Recently, a friend of mine was sharing her perspective on marital happiness with me and she mentioned a movie she had seen years ago, which marked her deeply. As she spoke, I began to feel a tremendous degree of empathy and compassion for her. I could see that her heart had been heavy for years with a longing that had not been addressed in the way she desired it to be. I could also see that she had come to believe that the answer presented in this Hollywood script was a fitting metaphor for the lives of those who long for something more.
Bridges of Hollywood
Recently, a friend of mine was sharing her perspective on marital happiness with me and she mentioned a movie she had seen years ago, which marked her deeply. As she spoke, I began to feel a tremendous degree of empathy and compassion for her. I could see that her heart had been heavy for years with a longing that had not been addressed in the way she desired it to be. I could also see that she had come to believe that the answer presented in this Hollywood script was a fitting metaphor for the lives of those who long for something more.
Recently, a friend of mine was sharing her perspective on marital happiness with me and she mentioned a movie she had seen years ago, which marked her deeply. As she spoke, I began to feel a tremendous degree of empathy and compassion for her. I could see that her heart had been heavy for years with a longing that had not been addressed in the way she desired it to be. I could also see that she had come to believe that the answer presented in this Hollywood script was a fitting metaphor for the lives of those who long for something more.
The horror... the horror...
Ten years ago I received an amazing gift. A gift that came wrapped in a challenge. A challenge sheet that I signed without reading and which scared those around me and made them say and do funny things. All of them but my darling. She co-signed without a hint of hesitation, drew up battle plans, looked me in the eyes and said: "I'm in."
But first, she cried.
You know that awkward moment before you tell a good friend that you broke their favourite mug? How nothing that comes before it matters, as you rush the conversation towards confession, so you can breathe again… That's how it was, that night. Hug, hug… Kiss, kiss. "Let's go for a walk".
"So… It looks like the lump on my neck is going to be more than just a pain in the neck."
She was there every time the poison went into me. When the contents of my gut gushed out, again and again. She was there when I laid down on cold surfaces while professionals hid behind thick walls. She was there for the thumbs down and for the thumbs up from people in lab coats. She held my arm when the mere sight of a bright capital "H" over blue, weakened my knees. She ignored the counsel of those who told her she wasn't obligated to stay and witness the torture.
Back then I didn't ask "Why me?, I can't believe this is happening". Even then I didn't feel the desperation that I do now. I didn't wake up all alone in the middle of the night to ask questions without answers. Even then I didn't cry the tears that I do now, as if watching her wave goodbye in a shiny but condemned vessel.
I didn't cry for a son and his fight to cope with his new reality. I didn't have to struggle to accept his aggression, his short fuse, his fears… for reasons he himself can't even begin to comprehend, and which will surely impact the man he becomes.
I don't write these words to tug at your compassion. The thousands of innocent children who perish daily, for reasons you and I have never seen as anything more than a nuisance, won't let me manipulate you with my merely uncomfortable circumstances. I am not them, and that knowledge won't let me play the pity card.
I write to provide a glimpse into the reality of divorce, and the pain involved in what is, in most cases, a needless solution to a problem that isn't left behind in the aftermath. The devastation of ignoring a promise of "for better or worse" can be delayed, masked or cloaked. It can be medicated, or exchanged for a different kind of destruction of equal (or greater) value. But it cannot be expunged from the scales of joy which we work incessantly to swing in our favour.
I don't want to let my carefully written words create a false impression that I've got it under control. That because I am able to articulate my circumstances, that makes them manageable. They aren't manageable. There is a part of me that wants to kick against anything that I see as contributing to my misery. I want to tally my rights and wrongs (even if I might lose) against those who stand in opposition of what I know is decent and true. I want to come out ahead, collect my medal and shove it down their throats. In and of myself, there is anger and pain boiling over in a pot of self pity, on the stove of fear, inside the perfectly appointed kitchen of pride.
In and of myself… But it isn't just myself, thankfully.
There is a single thought that keeps that meal from being served. And that not my own. The truest thought I have ever come across, and how I want you to have it. How I want her to have it...
"Love never fails".
A Case Against the Holiday Baby
The human baby is an unbelievable thing to behold. So vulnerable, yet intricately fine tuned to a level of perfection we call trivial. As I write this, the festive season is in full swing, and the focus is on one particular baby; the Holiday baby.A sense of elation permeates all of culture, it seems. There are lights, decorations, gifts, and peculiar music. Common courtesy is up and smiles are easy to come by. Why?…
Marriage Killers - In-laws
I've always liked fast vehicles, of any kind. One summer I worked over 60 hours a week at a gas station to save for my first motorcycle. As a novice, I was showered with counsel from experienced riders as to which two wheeled machine might be appropriate. I was wisely told to start off with a well used, manageable bike of limited power and girth. So, I came to the only sensible conclusion I could have, and pulled the trigger on a mint condition (SuperBike Championship winning) Kawasaki Ninja 750R. The black beauty, as I would call her...
