"Well my mom told me if anyone hits me, I should hit them back!"

What do I say to this kid, in trouble for hitting another kid—usually because the other kid messed with him in some minor way? What I usually say is, “Well, there may be times when you feel you need to defend yourself, but you need to understand that our school is never going to have a policy that you can fight with another student if provoked and not receive any consequences. If you feel you have no other choice but to fight, you need to also understand and accept in advance the consequences that will come with that decision. If you’re man (or woman) enough to fight, you’re man enough to accept the consequences of fighting”

What I want to say is this:

Well, your mom is wrong. If mom is teaching you to lay out anyone who lays a hand on you, she's simply teaching you how to live a life where problems go unsolved and trouble dogs you at every step. No one needs to “teach” his or her child that if “anyone lays a hand on you, you hit them back.” Just about everyone, including kids, are smart enough to know when they are in real danger and will fight back in self-defense. A few years ago, a good friend of ours literally had to fight for her life for hours against an assailant, who she remarkably was able to fight off. Ordinarily she is one of the most gentle, unaggressive people I know. I’m reasonably certain her parents never taught her “hit back if any one lays a hand on you.” They didn’t need to. The instinct to protect one ’self is inborn. “Fight or flight” is the technical term, I believe.

We’re fortunate that in our school fights are rare occurrences, but often times the “mom/dad told me I should always defend myself” argument comes up during lower level disciplinary events, and when a schoolyard scuffle does break out, invariably this argument makes an appearance.

Okay sure, there may be times when a kid needs to stand up to a bully. But I find when parents take it upon themselves to teach their children to “hit back” the result is often hyper-aggressive, hyper-sensitive children who fly off the handle in “self-defense” at the slightest provocation and who are often bullies themselves. These are the kids scowling in the principal’s office yet again, because “Johnny pushed me” or “Jane got in my face” or “Jason was calling me names.” These are the kids shouting down the hall at other kids to “say it again and see what happens.” These are kids that are as likely to throw the first punch as put up fists to defend themselves. Children often times aren’t mature enough to discern when to apply their parents’ advice to “handle their business.” Dad might be thinking this is to be applied if his son gets jumped by some thugs on the street, while “Junior” assumes this means to lash out if another student bumps him.

If parents seriously believe their children are under constant threat of physical harm then the least they can do is provide their child with proper self-defense training, whether martial arts, or even basic fighting skills. But to send a child off with little else but a supposedly street-savvy admonition to hit back can only lead to trouble.

I understand the impulse, though, as a parent. No one wants to see or imagine their child hurt by someone else, picked on, or bullied. On occasion my two year old son will report that one of his little playmates at the daycare hit him. I have to admit telling him “Well, if he hits you, you just him back” sounds a lot tougher and more effective than the wimpy-sounding “Well, if he hits you, you just tell Miss Rose.” But when I put my ego aside, I realize that except in the most extreme circumstances (like my friend’s experience above), “telling Miss Rose” is exactly the appropriate response in civilized society. For us adults, “Miss Rose” is better known as the police. We deal with aggressive situations while still following the law. In the real world, the law generally frowns upon the kind vigilante justice some of us expect our kids to mete out. So for now, I’ll keep telling my son to take his concerns to the proper authorities. My boy, like most toddlers—and most of us for that matter--is willing enough to hit if angered. There is no need for me to encourage or teach it.

The Perfect Dog

After 42 hours of travel, Kimo is finally home here in America

We always felt that Kimo was the perfect dog, but we never expected her to be. . .well, this perfect. She came to us perfectly housebroken without a day of training by her previous owner; she didn't chew up things; didn't bark incessantly; didn't bite; wasn't overly hyper. She was more civilized than a lot of people. But surely, I theorized, a transPacific flight will put her into a state of severe emotional distress and all those wonderful traits will evaporate. I had steeled myself for the worst, and expected days and weeks of stressful retraining before she gradually readjusted.


Exactly one year ago, we piled on a plane and flew to the other side of the world to see Kimo (among others) in Saipan. This year, it was her turn to make the trip. Babs took this video of Kimo in her kennel, just after Babs arrived to pick her up at the airport.


I couldn't be more happy to be totally wrong. I've joyfully conceded that Babs was right all along. Kimo's adjustment has been essentially perfect. Her travel time, including an overnight stay in Detroit was 42 hours. She arrived in good spirits and extremely excited to see Babs. Her kennel appeared unsoiled and it would appear she "held it" that entire time, and gratefully relieved herself--for a long time, Babs reports--once released from the kennel here in Columbus. Since then she seems to have automatically continued with her housetrained ways even though now we have to to take her out, rather than just letting her out to take care of her business at her leisure.


Kimo finally gets her potty break in a grassy area by the airline cargo office where Babs picked her up Friday morning, April 1, 2011. She arrived about 8:30 Friday morning and Babs was able to take her after completing all the paperwork and such by around noon.

Kimo's health is actually quite good, all things considered. Her skin is in pretty bad shape, but should improve with time. Babs took her for a deep-cleaning at Petsmart after picking her up at the airport and then to the vet for a check-up. The vet put her on a couple medications to deal with the infections in her ears and to clear up a couple of other issues. Babs says that Kimo charmed people everywhere they went.


Kimo looking elegant and graceful as always while waiting at the veterinarian's office.

Her temperament seems virtually unchanged despite what must have surely been a very confusing and disorienting journey for her. She has seemed a bit more tired than usual but not sluggish or lethargic. She's a bit more clingy than is typical, but not excessively so. She watches Barbara carefully whenever she moves towards the door, and I think she was very relieved that we took her with us to return the rental car this morning (We wented an SUV to pick her up from the airport, as the kennel was too big to fit in our car). By and large she seems about the same as she's always been. As I type this, she sits curled up on the carpet by the dining room table while Elijah plays with his play-doh in his booster chair at the table.


Kimo hanging out with the family in her new home, Sabbath, April 2, 2011

Our one "episode" was a brief spate of barking last night when our neighbors returned late and tromped up the stairs past our front door and then creaked about upstairs. I posted a rather panicked message on a dog lovers thread on Interference where some regulars have been giving me some dog advice. But it turned out that the barking ended after a few minutes and there have been no further incidences since. And that incident itself wasn't actualy unsual for Kimo, as her one vice had always been barking furiously any time someone approached the door of our home in Saipan.

And so it appears, at least so far, that Kimo will make a smooth adjustment to her new life in here in America, a world away from the tropical island where she was born. We are glad to have our family whole again, and even though we now have new responsibilities (and expenses--yikes!) added to our already busy life, we don't mind. Kimo asks so little of us as it is--to give her what we can is no sacrifice at all.

Welcome home, Kimo.


Kimo's number one advocate looking quite pleased with herself. . .as well she should. Babs always believed that Kimo could handle the journey here and that she'd be all right once she got here. And to her credit she did virtually all of the work on this side of world to get her here, working in tandem with Virle in Saipan. It must have been just like the old days for Virle and Babs working together again. And since Kimo's arrived she's taken the lead in her care as well.

From Magic Kingdom to Rainbow's End: The Disney Princess Half Marathon

My account of running the Disney Princess Half Marathon on Sunday, February 27, 2011 with my cousin Yvette and her friend Carrie: A series of vignettes accompanied by selected lyrics from the songs on my run playlist.


