Behaving Admirably

Men get a bad wrap these days. Too often, in the media, as well as in private conversations, men in general are depicted and described as violent, selfish, and unreliable. Married men don't fare any better than their single brothers. Watch any popular sitcom and you'll see husbands and fathers who haven't a clue. They're drags on their families. They are disrespect by their wives and children and the butt of every joke.

Such is not reality.

Last night at my hospice job I cared for five patients. Three of the five were married women whose primary caregivers were their husbands. These brave guys ranged in age from from forty to nearly eighty. One was a laborer. One a rancher. One a scientist with a Ph.D. Every one of them had stepped up to the plate. They were present for their wives when they were needed the most. Each of these men displayed kindness, tenderness, and love.

One spooned jello into his wife's parched mouth.

One lifted his wife to the toilet. Three times in less than a half hour, each time refusing my offer to help.

Another brushed his wife's chemo-thinned hair.

Each of them lavished their wives with amazing attention and care.

The ends of my patients' stories are not going to be good. Every one of these men will lose his wife. Most of them very soon. Tragic, yes. But in spite of their loss, I hope these men will find comfort in knowing that they gave the women in their lives the best that they could. No. They couldn't fix what was wrong or make it go away.

But they did what they could.

No small thing.

Living Openly

I love to hear the stories of people's lives. It is one of the experiences I enjoy most in the world. There's nothing more intriguing to me than listening to a friend or a stranger tell me about the journey that brought them to their present place. People are so fascinating. Their motivations, their passions, their desires -- we are such diverse creatures.

What is not so easy for me is sharing my own life. The older I get, the more reticent I become about talking about myself. It's easy to veil such a trait in the guise of selflessness. After all, isn't it better to listen than to talk?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Jesus said this:

"Let me tell you why you are here. You're here to be the salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavors of this earth....."

"Here's another way to put it. You're here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world..."

"Keep open house; be generous with your lives. By opening up to others, you'll prompt people to open up with God, this generous Father in heaven."

(From Matthew, chapter 5, The Message)

Sharing my stuff is probably never going to be easy for me. My guess is that it's going to get harder with each passing year. Stuff stacks up. You know? But I want to be salt. I want to be light.

My house is already open.

It's my heart that needs a little work.

Church on the Patio

My friend Debbie has a chapel in her back yard. Really. Her husband shepherds a small congregation that meets in a dedicated building behind their house. It's where Debbie goes to pray. She loves having a quiet, sacred place so close by. Lately, Debbie's been in prayer more than usual. About -- well -- you know -- stuff. She's about worn a trail in the grass from her back door to that little chapel out back.

Almost every Sunday, my behind's parked in a pew inside the beautiful brick building that is my church. I love it there. I love the music and the prayers and messages that I hear. Most Sundays I am brought to quiet tears. Doing the work that I do, I need my spiritual tank filled on a regular basis. Having some place to go at a certain time brings a clarity and a focus to my life. My time there is like an hour-long pause in my week, one that allows me to breath deeply, and to start yet again.

Recently some friends and I passed two hours together outside on a concrete patio. We sat on plastic chairs under a blue Texas sky and talked about God and faith, sin and grace, love and loss. No one sang a song -- except the song of real life. No one preached, but the presence of a child spoke powerful words to our hearts. No one even said a prayer.

But God was there.

Sweet Song on My Mind

Friends With You
John Denver

What a friend we have in time
Gives us children, makes us wine
Tells us what to take or leave behind

And the gifts of growing old
Are the stories to be told
Of the feelings more precious than gold

Friends I will remember you, think of you
Pray for you
And when another day is through
I'll still be friends with you

Babies days are never long
Mother's laugh is baby's song
Gives us all the hope to carry on

Friends I will remember you, think of you
Pray for you
And when another day is through
I'll still be friends with you

Friends I will remember you,
Think of you, pray for you
And when another day is through
I'll still be Friends with You

Acceptable Risks

Last spring, Randy and I spent a sweet afternoon on our front porch with Ken, one of our more out-of-the-box, too rarely seen friends. It was a rainy day, but the air was heavy and warm and the three of us we were well-sheltered from the drizzle. We talked and talked and talked some more. The conversation was so good I left my rocker only long enough to keep our coffee mugs filled with strong, hot brew. The time was precious. Perfect. It was one of those memorable afternoons, a frozen few hours passed with a friend, the kind of day that leave you feeling like life is just what it's supposed to be.

Ken had recently bought his first motorcycle and he'd ridden it from his apartment in Dallas to visit us. I know little about such machines, but Ken's new bike looked to me to be the mother of all motorcycles -- a monsterous, beautiful, black BMW with every possible bell and whistle.

"Do you feel safe on it?" I, who have seen my share of mangled, road-burned riders, asked.

"Nope. Not really. I'm a middle-aged man just learning to ride," Ken said. "Drivers like me are among those most likely to have serious accidents. I'm careful. I took safety classes. But I don't kid myself. Riding is risky."

"But it's worth it to you?"

"Yep. I love it. More than anything. Annette, look at my life. I have no wife. No children. No one dependent upon me. If something happens to me, no will will suffer because of it."

"I don't know about that," I said.

"You know what I mean."

Yes. I did.

"If I have a wreck and don't make it, know I died having a great time. Don't think I'd have regrets or that I'd do anything over again differently. I want to live life. Doing that is not always safe."

~

I've thought back to that conversation many times. It has come to me as I think about the hikers who recently died on Mount Hood. I can't help but wonder. Would they do it differently? Would they have lived their lives more safely if given a second chance?

How do you balance good common sense with the desire for adventure? Does it matter if you have dependent children? What about aging parents? A spouse?

What is acceptable risk and what is not?

Skydiving?
Mountain climbing?
Bungie jumping?

What about traveling to an unstable overseas country to care for the poor?
Taking care of AIDS patients?
Picking up a hitchhiker?
Donating a kidney?

All my life I've erred on the side of taking a risk rather than staying safe. I'd like to think it has to do with some deep spiritual truth I've learned, but that's probably not the case. The reality is something more like this: I am more fearful of a cautious, predictable existense, of missing out on something new and different than I am of death.