The Habit
Last summer I was spending time with family at an outdoor festival. As we gathered under the bright sun, pondering what to do next, I noticed a woman sitting alone on a bench, staring into what seemed another dimension. She wore a t-shirt and shorts, laying bare an unsightly skin condition that covered most of her limbs. Air exposure must have brought her enough relief to offset any fear of repulsion from passersby. The woman's glare displayed an absence of emotion, as if drained by the lack of response to prolonged desperation and anguish, the same way the serene topography of a dry river bed reveals a life that once was.
Last summer I was spending time with family at an outdoor festival. As we gathered under the bright sun, pondering what to do next, I noticed a woman sitting alone on a bench, staring into what seemed another dimension. She wore a t-shirt and shorts, laying bare an unsightly skin condition that covered most of her limbs. Air exposure must have brought her enough relief to offset any fear of repulsion from passersby. The woman's glare displayed an absence of emotion, as if drained by the lack of response to prolonged desperation and anguish, the same way the serene topography of a dry river bed reveals a life that once was.
Marriage Killers - Divorce (someone else's)
Many of my life's most valuable lessons were learned on two wheels. From the day when, as a 5 year old I swung my leg over my first bicycle - a painted over, army green, girly framed, solid rubber tire, fixed-gear ride, salvaged from the side of the road before garbage pick up, which I rode until it literally broke in half at full speed on a cobbled stone sidewalk; all the way up until my last (motorized) track missile which I traded in for married life, I've never ceased using these ubiquitous devices to express my physical need to learn about the world around me.
The Good Bully
During my formative years, I learned quickly to navigate the rough waters of academia's fish pond. My under developed stature didn't give me many options when it came to facing the occasional shark, and as most of us do in life, I learned to use the tools at my disposal to ensure my survival, and perhaps a little more…
As luck would have it, in grade 8, I ended up sitting beside the roughest, toughest bully of all, in English class. These very words may not have turned out as carefully crafted had it not been for the extra effort I put into that subject, which along with an open notebook and a blind eye, became the currency with which I purchased peace from "Little Joe" (who by the way wasn't little)...
During my formative years, I learned quickly to navigate the rough waters of academia's fish pond. My under developed stature didn't give me many options when it came to facing the occasional shark, and as most of us do in life, I learned to use the tools at my disposal to ensure my survival, and perhaps a little more…
As luck would have it, in grade 8, I ended up sitting beside the roughest, toughest bully of all, in English class. These very words may not have turned out as carefully crafted had it not been for the extra effort I put into that subject, which along with an open notebook and a blind eye, became the currency with which I purchased peace from "Little Joe" (who by the way wasn't little)...
Marriage Killers - The Wasted Pedestal
My grandmother was a very wise woman. Gifted yet flawed, humble yet confident. She once told me, in her playful yet direct kind of way, that I should "watch out for women, for they are more trouble than the men." Before you write me letters, let me say I disagree with her… But I do appreciate her sentiment, certainly moulded by her experience and insight into a world more familiar to her, the same way my humbler view of men is sculpted by an observation from within the male ranks.
There is a tendency, unique to humanity by which we judge the value of something by contrasting it with something else (we perceive to be) of lesser worth. The more we elevate the former, the lower the latter gets, as if separated by the fulcrum of a balance scale.
We've all seen the stickers on the backs of pickup trucks depicting Chevy boy urinating on a Ford logo (or vice-versa). Crude, perhaps, but if we are honest, we all have allegiances to that which we most identify with or whom we feel best represents us within our immediate sphere of influence. From athletes to actors and politicians, from authors to popular brands, we are all born with a need to glorify ideas, people and objects, all of which become like rudders in our short earthly voyages.
That need of ours to deify something outside of us is like a pedestal; impossible to keep vacant in the sea of idols that is the stuff of life. This unseen pedestal we carry around is in itself neither good nor corrupt, which can't be said of the content we place upon it. One speaks of a need, the other speaks of the answer. The pedestal is our happiness place, from which ultimate fulfilment and joy come from.
If there is indeed an answer, could it be made up of transient, short lived items and practices which leave us in a continuous cruel exercise of false starts, until we meet our demise?
So the question remains, what is an appropriate tenant for our pedestal?
One thing surely isn't - husbands. No man or woman is worthy. If you are on someone's pedestal you are an impostor, and in great danger of losing them, whether you forced your way or were invited in.
What men tend to do is fill their pedestal with a blend of things like: our income, professional and personal achievement, sports, toys, dreams and what our ladies do for us (not so much the ladies themselves). This combination, albeit fraudulent can be fairly stable, since it's rare for its parts to come undone all at once. We have the capacity (or knuckle-headedness) to keep experimenting with different combinations for decades or even for a lifetime, without recognizing the futility of the exercise.
Women can follow a similar pattern...
Some women, however, are masters at polishing up their pedestal, and placing their knight in shining armour on it, all by his lonesome self. Their inherent giftedness in nurturing and a need to feel desired and cared for, can act like an accelerant in this implausibly volatile fantasy. It's a sad thing, the sight of a fully committed and tireless woman, looking up at her pedestal in expectation of a kind of glory that will never come. This counterfeit solution will eventually bring dejection, weariness and resentment. And by then it may be too late (for her).
It's very rare that a man ever comes down from the pedestal to his rightful place in a woman's life. He is usually demoted straight to the trash bin. I've experienced both, and unlike my grandmother, I am not certain of which is worse.