Carrie, Yvette and I at the finish line of the Disney Princess Half Marathon. Sunday,February 27, 2011.


Not the Easy Thing

It’s 3:02 A.M. and I’m finding it hard to get up. The alarm went off moments ago, and with only four hours of sleep, the simple act of getting out of bed seems far more daunting then running 13.1 miles. How much easier it would be to just roll over and go back to sleep. But today is about the hard things, not the easy ones. Today is about the hard journey from grief and loss to remembrance and healing. Today is about the hard work of cancer research—hard work that takes money, a lot of it, for a long time, until a cure is found. Today is about running to raise money to fund the work, all in memory of a woman who worked hard for years upon years just to stay alive. Today is about 13.1 long, hard miles, a token distance in comparison to the hard turns life—and death—can bring. In light of this, getting out of bed at three in the morning turns out to be pretty easy.

“Love is not the easy thing. . .it’s the only baggage you can bring, all that you can’t leave behind."
--“Walk On” by U2


A Sort of Homecoming

Some forty minutes later, I’m driving the near empty streets of my hometown. An orange crescent moon hangs low in the sky. The street-lit palmettos and live oaks draped in Spanish moss remind me of high school, out late with friends, up to adolescent hijinks or buzzing down to Tampa on a whim. In those days I hated running. In those days my family was an annoyance, a duty that kept me from my all-important friends. In those days, I found Orlando the most unimaginative place possible—couldn’t wait to get out and live somewhere that hadn’t been Disneyfied, somewhere that had a history. And now, here I am 37 years old, pumped up to go running. At least one old high school friend will be among the throng of runners, and while I’m glad I’ll be able to see her, I’m here for my family—for my cousin, for my aunt—and thankful for the weekend, short though it’s been, with mom and brother and sister. And as I race along I-4, I muse to myself: This wouldn’t be such a bad place to live.



“Here I am, back where I began. . .all of these roads that lead me to roam lead me back home, back where I began”
--“Where I Began” by Caedmon’s Call


Zoo Station

4:23 A.M. The first thing I see when I get out of the car in the parking lot of Epcot Center is a scrawny Asian man in a muscle t-shirt (the ones with massive biceps, imposing pecs, and six-pack abs painted on), Captain America boxers, and large cartoony boxing gloves. Right away I know this will be no ordinary half marathon. I follow the Asian-American hero , and join the crowd streaming in the direction of the thumping music and white bag-dropoff tents. There are tutus & tiaras everywhere, sequins and sparkles, matching pink outfits, Snow White in spandex running shorts. Some are even running in full-on Cinderella ball gowns. I hear there are only six hundred men running out of something like fifteen thousand participants. More than a few of these princes, as the race organizers call them, are wearing tutus themselves; big, strapping football player types, strutting around in tulle and glitter. I know of at least two fellows that came dressed as frogs. In this carnival atmosphere, I feel rather plain in my San Francisco Marathon t-shirt and black running shorts. But the fun is infectious and the open friendliness among the runners warms me against the morning chill.

“I’m ready. I’m ready for what’s next. I’m ready to duck, I’m ready to dive, I’m ready to say I’m glad to be alive. I’m ready.”
--“Zoo Station” by U2


Princesses gather for a photo at the staging area for the half marathon (Photo taken from Yvette's iphone)


The Gathering

5:10 A.M. It seems like we’ve walked a couple miles already and we haven’t even gotten to the starting line! An endless ocean of runners has crept along a lengthy route towards the starting corrals. I’ve been texting my cousin Yvette Saliba and long-lost high school friend Pamela Foard Jansen pretty much since I’ve arrived, but so far I’ve not seen either one. I finally reach the corrals—here the sea parts, with rivers flowing to my left towards the first corrals and to my right towards the later ones. Yvette and Pamela both text me that they are at their respective corrals. I peel off to the left—I’m assigned to Corral C, but I won’t be going there. I’ll be running with Yvette in Corral F, but first I want to touch base with Pamela—a friend I haven’t seen in over fifteen years. She’s waiting at the entrance to Corral D with her sister-in-law: a friendly greeting, it’s been a long time, a big hug, look at you—we both look so different, childhood has long been left behind. We make small talk, and promise to catch up after the race. It reminds me of another crowd, more numerous than the sands of the sea. There’ll be reunions there too—friends and family we haven’t seen in such a long, long time. Perhaps, we’ll barely recognize each other then too, having been changed in a twinkling of an eye—no longer children and yet forever young. We’ll promise to catch up later, because then, we’ll have all the time in the world.


Me with high school chum Pamela Foard Jansen. This photo was taken when we met up again after the race.

“All God’s children of love and light, every heart will be unified. . .on the day of the Gathering”
--“The Gathering” by City On a Hill


Run Together

5:15 A.M. In F corral with Yvette and her purple-clad Team In Training comrades. I’d begun to worry of late that perhaps I’d feel out of place—that Yvette would have her close knit team of TNT runners and I would be the fifth wheel. But Yvette is so genuinely glad to see me, and her fellow runners, each sporting on their shirts the name of someone they are running to honor, make me feel right at home. Perhaps these especially know that life is too short to leave any one out in the cold. Yvette and I lean on each other for warmth and we all pass the time in friendly conversation. Within half an hour the first wave of runners is off, and we begin to inch towards the starting line. Yvette and her friend Carrie leave the corral and race off for one last bathroom break. I look back anxiously for them as we continue to move towards the starting line and I move closer to the barricades at the edge of the corral where they can see me when they come back—I want to be sure they are not left behind. And this is how we’ll run. Looking back, making sure the other is okay, taking care of each other. We won’t leave each other behind.


Yvette and I hanging out at the starting line.

“Come take my hand, we’ll walk this road together”
--“Not Afraid” by Eminem


I Want to Run

6:20 A.M. We’re off in a burst of fireworks and a cloud of fairy dust. Immediately I encounter difficulty. My right foot is hurting. The top of my foot feels pinched as if my shoe is tied too tightly. I’m not hobbling yet, but I can’t imagine that I won’t be soon if it hurts this much and I haven’t yet run a mile. I didn’t expect this. I confess, I thought this run would be easy--a mere half-marathon, running at a much slower pace than I had trained for. This would surely be a walk in the park, a no-sweat lark. It would be easy. But now, quite unexpectedly, 13.1 miles feels very long indeed. I joke to Yvette and Carrie that it looks like I’m going to need those inspirational songs on my ipod more than I thought. I want to run, but I will crawl if I must.

“I will hold out hope. . .I will find strength in pain.”
--“The Cave” by Mumford & Sons



In the crush of the crowd as we move towards the starting line (Photo from Yvette's iphone).