Good News
There is a perpetual dispute about whom, if any one, should take credit for, you know… the universe. Someone who might be pedestal worthy, if you will. There is also an accusation towards those who claim the existence of such a master of the universe, that the defence of such a claim is simple to make during easy times and hard to stick by in times of affliction.
There is a perpetual dispute about whom, if any one, should take credit for, you know… the universe. Someone who might be pedestal worthy, if you will. There is also an accusation towards those who claim the existence of such a master of the universe, that the defence of such a claim is simple to make during easy times and hard to stick by in times of affliction.
This charge of hypocrisy also infers that even if such a reputable idol exists, it must not care for us, or hold the power to change our circumstances nor give us what it is we need.
There are several hurdles with this logic. First, it presumes that we are deserving of any kind of external interference on our behalf. Secondly, it assumes our own definition of what is best in a given set of circumstances. Lastly, it somehow exonerates us from any responsibility in creating the problem and of being part of the solution we seek.
Some years ago, I told a friend of mine something which left him very distraught. Something personal. Something which everyone in his life was ignoring, for the sake of his comfort. And theirs. Something true and intrinsically tied to his identity. It was a difficult night in which he left me without a goodbye. My friend later told me that he went home that night with an unavoidable decision to make. He had a choice to never see me again, or a choice to make a dramatic change.
For mostly selfish reasons, I'm glad he chose the latter.
Years later, that same friend shared a new challenge he was facing and asked me for suggestions on how to tackle it. I remember telling him that it might be helpful for him to be reminded of his identity on a regular basis. He decided to hang a picture frame in his office with words which best described his place in, you know... the universe. Over time, he felt that it was instrumental in reminding him of a reality which wasn't so much the vehicle to his goal, but the destination itself.
As the Easter holiday came and went, this year, and the taste of chocolate eggs begins to fade as I wallow in sorrow, with a broken heart, I think also of the sorrow of one truly innocent. One who hung on a cross, pierced and alone, all those years ago, spat upon and tortured by those he came to rescue. One whose claims had little to do with bunnies and candy, but with life, sacrifice and freedom.
On that momentous day, there were two others who were nailed on Roman crosses surrounding the self described author of history. These admitted criminals completed a gory sight and gave us a picture of ourselves. Both thieves, probably with similarly long criminal records. Both deserving of punishment. Both caught and convicted. But one of them humble and repentant, the other - defiant. One of them recognizing the innocence and power of the man in the middle, pleading with him not for the now, but for the after. The other, mocking the innocent one and challenging him to change their circumstances with purely self-seeking motives.
As it relates to the man in the middle, every person who has ever graced the surface of our planet really is one of those two thieves. There is no third option. We bring nothing worthy of deserving his favour. Somehow, for some inconceivable reason he thought it a perfectly good idea to mix with us for a time, suffer and drag his brutal carcass onto an altar which screamed for ours. Just so we could be free. And we can.
The question for us really is: "Which thief am I?"
When I left my home, in a desperate attempt to give my bride the space she wanted, I looked to the welcoming arms of my loving family, and also to those of my old friend. His family took me in, and my son, as one of their own. For many months we have shared the same space as I've watched them grow in selflessness through sacrifice. My little guy has at times, expelled his oblivious anger towards the very ones who have came to his aid. And I've watched them grow in love through this mucky concoction where problems and solutions are so closely tied, they can hardly be discerned.
I still remember moving into my small, windowless room in the basement of this loving home. A single bed, a desk and some shelves. Appropriate for a man looking for clear answers in the midst of hardship. As was that old picture frame on the wall, which read: "I am a son of the King."
That any of us can be both a thief and a son (or daughter) of the King and Maker of all; that is truly good news. Indeed, the greatest news in the universe.
Marriage Killers - Pornography
My son once asked me, with a straight face, if he could have birthday cake, and only birthday cake for breakfast, lunch and dinner, every day. What a great question asked the way only a three year old child can.
Pornography is to sexual intimacy, what birthday cake for breakfast, lunch and dinner is to an exquisite fine dessert at the end of a carefully prepared mouthwatering meal. Not just birthday cake, but cake specially engineered to trigger a false message in the brain which says "satisfied". Cake made with stolen ingredients, by bakers without love for baking, but for profit. Cake that is not earned nor offered but delivered to a private cupboard that never runs out of new flavours that all taste the same. Cake displaying a fraudulent label that reads - "secret and harmless". Birthday cake without a reason to celebrate.
I have had a lot of stolen birthday cake. For breakfast, lunch and dinner. A lot. I have made up new meals and mixed cake flavours. I have made cake sandwiches, dipped them in frosting and dusted them in sugar before gorging and going back for more. This cake never gave me indigestion and it never made me fat. It also never filled me up.
So what's the problem? The problem is that when cake becomes your meal, then you've lost your dessert - and your meal, too.
Any activity that brings pleasure is bound to be abused in search of ever increasing returns, and lust is no different. Since the beginning of time, sex has and will continue to be a popular path taken by those seeking to satisfy their sensory cravings. That is not news, nor should it shock us, for we all have access to the hardware with which the game is played, and we know how powerful its effects are.