The Foolish and the Wise

The five foolish virgins. That’s what Yvette, in reference to the Biblical parable, calls the women who stop off for photo opportunities with a bare-chested Aladdin and square jawed John Smith. It seems terribly nefarious of Disney to plant this endless array of distractions along the race route—a full size pirate ship, with a motley crew of Caribbean pirates led by a very authentic looking Johnny Depp impersonator, a pumpkin carriage with Prince Charming standing by, male gymnasts bounding about on a trampoline, a stock car attended by rakish racecar drivers. Gathered around each of these are lines of runners waiting to have their pictures taken. But all we can think about is the 2000 plus runners who ended up being cut from last year’s race barely four miles in, because they fell behind Disney’s required pace and were stopped by the dreaded fence they pull across the course to blockade slowpoke runners. We remember the yellow flags that pop up to warn runners that they are behind the required pace, and the buses that swoop in to scoop up runners that have been disqualified. I joke that they are probably driven by Disney villains, though I doubt even Disney would be that cruel. Of course not everyone stops for photo ops. Just an hour after the race began we see the first runners coming back with just a few miles to go until the finish. Somehow I doubt these women--lean-muscled with grim looks of determination on their faces, powering forward at unbelievable speeds, unimpeded by foolish tutus and party-favor decorations--took the time to stop for a picture with Goofy and his golf cart. We might not be as hardcore as these serious athletes, but we are determined to be as wise they are, determined not to be distracted, determined to finish the race no matter the cost.

“It’s a beautiful day. Don’t let it slip away.”
--“Beautiful Day” by U2



I don't think this is the same Pirates of the Caribbean ship that we saw along the course. There are some pretty good pictures out there of the ship and the pirates, the handsome princes along the way and so on, but most of them were posted by other bloggers who ran the Princess half that day and I felt bad to use their personal photos without permission (especially since we were somewhat critical of our fellow runners in that regard).


The Magic Kingdom.

Five miles in and we enter the Magic Kingdom. I haven’t been here since I was a kid. The Salibas would drive down from the frigid Michigan winters at Christmas time and a trip to Disney World was often part of the schedule of holiday events for the family. The last time I’d arrived at the gates of the Kingdom, I’d probably piled out of the Saliba’s blue-toned GMC van, excited at the prospect of a day of Disney. The last time I’d run these fantasyland streets, I was probably racing to be first in line at Pirates of the Caribbean—the animatronics rides were always my favorites. I got sick on Thunder Mountain Railroad and dared not even consider Space Mountain. The Pirates, and even the nerdy Hall of the Presidents were more my speed. Yvette was there, but I barely noticed her running about with my kid sister and her other cousin Nicole, busy as I was trailing her older brothers William and Nabih with my brother Vince. Uncle Slimen had the chunky VHS video camera to capture the memories. Aunt Patsy kept us laughing with her wit. Grandma, ever the thrifty one, brought contraband egg sandwiches repacked in the bread bags. Uncle Roland and Uncle Robert were cool as always. Aunt Colleen was as pretty as any Disney princess. Mom was there to comfort and care. And Grandpa, the patriarch, presided over the whole brood with dignity and wisdom. Disney was fun, but the best part was being with family.


Running through the Magic Kingdom

And now here I am again. So much has changed. Everything seems smaller than I remember, even the centerpiece Sleeping Beauty castle. There is no blue GMC van, no VHS camera, no egg salad sandwiches. The family has grown up and grown old. Aunt Patsy and Grandpa live only in our memories. But some things haven’t changed. Yvette is still here, running beside me, no longer the kid cousin but instead a good friend. Running through Disney is fun, but the best part still is being with family.

"This was not your dream
But you always believed in me.
I want to go home. "
--“Home” by Michael Buble


Bridge

"All your life you were only waiting for this moment to arrive.
Blackbird, fly."

I don’t suppose I ever knew Aunt Patsy as well as I feel as I do now, as we leave Frontierland behind, and the course winds through the backstage areas of the Magic Kingdom. That’s no slight to Aunt Patsy—it’s just how our family is. We are close in that we always make time to be together—Sabbath lunches for those that live in town, regular holiday gatherings for those who don’t. We are close in that we look out for one another—just about everyone has shared a roof with someone else in the family at one time or another. But beyond the immediate families there is little in the way of heart-to-heart talks and deep sharing. We keep things light, we laugh a lot, but the troubles and heartaches are passed along in respectful whispers, in third person.

"Do you remember when we used to sing. . . "

I had asked mom the night before if she knew of any her sister’s favorite songs that I could add to my playlist for the run. These are the songs she gave me—“Blackbird” by the Beatles, “Brown-Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison, and “Bridge Over Troubled Water” by Simon & Garfunkel, and I’ve grouped them together to create a moment of reflection in the midst of this run. These songs. . .these songs are the bridge. They give me a glimpse of the heart of Aunt Patsy—a parent’s heart, something I can now very much relate to. Like her, I know the heartbreaking joy that comes at watching your brown-eyed child dancing, laughing, and playing innocently. I know what it is to hope to see your child fly. And I know too the longing to comfort and protect. And in knowing all this, I feel that I know her.

"When you’re weary, feeling small
When tears are in your eyes
I will dry them all
I’m on your side
Oh, when times get hard
Like a bridge over troubled waters
I will lay me down"

Though this entire run is a tribute to her memory, we’ve not dwelt long on the reason for the run. I can imagine Yvette’s mother would have had little patience with13.1 miles of teary eyes and gloomy hearts. And Yvette, ever stalwart and cheerful in spite of her loss, would not have been one to indulge her sadness that way. But at this moment, with Aunt Patsy’s favorite brown-eyed girl trotting beside me unawares, my eyes mist over and I allow myself to miss her.




“I see you now and then in dreams. Your voice sounds just like it used to. I know you better than I knew you then. All I can say is I love you.”
--“Treasure of the Broken Land” by Mark Heard, Performed by Chagall Guevera


Beautiful Day

We are entering the long stretch, slogging through miles 7, 8 and 9 on Floridian Way, heading back towards EPCOT. The crowd has barely thinned since the race began. We are constantly jockeying for position, passing or being passed. We run on the grass. We dodge and feint to avoid colliding with other runners. The sun has risen. The morning grows warm. It’s going to be a beautiful day.


The course

“It’s a long road, baby, running away.”
--“Here We Go” by Mat Kearney


Carrie On

Ten, eleven miles behind us and it’s obvious who the real hero is. I’ll be frank. My foot is feeling much better, and the truth of it is, this run has proved to be physically pretty easy for me. Yvette seems to be doing well and is on track to meet her goals. But the hero has to be Carrie. She amazes me. It’s not just her will to keep putting one foot in front of the other. It’s not just the way she digs deep to start running at the end of the too-short minute of walking. It’s not just that she’s on track to blow all her previous records out of the water—that she’s moving faster for longer than she ever has. That’s all run of the mill distance running heroics.

No, it’s that she calls on her training as a nurse and stops to comfort and encourage a woman who’s panicking. It’s that she thinks to pick up Tylenol at the medical station because she knows my foot has been hurting. It’s that she’s worried that she might be holding us back when she could be celebrating her own achievements. It’s that she’s here, alone—her family all back in Connecticut—running for one of her patients. This run is hard for her—it would be well within her rights to forget about everyone else and focus on just getting through this. But she keeps looking out for others, not just herself.

What an honor to run with a woman like this! I don’t know who came in first, but I know with a doubt who has won the day.


Carrie, on the left, with Yvette and me at the finish line. Strong work, Carrie!

"Every hand that reaches out, every hand that reaches out to offer peace
Every simple act of mercy, every step to Kingdom Come
All the hope in every heart will speak what I have done
For as long as I shall live I will testify to love
I will be the witness in the silences when words are not enough "
--“Testify to Love” by Avalon


Over the Rainbow

9:12 A.M. It’s like the end of the rainbow. You can’t quite see it, though you know it’s there. It’s one blind corner after another as we leave the iconic EPCOT globe. Disney employees are shouting encouragement: “You’re almost there!” It’s that point in the run, when you know that you’re going to finish. That goal that seemed as ephemeral and impossible as some magic kingdom on the other side of the rainbow back at the start, at mile 5, and 7, 8, and 9 miles is now not just possible but definite. But still, you can’t see it. It’s the layout of the course—there’s no long, open approach to the finish. So we are left to wonder, Will it be around this corner? No? Then perhaps this one? It’s disappointing not to find the finish, but only a little. Because we know it’s there, only moments away.

Finally, we turn and the finish is in front of us. But I almost miss it, because I’m captured by a massive handmade sign: “Congratulations Yvette, Carrie, and Sean!” I’m blown away—truly surprised and touched. Who are these people? How did they know that I would be here—I’m not part of the TNT group—and yet someone told someone and someone took the time to add my name to that sign. Without question it is the most precious part of a very beautiful day. I’m so grateful to Yvette’s friends for that gift.


Posing with our sign. Thanks to all who cheered like crazy for us!

And now the finish looms ahead. We clasp hands, run as one, with cheers all around us, and it’s over. We made it. We walk now, arms around each other’s shoulder, comrades of the journey. The hard miles, the months of training, the struggle is past. The dreams that we dared to dream really did come true and now all we feel is: joy.


At the end. Look carefully for us in the crowd, we're hand in hand.


"Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high
In the Land that I heard of
Once in a lullaby
Once in a lullaby
Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams that you dared to dream
Really do come true
Someday I’ll wish upon a Star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
When troubles melt like lemon drops
A way above the chimney tops
That’s where you’ll find me
Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams that dared to dream
Really do come true.
If happy little bluebirds fly
Above the rainbow
Why oh, why can’t I."

The end of the rainbow. You can’t quite see it, but you know it’s there.


Yvette and I at the finish line of the Disney Princess Half Marathon. Sunday, February 27, 2011

***************************************
The Complete Playlist
A wonderful collection of inspiring songs –the perfect soundtrack for a run to the end of the rainbow.
1. Where the Streets Have No Name—U2
2. Magnificent—U2
3. Zoo Station—U2
4. Today—Smashing Pumpkins
5. Not Afraid-Eminem
6. Float On—Modest Mouse
7. Billy the Kid-Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers
8. A Sort of Homecoming-U2
9. The Cave-Mumford & Sons
10. Hello Hurricane—Switchfoot
11. You Set Me Free-Michelle Branch
12. Gloria-U2
13. High of 75-Relient K
14. Elevation—U2
15. Don’t Break My Heart--Keawahi
16. Free Fallin’--Tom Petty
17. Walk On--U2
18. I Will Follow--U2
19. Lonesome Day—Bruce Springsteen
20. Beautiful Day/Srgt.Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band/Blackbird-U2 (Live in Japan)
21. Brown-Eyed Girl--Van Morrison
22. Bridge Over Troubled Water--Simon & Garfunkel
23. Home--Michael Buble
24. Here We Go—Mat Kearney
25. Undeniable--Mat Kearney
26. Closer to Love--Mat Kearney
27. Where I Began—Caedmon’s Call
28. Rejoice—U2
29. Testify to Love—Amazon
30. Once Again-Matt Redman
31. When I Think of You—Michael W. Smith (feat. The African Children’s Choir)
32. Mighty to Save—Hillsong United
33. All the Way My Savior Leads Me—Rich Mullins
34. Say (What You Need to Say)—John Mayer
35. Kite-U2
36. One Tree Hill—U2 (Live in Japan)
37. Treasure of the Broken Land—Chagall Guevera
38. The Gathering—City on a Hill
39. Hosanna-Kirk Franklin
40. Pride (In the Name of Love)—U2
41. Lifetime—Mat Kearney
42. Somewhere Over the Rainbow—Eva Cassidy

That Guy

That Guy look familiar?

I never wanted to be That Guy. And yet there I was, yammering away on my cellphone, most likely driving way too fast. It’s a pity I couldn’t have been sporting a luxury sedan and an expensive suit, as long as I was already filling the stereotype of heedless motorist. I saw the pedestrian in the crosswalk in plenty of time though, and came to a not quite screeching halt to let her have the right of way before continuing my right turn.

The pedestrian, a dark-haired woman probably in her late forties wearing a large coat and mint-green backpack, shook her head disdainfully and mouthed “Put away the phone” as she crossed in front of me.

“I know, I know” I replied, though the phone remained glued to my ear. J was in midsentence and I didn’t want to cut him off. Once the woman was safely past, I drove on, and hurriedly ended the conversation. The incident had been just a moment and yet I couldn’t shake it. The woman’s smug sanctimony was all the more infuriating because she was right. Of course I shouldn’t have been driving while talking. Reprimands are never fun—they sting our pride and prick our conscience. But it was more than the correction that bothered me—it was the sense of having been misunderstood.

The woman’s look said it all: “I know your kind, on the road, in the restaurant, at the grocery checkout line, recklessly disregarding the safety and comfort of others so you can shout your all-important conversation into your flashy smart phone”. And I wanted to cry out in my defense: “No, you don’t understand! I’m not that guy. I usually don’t talk on the phone while driving or in the restaurant. This is not who I am!”

The truth is none of us want to be “That Guy.” The Cell-Phone Talker, the Cheap Tipper, the Rude Driver, the Indulgent Parent with the kid running amok, the Braggart, the Busybody, the Jerk. We view “That Guy” with disgust, disdain, and if we’re feeling particularly generous and not in immediate danger, with condescending pity. And yet, at one point or another we are all “That Guy.” We want to describe ourselves in terms of our best behavior, but to the strangers we pass, we are often defined by our ill-chosen actions of the moment. Remember, when we encounter “That Guy” that his or her actions in that single moment are likely not the sum of who he or she is. We don’t know their story, the good and bad they’ve done. We don’t know the state of their hearts, or what burdens they may be carrying.

So how can we avoid being “That Guy”? Obviously, being more careful and courteous in our behavior and lessening the exceptions to rules of safety and respect we claim to follow are helpful first steps. But I think recognizing that we too can be “That Guy” lessens the likelihood of it actually happening as often. After all, it’s usually those least aware of their own fallibility that are harshest in their judgments of others and are thus most often classically “That Guy”—impatient, critical, demanding.

It’s important to remember everyone is either the tailgater or the slowpoke in the fast lane—it all depends on your perspective. After all, rather than defensively judging the woman in the crosswalk I must extend the same grace to her that I desired for myself. If we can take a spirit of grace, patience, and humility with us as we encounter fellow travelers on the road of life I think we’ll find we see less of “That Guy.” And we won’t be him either.