What is disturbing and worthy of attention, is the increase, acceptance and wide availability of "stolen birthday cake" coupled with its rampant consumption and a foolish belief that the integrity of our social reality can be sustained in the face of this widespread addiction.
The numbers don't lie. 70% of men ages 18 - 24 consume stolen birthday cake regularly. (Most of the other 30% have a problem with honesty). Women are also feeding on this industry which increasingly caters to their unique tastes. And it doesn't abruptly start at the age of 18. We are living in a watershed moment, where for the first time in history an entire generation of children is being raised on pornography. The average age of first contact (that's average, not lowest) with smut is a ripe 11 years of age. The belief that these young boys and girls will grow up to rule our society, form new families and raise babies in the same way of even a single generation ago, is naive at best.
It took me years to travel the long road between the belief that I had hit the jackpot in having free access to the kind and variety of sensory stimuli never before available at the click of a mouse, to conceding that not only was this new found freedom of choice no freedom at all, but it actually was a poison that affected every area of life. I was never caught, labeled an addict nor did I require a daily fix. I held jobs, a rich social life, a loving girlfriend, hobbies and had accomplishments. But a prison isn't just that which robs us of what we can see.
The worst prison there is, is one which distorts our perception of reality. A prison where steel bars pierce through nerve endings. A prison without guards, where we hold the key and dictate our own lock-down times, never realizing that the dying candle's warmth by which we huddle in our cell is but a fraction of what's freely available from the sun outside.
This view is not popular in a world that has learned to embrace pornography as a "healthy activity when consumed in moderation". To have someone call it poison (and I do) is unpopular to say the least. But whatever your view, you must not cast me as someone who does not enjoy physical intimacy, someone who's carnal desires have died, or someone whose sensual experiences have fallen short of what stolen birthday cake has provided (not by any means). You must also dispel the myth that in our over sexualized culture, it is impossible to achieve long term freedom from this addiction, (as defined by any use of pornography at all).
Stolen birthday cake was no longer on the menu by the time of our vows and therefore did not contribute to my marital difficulties, but I have little doubt that it would have expedited them. However, in most homes, this dirty little secret is slowly neutering relationships in a most indiscernible way...
The busiest hour of internet traffic is 11:30pm. The highest number of sites visited during this time... You guessed it; stolen birthday cake.
In the years that I've been reading and talking to people about the issue of lust, I've found only three methods of addressing it. The first one is compliance. That is where the problem is seen as a virtue, and we say silly things like: "This enriches my life." and "No honey, of course it doesn't affect my feelings for you."
The second method is pride. That's where self loathing and shame become a motivator for repeated failed attempts at curbing inevitable relapses leading to a cycle of continuous struggle.
The third method for addressing birthday cake addiction is an encounter with the Head Chef. You know... the one who invented birthday cake. Who better to tell us how to appreciate such a sweet creation. His directions for us are not unlike the answer I had for my 3 year old…
Son, you can't have birthday cake for breakfast, lunch and dinner, because I want you to enjoy it to the fullest.
Bon Appetit
My friend Raul once told me about his first visit to an all-you-can-eat buffet. Upon arriving in North America, his friends treated him to the restaurant experience of a lifetime. All was going well until his walk back to his seat, plate in hand, when he began to sense he had gained the undue attention of other guests at the restaurant. This suspicion only grew as he walked towards the table where his friends received him with frozen stares...
Assuming that the all-you-can-eat label was too good to be true, Raul believed only one trip to the buffet would be permitted, therefore he had carefully and efficiently built a rather tall pyramid made up of a great variety of his favourite foods, complete with dessert at the summit.
True story.
As an engineer, Raul had the kind of mind I couldn't get enough of; often fascinated by what I considered mundane and quick to find solutions I could never have conceived. It was truly a complimentary friendship, ours was. For many years we worked side by side and shared of life's ups and downs the way you're supposed to, with someone you feel comfortable with. He would walk in every morning and sing "Good morning, Maestro!", in his pleasant accent.
One morning, Raul came in walking with a limp. He stopped briefly by my desk and casually explained that he had pulled something in the hip area, doing martial arts or so he thought. I nodded with an empathetic frown. Days turned into weeks and my friend could not shake the limp, visiting several doctors and therapists, while providing updates every morning as I searched through my own extensive list of past injuries for a match, or at the very least to help him reduce his stress over what was clearly now a concern.
It wasn't long before a doctor sat down with Raul to have a talk I myself had tried to forget. The big C.
"At least you finally know what you're dealing with... You saw me cope with it... I seldom missed a day of work... You have a nice head shape. You'll look good bald, for a while. You'll be alright." ...I found myself spouting the same things I had found to be particularly unhelpful, years before, as a patient. But they were helpful to me now, as a friend.
Not only did Raul have the big C, but he was diagnosed with the same kind, and later the same sub-type of C that I had faced. A less than 1/1000 chance, given it's rarity. This was good news, we thought. "You have a perfect, living case-study to base your expectations on. I'll give you all the information you can handle..."
We would spend precious time together as both the disease and the treatment deformed his body and challenged his will. We talked of purpose and faith as I offered a defence against his curious yet often resistant views to a reality beyond that of the senses.