The Best Job in the World: "Nobody Goes Into this Job for the Money"

Part 4 in a Four Part Series



Many of us believe that people should be paid in accordance with the importance of their work. We love to sit around and bemoan those NBA basketball players collecting millions just for “putting a ball through a hoop.” But the reality is that there are other factors that determine pay—factors that often have nothing to do with the “importance” of the work being done. I’ve been thinking about this for some time now and I believe I’ve identified three factors that determine whether a job will be highly or poorly paid.

1. Scarcity creates value
2. Difficulty creates value
3. Prestige creates value

Scarcity refers to how many jobs in a particular category are available. The fewer the jobs available, the more selective employers will be and the more they will be willing to pay to get the best candidates. Difficulty refers to the level of skill and training required for the job. A job that “anybody can do” with minimal training generally won’t pay well. On the other hand, a job that requires rare and unique talents, or extensive, demanding training will pay well, as employers seek to attract and keep the limited number of people who can do the work well. Finally, there is prestige, a factor often--but not always--a function of difficulty and scarcity. Generally jobs that are very hard and which have only a few openings are afforded a great deal of prestige. We respect talent and we’re a little in awe of jobs that only a few people will be lucky enough to get.


Making the big bucks for a few hours of work. Do they earn it?

Let’s look at that NBA basketball player to illustrate what I mean, and then compare that to a teacher. There are only 30 NBA basketball teams in the nation—a grand total of 360 to 450 players in the league. Clearly job openings for the position of basketball player are very scarce, which leads logically to the second factor: you have to be very, very good to get one of those coveted positions. With so few opportunities to play professional basketball, only the most uniquely talented players who in addition have put in years of practice and training from their youth onward will get in. It’s easy to sit in front of our TVs sneering at how much these guys are paid to put a ball through a hoop, but the honest truth is to play at that level requires a level of skill that is far beyond anything most of us could ever hope to approach. Finally, NBA basketball player is a prestigious job. Part of that is directly a result of the limited number of job openings and the talent required, but there is also something else. We bestow prestige on our athletes. We show by our time, money, and devotion that we feel their work is of vital importance. After all, not all sports are created equal. Though world-class water polo also probably has few job openings and requires exceptional talent, according to KayCircle.com the average professional water polo player only makes $47,000 a year. That doesn’t begin to approach LeBron James’ salary--though it is approaching the pay ceiling for a teacher. The difference? The value we the public place on the sport. It’s hypocritical of us to gripe about athlete’s salaries when part of the reason they are paid so much is because we have placed such a high value on what they do. It’s no accident that entertainers of all kinds whether in sports, movies, or music are so highly paid. All three areas have limited job opportunities, require a level of ability that most don’t have, and are highly valued by our entertainment-centric society.

Note again that what’s missing from this formula is actual worth to society. The value of the work is not part of the equation. Most people, if asked, will say that their families and especially their children are the most important thing in the world to them. And yet, consistently, professions that deal with the care and raising of our children are among the lowest paid.

By now it should be very clear why teachers are underpaid. First of all the sheer number of teachers needed means that there will always be more than enough job openings in the education profession. There are approximately 6.2 million teaching jobs in the United States. By comparison there are less than a million physicians. And this makes sense of course—not every child in America goes to the doctor five days a week for twelve straight years. But every child in America does have to go to school on such a regimen, and as a result many more teachers are required to meet that need.

Secondly, as I’ve discussed in my previous blogs in this series, the job is at least perceived to require little ability or unique talent. It’s a common belief that “anybody can be a teacher.” And certainly, the training required, if not the job itself is relatively undemanding. Also the value that comes from teaching is not immediately apparent. When a neurosurgeon performs life-saving surgery we can immediately and directly see the value of his or her work. The value of a teacher’s work may not be evident until years later and even then we may not attribute a person’s success to the work of their teachers.

Finally, as has also been discussed, there is little prestige in the teaching profession. These three factors combined explain why, while we may give lip-service to the importance of teaching, there is no reflection of that value in their pay.


Like the basketball player, his job can look easy. Is he getting paid what he's worth?

If our society were to accord teachers the real respect they deserve; if we were to acknowledge how difficult it is to teach well, and how few people really master the art and science of teaching; if we created teacher training programs that were highly selective and extraordinarily challenging, I believe we would see an increase in teacher salaries. However, even then there would still be a ceiling created by the sheer volume of teachers needed to meet the goal of providing a free public education to every child in the nation. No matter how selective the field, no matter how much we honor teachers, educators will never be paid like NBA stars or Hollywood actors, or even doctors and lawyers. After all, where would we get that kind of money? There’s just too many open positions, and what would likely happen is that poorer school districts would struggle to come up with the money to attract the best talent, while more wealthy areas would snap up the best of the best with offers of better salaries. That already happens now to a degree. To get a job in the best public or private schools is often next to impossible, while practically anyone can walk into the inner city school downtown and get a job.

We often suggest that “nobody goes into teaching for the money” as if that in and of itself is a good thing. It’s not necessarily so noble a situation. Many people who might have been excellent teachers go into other fields “for the money.” Furthermore, there are some educators who are “in it for the money.” After all, it’s a job right, and better than working at McDonalds. Don’t get me wrong, I believe there are many teachers who chose this profession for the right reasons—teachers who knew they could have made more in another field, but chose this one because of their passion of for kids, learning, and helping kids learn--people who believe, regardless of the pay, teaching is one of the best and most important jobs in the world. But I bet none of those teachers would argue that teacher salaries should be kept low in order to keep educator’s motives pure.

After all, there are those who pursue medicine, law, or even professional sports “for the money” but the system ensures that the merely greedy will not succeed. First and foremost they must excel at what they do, and the same would be true for highly paid teachers. Granted, if nothing about our current approach to teaching changed except that we doubled all teachers’ salaries, you would have greedy, unprincipled people joining the teaching ranks just for the paycheck. But an increase in pay that came as a result of greater societal respect and greater selectivity in training and hiring would actually ensure that more than likely the teacher working with your child isn’t there solely because of the money.

Despite the hurdles of overwork, under-appreciation, and low pay countless excellent teachers continue to go to work every day in schools all across America. They believe that every child is of worth and value; they are eternal optimists, picturing every child as a success—perhaps not now, but surely someday. They may not make a lot of money, but they believe in their hearts that they are making something far more important: a difference.


I first saw this inspiring little video by poet,humorist,and teacher Taylor Mali, when my friend (and fellow teacher) Mai Odiyar attached it to a comment she made on my first entry in this series. I'm reposting it here in case you didn't see it in her comment.

Kimo in Crisis

Our dog Kimo. Photo taken December, 2010

I’ve been putting this blog off for some time now. Sure, I’ve been busy but I’ve made time to write about teaching and politics, among other subjects, while this entry--not unlike its subject--has been neglected. My Friday night blogging is supposed to be fairly relaxing, but I’ve known this entry is going to hurt. But I feel I can no longer procrastinate; to fail to address this any longer would only compound the wrong already done.

When I was a kid we had a dog named Rex. He was a beautiful animal, a German shepherd/golden retriever mix with a shiny coat and a friendly demeanor. He was an adorable puppy and so much fun to play with. But as the years passed, our childish interest in Rex waned. We were distracted by new adolescent diversions—girls and such--and eventually Rex was relegated to a lonely, all-but-forgotten existence in our backyard. I suppose we figured his basic physical needs were met. Someone usually remembered to scoop out some dry dog food from the roach-infested bag in the shed behind our house and dump it in his bowl; presumably he managed to pick through the bugs to get at his food. But the sad fact is Rex got very little in the way of companionship. Unfortunately, I know little of Rex’s later years because I paid him so little mind.


Rex (Thanks to Dawn for sending me this photo)

I was at college when Mom called with the news Rex had gotten sick and rather than pour untold funds into treating him, she’d elected to have him put to sleep. I was stunned, racked with guilt and grief that Rex should come to such a forlorn end. I vowed then and there I would never again own a dog unless I was 100% willing and able to properly care for it.

For years, Babs talked about getting a dog for and years I was adamant. No. Never again. Not unless we could be sure, really sure we had the means and the will to care for it. And yet, despite that solemn commitment it grieves me to find myself in the very place I swore I’d never be—with a dog that is abandoned and neglected. Only, this time this dog is not forgotten. This time I won’t let myself forget.

How could this have happened? I ask myself. And what can I do to fix it?

We adopted Kimo in the early summer of 2004. We estimate she was just about year old. Our pastor who also lived next door to us had brought her back from a ministry trip to the nearby island of Tinian. We first knew her as a cute, charismatic little puppy who, with a big friendly grin on her face, gamboled over for a little love and attention whenever we came and went from our house. After a time, Kimo seemed to disappear and we weren’t sure what happened to her. Then she reappeared again, as our pastor was preparing to move to a new assignment in Guam. Apparently she’d spent the intervening months tied up behind the pastor’s house. He explained that he’d wanted to keep her out of view of passerby until she grew a little older, as it’s not uncommon in the islands for young dogs in decent shape to be stolen and eaten. Unfortunately, Kimo emerged from her sojourn behind the house worse for the wear. The care-free puppy was long gone and in its place was a true “boonie dog”, as the stray dogs in Saipan are known. She was thin, her coat was marred by bald patches of discolored skin and occasional open sores from the ubiquitous coral dust allergies that afflict all dogs that stay outdoors in Saipan. But she still had a sweet disposition and despite her mangy appearance she won our hearts. With the pastor gone, and Kimo officially homeless, Babs determined to have her. And finally-after she’d spend several hundred dollars in initial veterinary care--I relented. Kimo became part of the family.


Babs with Kimo, Spring 2006


For the next five years, Kimo lived the charmed life of a much beloved pet . In the manner of many couples before they have children, Kimo became our surrogate child, our “baby.” We showered Kimo with love and attention. She got treats, went for car rides and walks, and enjoyed her share of Christmas presents every year. We had her spayed, put her on a regimen to get rid of the heartworms she’d picked up, and kept her on heartworm meds to keep them from coming back. We willingly submitted to the pricey care of the island veterinarian, Dr. Tudor, to make sure that she had everything she needed to be happy and healthy. We loved her, not just in sentiment, but in deed.


Kimo snuggling with her "Mommy."


And loving her was easy. She’s unquestionably the best dog I’ve ever had. She was good-natured and easy to care for; she was an outstanding indoor pet. No house training for Kimo—miraculously she came to us perfectly house trained. Not once in all the years we had her did Kimo ever have an accident indoors. Without us having to lift a finger, she knew to always go outside to take care of her business. She was not a chewer, so our furniture remained undamaged. She didn’t even seem to have that strong “doggie smell” that seems to infest some dog owners’ homes. The only damage she ever did was to the front door, through years of scratching to be let in and out. She was the best kind of guard dog too. She could be very intimidating when barking furiously from behind the compound fence or from inside our house. Kimo had a thing about letting people in the house, and as a result while all the other buildings on the teacher’s housing compound were burglarized at one point or another, we never had a single break-in. We always kept Kimo inside while we were away and I’m certain would-be burglars were terrified by the fearsome barking and snarling emanating from our house. What they didn’t know was that if they’d been able to get inside, she’d have been as harmless as a puppy. Kimo was all bark and no bite. Indeed, when we had guests over, we’d always take her upstairs and put her in one of the bedrooms. Once all the guests were in the house, we’d let her out again, and she’d peacefully accept whoever we’d deemed safe for entry.

So Kimo lived the good life, and it might have continued that way for the rest of her life. But things changed. It began with the arrival of our son. With a real baby in the house, Kimo was rudely returned to the status of dog rather than child. She still received plenty of love and care, but she was no longer the center of the household. And that was as it should be. Kimo seemed to recognize and accept her new status, and regarded the interloper with polite disinterest.

Then, Elijah’s arrival led to our departure from Saipan. The plan had always been to take Kimo with us. But the summer embargo on shipping animals as baggage prevented her from flying out with us. Furthermore, we had a month or more of pretty steady travel, and no home of our own yet, so even if we could have shipped her we wouldn’t have known what to do with her. We would wait until we got settled, we decided. Our dear friend Virle, who lived on the compound, agreed to feed her, give her the monthly heartworm meds, and take her to the vet as needed. We sent money to cover whatever expenses arose. This was to be a short term thing, an interim solution until we got our new life in the States in order. But the month or two interlude soon stretched to nine months.


Kimo's last day with her family. July, 2009

When we returned to Saipan to visit last April, Kimo greeted us excitedly. We heard how sad she’d seemed to be after we moved away, moping around our old front door and leaping up excitedly whenever our car would pull into the compound. But new people emerged from the car that used to be ours and went in to the house that used to be hers. They liked Kimo well enough. But she wasn’t theirs. So it was nice to be reunited last spring. We hung out with her, cautiously let Elijah pet her—he pestered us constantly during that week to go out and see the dogs—and even gave her a much needed bath. Still, we left again without taking her with us. We couldn’t, even if we’d wanted to, as we were flying Continental Airlines this time and their small planes couldn’t take a dog Kimo’s size. But the truth was, we weren’t sure we wanted to. Or I wasn’t sure anyway. Babs has always been more amenable to just bringing her over and letting the chips fall where they may. I wasn’t as comfortable with that.


Reunited: Us with Kimo during our visit to Saipan, April, 2010

You see, for all her wonderful qualities, Kimo is not a “kid dog.” You know how some dogs will let kids hang all over them, yank on their ears, poke their eyes and so on? Kimo is not that dog. She’s decidedly of the live and let live variety. She leaves the kids alone, and the kids are expected to do likewise. Even while we were in Saipan, as Elijah was just beginning to become mobile, there were a few scary incidences were Kimo bared her teeth or snapped in his direction when he, in his innocent curiosity, got too familiar. Now that our baby had grown into a very active, inquisitive toddler we began having serious reservations about the two of them sharing a small apartment. I worry also over how the traumatizing flight from Saipan to Ohio would affect her temperament. In the past few months Babs has spoken with several veterinarians about the impact of shipping Kimo over. They have warned that a long-haul flight would be extremely hard on her. While it's possible she could make it with no lasting effects, it's also possible that she could literally not survive the trip or arrive with a serious disruption to her personality.