Raul mistakenly believed that his analytical worldview prevented him from fully enjoying the kind of belief, he admired in me. He insisted on making it a set of rules, or a system of proper living. Something algebraic and fully grasped by our lowly human wisdom. I stood, not in total opposition of him, where faith becomes a nebulous, feel good, make your own truth, kind of mumbo jumbo, but closer to a place where all that is good and worth pursuing has been embodied by the very author of the creatures who discuss His existence.
With mutual love and respect, we discussed and experienced life together in that time of need. I recall one Sunday evening when Raul found out I had skipped a formal worship gathering to spend time with him. We had talked about "the rules" and how, at the core, there are really only two; love God and love people. He was thankful for my time, and as we parted, he apologized for the fact that I had only "loved people" that evening, and that he was sorry I missed my gathering. It was a perfect opportunity to correct his misguided reason. "No, my friend. I loved God tonight. And I did it quite well.", I told him as I jogged into the night.
I wish I could say that Raul made a full recovery and is still gracing the planet with his quirky confidence. But he is not. He left us after a brave fight and a life that was too short, according to my incomplete and selfish perception of reality. But not before I found a secret weapon...
Raul had always been academically proficient, even as a young pupil. He was proud to have his name be found at the top of his class more often than not. Well... There was this other student, who annoyingly, often stole his spotlight. Someone who was his scholastic match to such a degree that several decades later, he still recalled it with emotion...
Somehow, somewhere, I met Rita. She had also immigrated to Canada and was indeed all that Raul had described, and more. Rita was sharp, driven and accomplished. Cut from the same cloth as Raul. Yet she had come to have personal knowledge and a committed relationship with her unseen Creator, not in spite of her intelligence, but because of it.
One cold night, Rita and I made our way to see Raul. As soon as we arrived, it was clear to us that no patient in this area of the Hospital was expected to walk out on their own strength. We found our man, lying still, with only the sounds of the machines hooked up to him confirming his presence in the familiar container that was his body. We prayed and sang songs as we held his unresponsive hands. Loving both man and Creator.
As we were about to leave, and to let Raul leave us, he opened his eyes, looked at us and smiled. "Thank... you...", he said, with every syllable leaving his mouth like the last few steps of an excruciating marathon. He repeated himself, as if to reassure us that he finally understood, and he closed his eyes.
I trust that Raul will be enjoying the greatest buffet ever.
Assuming that the all-you-can-eat label was too good to be true, Raul believed only one trip to the buffet would be permitted, therefore he had carefully and efficiently built a rather tall pyramid made up of a great variety of his favourite foods, complete with dessert at the summit.
True story.
As an engineer, Raul had the kind of mind I couldn't get enough of; often fascinated by what I considered mundane and quick to find solutions I could never have conceived. It was truly a complimentary friendship, ours was. For many years we worked side by side and shared of life's ups and downs the way you're supposed to, with someone you feel comfortable with. He would walk in every morning and sing "Good morning, Maestro!", in his pleasant accent.
One morning, Raul came in walking with a limp. He stopped briefly by my desk and casually explained that he had pulled something in the hip area, doing martial arts or so he thought. I nodded with an empathetic frown. Days turned into weeks and my friend could not shake the limp, visiting several doctors and therapists, while providing updates every morning as I searched through my own extensive list of past injuries for a match, or at the very least to help him reduce his stress over what was clearly now a concern.
It wasn't long before a doctor sat down with Raul to have a talk I myself had tried to forget. The big C.
"At least you finally know what you're dealing with... You saw me cope with it... I seldom missed a day of work... You have a nice head shape. You'll look good bald, for a while. You'll be alright." ...I found myself spouting the same things I had found to be particularly unhelpful, years before, as a patient. But they were helpful to me now, as a friend.
Not only did Raul have the big C, but he was diagnosed with the same kind, and later the same sub-type of C that I had faced. A less than 1/1000 chance, given it's rarity. This was good news, we thought. "You have a perfect, living case-study to base your expectations on. I'll give you all the information you can handle..."
We would spend precious time together as both the disease and the treatment deformed his body and challenged his will. We talked of purpose and faith as I offered a defence against his curious yet often resistant views to a reality beyond that of the senses.
Raul mistakenly believed that his analytical worldview prevented him from fully enjoying the kind of belief, he admired in me. He insisted on making it a set of rules, or a system of proper living. Something algebraic and fully grasped by our lowly human wisdom. I stood, not in total opposition of him, where faith becomes a nebulous, feel good, make your own truth, kind of mumbo jumbo, but closer to a place where all that is good and worth pursuing has been embodied by the very author of the creatures who discuss His existence.
With mutual love and respect, we discussed and experienced life together in that time of need. I recall one Sunday evening when Raul found out I had skipped a formal worship gathering to spend time with him. We had talked about "the rules" and how, at the core, there are really only two; love God and love people. He was thankful for my time, and as we parted, he apologized for the fact that I had only "loved people" that evening, and that he was sorry I missed my gathering. It was a perfect opportunity to correct his misguided reason. "No, my friend. I loved God tonight. And I did it quite well.", I told him as I jogged into the night.