And, I’ve noted too, that as much as he likes dogs, the Feller also finds them a source of stress and anxiety. I watch his interactions with my sister-in-law’s dogs Bailey and Shiloh when we visit Dayton, and I find he’s always a little bit on edge around the dogs. They excite him, but they also scare him. (Ironically, the safer of the two dogs, Bailey, is the one he’s more scared of. He tends to what go after Shiloh, perhaps because he’s smaller. But Shiloh is older and crankier, and like Kimo, just wishes to be left alone. He also has snapped at Elijah when our boy has disregarded those wishes). In short, I’m not comfortable having my toddler and my dog in such close quarters at this stage in their lives. I love Kimo, but I love my son more. And if it must come to choice in whose welfare must take priority, there is nothing to discuss.


My sister-in-law Jenny with her "babies" Bailey and Shiloh. Elijah enjoys them but also seems a bit freaked out by them, especially when they hover under the table while he's eating hoping he'll drop some food.

And so, since we’ve left Saipan, we’ve dithered, argued, and agonized over what to do with our dog. And while we have deliberated, her situation has grown steadily worse. Even while we were in Saipan, unbeknownst to us, Kimo had been taken off her heartworm medications. We found out a month or two after we got back to Ohio that one of the other teachers who had taken Kimo to the vet for Virle had used the money we’d sent to pay for her biannual heartworm medicine supply to treat an infected injury to her ear. Without telling us, she’d decided to stop purchasing the heartworm medication. In addition Kimo has begun fighting with other dogs on a regular basis; most likely they are drawn to the compound by the growing pack of un-spayed dogs left behind by other teachers. Her once perky ears have drooped as a result of cuts that got infected and never healed properly. Her coat is dusty, but mostly still intact though the coral allergies and erlichia disease are making inroads. In Virle’s latest update, just last weekend, she reports that Kimo is beginning to develop mysterious boils on her hindquarters. Virle thinks the other dogs have contagious infections they are passing on to Kimo. Undoubtedly, she has reacquired heartworms in the absence of regular medication for more than a year now. I would ask Virle to do more, but she has her hands full just trying to keep the motley crew of canines in the compound fed. Most folks have just left their dogs without making any arrangements and I feel it’s wrong to push for more from our already overstretched friend.


Kimo with her partner in crime for many years, Jesco. While the compound has a number of left-behind dogs now, for many years it was just the two of them running the place. This photo was taken during a short-lived attempt to turn Jesco into a house dog as well, after his owner moved away and left him behind. Suffice it to say indoor life didn't take--he ran away every chance he had-- and he soon moved back outside. Jesco died just a few months ago.

What saddens me the most is that Kimo is entering her senior years. We estimate that she should be eight or older this year. Our friends Russ and Kanae Quinn had a golden retriever who died last year at the age of eleven, so I figure Kimo will probably live around the same length of time—if she’s healthy. This should be a time of comfort and peace for Kimo, a time of long naps and quiet stability. She’s getting too old to have to scrap with the rest of the pack to survive. As she ages, her body will have less resilience and be less equipped to handle the hard life of a boonie dog.


Kimo posing gracefully. Despite all she's been through of late she still carries herself with such dignity. This photo as welll as the picture at the start of this entry and the one below were taken by Virle at my request last month.

I feel the burden of her care heavily. I feel guilt and shame of once again being responsible for a dog consigned to the same lonely, neglected fate as poor old Rex. What should we do? Leaving her to live out her days on the teacher’s compound in Saipan is unacceptable. Bringing her here to live with us seems unfeasible.

This blog is an appeal—a heartfelt cry for someone to help us find the home for Kimo she deserves. But this is also an admonition, a warning to those who would own a dog in Saipan. My judgment cannot be too harsh in light of my own culpability, but I feel compelled to warn others: Don’t let this happen to your dog. Have a plan. Know what you’re going to do if you plan to leave Saipan in a year or two, or five—any time within your dog’s lifespan. And plan for multiple contingencies; after all we thought we had prepared well for our dog’s care, and yet here we are. Plan to spend the money, sacrifice the time, and exert the considerable effort required to provide for your dog. If you can’t commit to that, then you shouldn’t be getting a dog in the first place. Saipan is afflicted with a serious stray dog problem. In adopting that cute little puppy, don’t contribute to the problem by being merely a temporary solution. Please, learn from our mistakes. A dog needs a home for life, not for a season.

At this point we don’t know what we’re going to do. We are putting the word out—through this blog and on Facebook. We’ll contact PAWS, Saipan’s nod to the Humane Society. At this point, we feel it’s preferable to have Kimo stay in Saipan, but we’d probably pay to have her shipped Stateside if that was the only way we could get her a good home. We’re staying in touch with Virle. And we’re praying. After all the God who knows when a sparrow falls must surely know and care for a beautiful, friendly dog, alone on a little island called Saipan.

I wish this blog had a happy ending. If you, or someone you know, can provide one for Kimo’s story, contact me at maycocksean@hotmail.com or Virleshay Gayatin at the Saipan Seventh-day Adventist School (670) 234-7326. Just the writing of this blog has sparked a new round of discussion in our home and we may yet just fly her over and figure the rest out from here. If you have any wisdom to share on this, please feel free to comment on this blog or e-mail me.



I know getting someone to adopt an older dog is like getting someone to adopt a teenager. Everyone wants babies. But this Washington Post article makes a beautiful argument for why old dogs are best.

Making Politics Polite

I never talk about politics on Facebook. I made that mistake once—found myself unable to resist posting a comment on a former classmate’s status update. I returned to Facebook two days later and was mortified to find my comment had set off a firestorm on her profile as she and friends of various political persuasions argued back and forth. I posted an apology for stirring things up, and slunk away shamefaced, resolving never to broach political topics again on Facebook.

The truth is—the social rule about never discussing sex, religion, or politics in polite company notwithstanding—I enjoy discussing and even debating politics. But I rarely do it. I realize many people are either uninterested or discomfited by such discussions. Further, many of my good friends hold political views quite different from mine. More than once I’ve sat quietly, biting my tongue, while friends rail against political viewpoints or political figures I support. Sometimes, I’ll gamely try to find common ground, points on which we can agree. I guess I just don’t want to create an awkward social situation, so I usually restrict my political discussions to those I feel are likely to share my views. In truth, I think most of us prefer to preach to the choir. It’s much more comfortable to have our opinions validated then challenged.

And yet recent events have gotten me reconsidering my approach to talking politics. First, our school was invited to attend the swearing-in of Ohio’s new governor, John Kasich, a Republican. The ceremony took place on Monday, January 10, 2011 and we were there, with prime seats on the floor of the majestic Ohio State Theatre—fifty mostly black kids and their teachers, surrounded by mostly white, richly-dressed, clean-cut Republican types, all looking like the overflow crowd at an Amway convention. We were gathered to watch democracy in action. I had arrived skeptical. I voted for Kasich but the vote was cast grudgingly; I was hardly a fan. I’d seen him and his opponent slinging mud at each other all this past fall, and I was pretty sure he was just another politician. Well, I left the Ohio State Theatre feeling differently. Oh, I was still convinced he’s just another politician, but I meant something different by that conviction now. “Just another politician” simply means he is “just another human being.” What I saw was a human being—a man of fervently held beliefs, a man of ambition who wants to do good. Sure, he may fall sway to the temptations of power, but then who among us can honestly be certain we would not be swayed if we were in his shoes.

This is a photo from the official swearing-in of Governor Kasich, which took place privately on the morning of January 10. We attended the ceremonial swearing-in later that same day, but unfortuantely none of the photos of that event are as good as this one. Will I agree with everything Kasich sets out to accomplish in Ohio? Probably not, but I'll always remember that he, like me, wants the best for Ohio and for America.

This insight from Kasich’s inauguration coupled with the my ruminations on the recent tragedy in Tucson, the media firestorm and finger-pointing following it, and our president’s beautiful speech at the memorial service for those who died. Like virtually every other reasonable person out there I know that the “tone” of debate in our country did not cause the shooting in Arizona. Still out of all this I have drawn a lesson: I think politics is worth discussing. More than that, it needs discussing.

That is what Congresswoman Giffords and those who gathered with her that day were there to do—to talk and to listen. If we would honor those who suffered and those who died we should strive to do the same. There’s much talk on the blogosphere, the radio airwaves, and cable news channels, but very little real discussion. We can carp about how negative and vitriolic the media is---but let’s face it they’re only giving us what we ask for. These are businesses, and no matter what they claim, their bottom line is. . .well, the bottom line, not any particular political point of view. If mudslinging and snappy sound-bites draw more listeners, readers, or viewers than reasoned, in-depth discussion they’ll keep bringing the former rather than the latter.


Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords

The fact is that we, the American people—not the politicians, not the lobbyists, not the special interests, not the media, not Big Government, not Sarah Palin or Barak Obama—are the problem. We have been lazy, content to accept spoon-fed sound-bites rather than to dig deep for the real meat of the subject at hand. We like complex issues boiled down to easily understood “us versus them” black and white. We prefer our news delivered in an entertaining way which appeals to our gut rather than our intellect. We have forgone real discussion with our neighbors who hold different views for self-congratulatory backslapping among like-minded friends. We have begged off with the excuse “But I’m not interested in politics.” But how can we afford the luxury of disinterest where issues that affect our lives so directly are concerned? We may not be interested in politics, but when the bill from the health insurance comes in the mail, when tax time rolls around we are certainly interested then. If only the special interests are interested in politics, then we will have politicians who cater only to their needs not ours. If we let the media do the heavy lifting of thinking about the political issues of the day, then we will only hear what is designed to keep us tuned in rather than what is designed to really make us think.

But here’s the thing. If we are the problem, then we are also the solution. I’d like to suggest that we start a conversation and bring politics out of the smoke filled-back room, the money-fueled radio or television studio and into polite conversation. Impossible, you say? I believe it is possible, because I’ve experienced it. There is one person who immediately comes to mind who I could truly discuss politics with, even though we were on opposite sides of the aisle on virtually every issue. His name is Grant Graves, and for the year he and I worked together, our discussions were truly eye-opening and enriching for both of us. I humbly offer from our experience four keys to how a real, productive, and polite conversation about politics might take place:


Grant Graves, one of my favorite conservatives. Check out this 2007 blog entry that touches on how Grant and I tackled the impolite subjects: politics, religion, and if not sex, at least women.

1. I believed in Grant’s good intentions and he believed in mine. Though he was a conservative and I was a liberal, we both presumed the other loved his country and desired the best for it. Now there’s not much money in this kind of approach, which is why you don’t hear it very much on talk radio. “He’s a good guy but I disagree with his ideas” isn’t nearly as exciting as “He is an evil man bent on destroying America.” But you and I aren’t making money from our political opinions, so there’s no need for us to ape the demagoguery and demonizing we hear in the media. We can acknowledge that, though we may differ in our ideas of how to get there, we share the same goals.

2. Grant always tried to see things from my perspective, and I tried to see things from his point of view. Grant did more than just try to intellectually understand my arguments; he tried to understand how it felt to be me—to see things the way I did, to walk in my shoes. And I did the same thing. Discussion isn’t just about talking—listening is equally important, if not more so. And in listening and seeking to understand, we often found we had more in common than we’d first thought.

3. We were willing to acknowledge the validity of opposing points of view when we saw them. I never felt I lost anything by conceding a point to Grant. Instead, I felt as if I’d gained something. Likewise, I knew that Grant never closed the door to having his mind changed. I knew that what I said mattered, that it was possible that Grant might be convinced by some aspect of my argument. A lot of people will tell you its “pointless” to talk about politics, and this is usually because they assume people have “already made up their minds.” Perhaps that is true of most people, but it wasn’t true of Grant. Don’t get me wrong—he had strong convictions, and he wouldn’t sway easily. But Grant was always humble enough to hold out the possibility he might be wrong. I strove to honor my friend by holding that same open-minded spirit. This willingness to concede a point is the key to compromise, and compromise far from being a dirty word, is the key to progress in our democracy.

4. Finally both Grant and I shared a faith that gave us perspective. Both of us believe in a God who is bigger than any politician or political point of view. His love and grace, and our relationship to Him supersede the economy and taxes, healthcare and warfare, and even hot button social issues like race, gay marriage, and abortion. In short we believe that there is more to this life and more than this life. So while our political beliefs are important they aren’t the most important thing. Incidentally, this is why the temptation to mix faith with politics is so dangerous. Whether the politics-dependent “social gospel” of the left or the “Let’s take back America for Jesus” evangelizing of the right, claiming Jesus for our side serves only to diminish Him.

There’s actually a fifth key that my friend J Carlos—another person I can freely and civilly discuss politics with—use as well. We begin our discussions with a question. Instead of barreling into a debate with a declaration: “Man, what is up with this Obamacare? It’s socialism!” or “Aren’t these Tea Partiers a bunch of racists?” which pushes the other person into the role of ally or enemy, J and I always begin with a question. “So what do you think of the new health care reform law?” or “What’s your opinion on the Tea Party?” We ask the question and then we listen to the answer. It helps us know from the beginning of the conversation where the other person stands, and helps us frame our own responses in a way that keeps the conversation warm rather than heated.

I think if more of us employed these five keys that worked so well for Grant, J, and me in our discussions of politics; if we demanded them from our media figures and refused to fuel with our dollars those who don’t follow these rules, then I think there really could be a change in the “tone of discourse” here in America.

I may never talk about politics on Facebook. Maybe the stream of status updates and comments isn’t the right format for discussion anyway. I’m not even sure this entry marks a shift towards more political opining here in this blog. But I do know that I would like to bring politics into polite conversation. And so, to my friends and readers-especially those who tend to lean more to the right, on the more conservative end of the spectrum--who are interested in a new way of discussing politics, I extend this invitation: Let’s talk.


"As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another." Proverbs 27:17

Parents & Children, Brothers & Sisters: More Family Photos from Christmas 2010

Christmas morning at church, December 25, 2010.

Thanks to Jim and Dawn for sending this wonderful collection of family photos from the holiday. These are some of my favorite photos of the parents and children and brothers and sisters in our family.


Mom and her brother, Roland.


Me and my brother, Vince


I find I have very few pictures of my mom and me so I'm glad to have this really nice one.


Mom and Vince


Mother/Daughter 1: Mom and Dawn.


Mother/Daughter 2: Mom with her mom.


Grandma and her remaining children (Her eldest daughter awaits the resurrection).


Mom and her children.


I love this picture of my mom!