I wish I could say that Raul made a full recovery and is still gracing the planet with his quirky confidence. But he is not. He left us after a brave fight and a life that was too short, according to my incomplete and selfish perception of reality. But not before I found a secret weapon...
Raul had always been academically proficient, even as a young pupil. He was proud to have his name be found at the top of his class more often than not. Well... There was this other student, who annoyingly, often stole his spotlight. Someone who was his scholastic match to such a degree that several decades later, he still recalled it with emotion...
Somehow, somewhere, I met Rita. She had also immigrated to Canada and was indeed all that Raul had described, and more. Rita was sharp, driven and accomplished. Cut from the same cloth as Raul. Yet she had come to have personal knowledge and a committed relationship with her unseen Creator, not in spite of her intelligence, but because of it.
One cold night, Rita and I made our way to see Raul. As soon as we arrived, it was clear to us that no patient in this area of the Hospital was expected to walk out on their own strength. We found our man, lying still, with only the sounds of the machines hooked up to him confirming his presence in the familiar container that was his body. We prayed and sang songs as we held his unresponsive hands. Loving both man and Creator.
As we were about to leave, and to let Raul leave us, he opened his eyes, looked at us and smiled. "Thank... you...", he said, with every syllable leaving his mouth like the last few steps of an excruciating marathon. He repeated himself, as if to reassure us that he finally understood, and he closed his eyes.
I trust that Raul will be enjoying the greatest buffet ever.
Marriage Killers - Poor Mechanics
Its been said that knowing a good mechanic is like knowing a good doctor.
I remember my first assignment in auto-mechanics class, (perhaps the only high-school subject that's served me since)... A complete tear down and rebuild of a 454 cubic inch, big block V8 engine, alongside three other budding "physicians". I was happy to work on the big American lump and make new friends in the process. But it soon became apparent that as a group, we were fragmented in our approach to performing the assignment.
Rick and I were what you might call casual techs; effortlessly alternating our subject of conversation between girls, weekend plans and the project at hand. To my left, we had Adrian; the real brains of the operation. He not only had a passion for all motorized things, but also kept us in line when we ignored torque values or assembly order. And straight across, we had Pete. Pete showed up for class... Most of the time. And he giggled a lot. Pete would eventually make sure that our powerful piece of engineering would never again produce a single horsepower. More on that later.
I have spent the last two years seeking to understand as much as I can about human relationships. More specifically, romantic connections and of course; divorce. I have attended counselling sessions, read books, blogs and articles, attended a divorce groups, watched videos, talked to others who have gone or are going through similar issues. I have been the recipient of a vast amount and variety of advice. I can't possibly share all that I gathered during that time. But here are some unexpected and even elusive bits...
First of all; people are broken. All of us. The abandoned ones, the ones leaving for "something better", the ones trying to counsel away the pain, the ones judging one or both sides, and the ones sitting quietly on the sidelines thankful that it's not them. Human beings are massive vacuums of praise and approval. And the more unaware they are of their condition, the more damaging they become to themselves and to others.
It wasn't long before I began to notice a pattern. The more splintered one is, the more one's advice becomes a coping mechanism for the very brokenness that drives it. The value of that advice is usually inversely proportional to the degree of the dysfunction in the issue in question. I am not sure what that says about me and this particular exercise, but it is important that I share it as I see it. There is a disturbing tendency for people dishing out counsel to assume that sincerity is reason enough for an argument to be heard and followed. But in fact, sincerity loses to truth every time. (Although it's nice to have both)
You wouldn't trust a mechanic whose own vehicles keep breaking down, or one whose last engine rebuild ended in a fireball and a cloud of smoke, would you? So why would we listen to someone whose track record on the very subject their counsel is on, is so far from ideal?...
Here is where it gets interesting. The reason we might listen to such a person is because, what we are looking for is acclamation and not real advice. And the advice giver is often happy to fill that need in exchange for a chance to vindicate himself in his struggles. And so the cycle goes.
Another golden nugget that seems to elude many pseudo-counselors has to do with what separates married couples who thrive, and those whose marriages fail. I expected to find the difference to be largely circumstantial, in that the reason some couples divorce would have to do with events occurring during their relationship that don't happen to couples who remain strongly united. That's what I was told by so many. I've since learned that this is completely false. The stories of conflict and relationship breakdown are virtually indistinguishable. The pain experienced within the marriages is also comparable between both types of couples. And the same can be said for incompatibility between mates.
There is one glaring ingredient that separates divorced couples from those who remain together for life. That ingredient is commitment; intentional purpose as it relates to marriage, largely independent from circumstances or a mate's performance.
I can't recall who it was, but one of us caught Pete coarse sanding the crankshaft journals of our big block. To those who may not know their way around an engine, what Pete did was destroy one of the most critical surfaces of any combustion engine. In the haste of our fear for a poor group mark on the project, we decided to quietly assemble the unit as it was and go to our graves with the messy secret. It is obvious that we did not, but our engine did go to the grave, as it never turned over again.
Pete certainly meant well. He wanted to impress the rest of the guys by taking initiative and he must have figured that if sand paper was an appropriate solution to clean rust from an exhaust manifold then it must suit a bearing surface just the same. Our friend was very sincere, but dead wrong.
Ideally every engine rebuild would be performed by the one who engineered it, but this is not possible... or is it?
Its been said that knowing a good mechanic is like knowing a good doctor.
I remember my first assignment in auto-mechanics class, (perhaps the only high-school subject that's served me since)... A complete tear down and rebuild of a 454 cubic inch, big block V8 engine, alongside three other budding "physicians". I was happy to work on the big American lump and make new friends in the process. But it soon became apparent that as a group, we were fragmented in our approach to performing the assignment.
Rick and I were what you might call casual techs; effortlessly alternating our subject of conversation between girls, weekend plans and the project at hand. To my left, we had Adrian; the real brains of the operation. He not only had a passion for all motorized things, but also kept us in line when we ignored torque values or assembly order. And straight across, we had Pete. Pete showed up for class... Most of the time. And he giggled a lot. Pete would eventually make sure that our powerful piece of engineering would never again produce a single horsepower. More on that later.
I have spent the last two years seeking to understand as much as I can about human relationships. More specifically, romantic connections and of course; divorce. I have attended counselling sessions, read books, blogs and articles, attended a divorce groups, watched videos, talked to others who have gone or are going through similar issues. I have been the recipient of a vast amount and variety of advice. I can't possibly share all that I gathered during that time. But here are some unexpected and even elusive bits...
First of all; people are broken. All of us. The abandoned ones, the ones leaving for "something better", the ones trying to counsel away the pain, the ones judging one or both sides, and the ones sitting quietly on the sidelines thankful that it's not them. Human beings are massive vacuums of praise and approval. And the more unaware they are of their condition, the more damaging they become to themselves and to others.
It wasn't long before I began to notice a pattern. The more splintered one is, the more one's advice becomes a coping mechanism for the very brokenness that drives it. The value of that advice is usually inversely proportional to the degree of the dysfunction in the issue in question. I am not sure what that says about me and this particular exercise, but it is important that I share it as I see it. There is a disturbing tendency for people dishing out counsel to assume that sincerity is reason enough for an argument to be heard and followed. But in fact, sincerity loses to truth every time. (Although it's nice to have both)
You wouldn't trust a mechanic whose own vehicles keep breaking down, or one whose last engine rebuild ended in a fireball and a cloud of smoke, would you? So why would we listen to someone whose track record on the very subject their counsel is on, is so far from ideal?...
Here is where it gets interesting. The reason we might listen to such a person is because, what we are looking for is acclamation and not real advice. And the advice giver is often happy to fill that need in exchange for a chance to vindicate himself in his struggles. And so the cycle goes.
Another golden nugget that seems to elude many pseudo-counselors has to do with what separates married couples who thrive, and those whose marriages fail. I expected to find the difference to be largely circumstantial, in that the reason some couples divorce would have to do with events occurring during their relationship that don't happen to couples who remain strongly united. That's what I was told by so many. I've since learned that this is completely false. The stories of conflict and relationship breakdown are virtually indistinguishable. The pain experienced within the marriages is also comparable between both types of couples. And the same can be said for incompatibility between mates.
There is one glaring ingredient that separates divorced couples from those who remain together for life. That ingredient is commitment; intentional purpose as it relates to marriage, largely independent from circumstances or a mate's performance.
If I could categorize couples into types I would say that they fall into one of three categories; first there are couples who face relationship threatening challenges but remain together for reasons like; comfort, apathy or fear. Second, there are couples who face relationship threatening challenges and split up. Third, there are couples who face relationship threatening challenges and decide to do whatever it takes to triumph over those challenges. I found no long term married couples who did not face relationship threatening challenges.
Back in shop class... I can't recall who it was, but one of us caught Pete coarse sanding the crankshaft journals of our big block. To those who may not know their way around an engine, what Pete did was destroy one of the most critical surfaces of any combustion engine. In the haste of our fear for a poor group mark on the project, we decided to quietly assemble the unit as it was and go to our graves with the messy secret. It is obvious that we did not, but our engine did go to the grave, as it never turned over again.
Pete certainly meant well. He wanted to impress the rest of the guys by taking initiative and he must have figured that if sand paper was an appropriate solution to clean rust from an exhaust manifold then it must suit a bearing surface just the same. Our friend was very sincere, but dead wrong.
Ideally every engine rebuild would be performed by the one who engineered it, but this is not possible... or is it?
A Case Against Self Help
A friend once told me that all self help literature is unworthy of even making the bottom of a bathroom reading pile. When asked why, he landed on a truth that I had experienced without ever realizing it. "Self help books..." He said... "Are a complete waste of time, because while they create a sense of excitement and anticipation, they leave the reader altogether unchanged."
A friend once told me that all self help literature is unworthy of even making the bottom of a bathroom reading pile. When asked why, he landed on a truth that I had experienced without ever realizing it. "Self help books..." He said... "Are a complete waste of time, because while they create a sense of excitement and anticipation, they leave the reader altogether unchanged."
"Touché"... I remember thinking.
I have kept this thought close to the surface, as I've shared my experience through these purifying convulsive expressions. I can confirm that where I sit today, I am utterly unable to help myself, in spite of many books and much advice.
I have on occasion, been one of those sad souls who gets in the car in frigid winter temperatures and drives off without a thorough windshield cleaning. Setting the wipers on high and squirting washer fluid every few seconds provides just enough visibility for the task... even if temporarily. At such low temperatures, washer fluid freezes practically on contact, setting in motion a cycle of clarity and haziness interrupted by one thing only... Heat. Once the engine is warm and provides the heater with defrosting power, the ice is doomed, no matter the weather conditions outside. It is only then, that the struggle to obtain visibility under my own power finally draws to a close.
I have been writing about my experience through the cold winter of loss and separation. Much of that writing has been about keeping a clear windshield, as it were. The methods described are sound. I believe them to be simple truths necessary for healthy relationships. But healthy relationships are not attainable with consistency, on our own power. I would be sending you out in the cold, in a vehicle without heat, if i didn't make clear one thing; any ideas, or methods of solving conflict or succeeding in moving beyond the squirt, wipe, freeze, repeat, cycle of human relationships, can not be sustained without external influence. Not that every relationship is doomed otherwise. It is clear that some couples remain together outside of the efforts hereby mentioned. But they remain in some form dysfunctional, without this external "heat".
I have been writing about my experience through the cold winter of loss and separation. Much of that writing has been about keeping a clear windshield, as it were. The methods described are sound. I believe them to be simple truths necessary for healthy relationships. But healthy relationships are not attainable with consistency, on our own power. I would be sending you out in the cold, in a vehicle without heat, if i didn't make clear one thing; any ideas, or methods of solving conflict or succeeding in moving beyond the squirt, wipe, freeze, repeat, cycle of human relationships, can not be sustained without external influence. Not that every relationship is doomed otherwise. It is clear that some couples remain together outside of the efforts hereby mentioned. But they remain in some form dysfunctional, without this external "heat".
The concept of a Creator who actively engages with his creation, is foreign to many. Perhaps even unpleasant, or worse. But I shun the idea of producing, with my words, any kind of expectant eagerness for relief with no real long lasting substance. Therefore, I would be dishonest not to share, with the same candour as in the lurid details of previous posts, my account of His presence and active participation in my circumstances, those being but a tiny sample of the plight of all of humanity.
I feel an introduction is necessary. After all, sound relationships aren't the chief goal of our existence. They are a mere side effect of that glorious goal.
If you've ever gone to a playground and observed a father (or a mother) quietly sitting, observing his child from a distance while she plays. A child ignorant to the fact that her parent not only had a part in making her, but also in naming her and choosing her surroundings and circumstances. That he has her dinner planned, as well as the nightly reading. That he plans to put her through painful experiences, like vaccinations, or her first day of school. That he will be able to "read her mind" for the next few years and accurately predict the end result of her hazardous exploits. That he knows she will cry when it's time to go, and that he alone knows the way home... That although, this child will struggle to be obedient and at times even defy her protector, the fact is that where she is safest and best cared for is when she is near him. That the mud pies to which she so easily hangs her joy to, are in fact an obstacle to her happiness, which lies in the gentle arms of her provider. If you can picture that father and the extent of his universe of influence, and then scale that same power, care and concern by the magnitude of the actual universe, you will begin to have a picture of the Father of all.
If that sentimental approach is still as abstract as a frozen windshield, I encourage you to have a closer look at the work of His hands. Can you really attribute it to the result of time and chance, like so many of us, children of the playground, do?
Two Sons
I have a son who is five years old. He is a dynamo. He yearns to know the why to everything, and is bright eyed about all that is new to him. Loves his mom and dad, and mourns that they are apart. His reality, is that he is always missing someone important.
I have another son, fully grown. A gentleman. He is tremendously helpful to my craft of fatherhood. He shares his feelings, fears and desires. Articulates caution when it is needed and encouragement when it is in order. He reminds me of my role and asks me to be both teacher and student in our precious bond. He pleads with me to love those who no longer love me; to respect and uphold them. He tells me to spare him from the details, the conflict and the pain that I've endured. To shield him from base sentiments and insecurities all too common in emotional tugs-of-war. He demands that I be bold in pursuing good, and humble in admitting error. He asks me to be an example rather than a burden, a father instead of a buddy. He implores that I never leave him.
It is easy to heed the words of my fully grown son, resonating in my mind. Even if he is only five, at the moment.
I have another son, fully grown. A gentleman. He is tremendously helpful to my craft of fatherhood. He shares his feelings, fears and desires. Articulates caution when it is needed and encouragement when it is in order. He reminds me of my role and asks me to be both teacher and student in our precious bond. He pleads with me to love those who no longer love me; to respect and uphold them. He tells me to spare him from the details, the conflict and the pain that I've endured. To shield him from base sentiments and insecurities all too common in emotional tugs-of-war. He demands that I be bold in pursuing good, and humble in admitting error. He asks me to be an example rather than a burden, a father instead of a buddy. He implores that I never leave him.
It is easy to heed the words of my fully grown son, resonating in my mind. Even if he is only five, at the moment.
Dirty Fuel
Years ago, I joined a friend on a what turned out to be a 500 mile long motorcycle day trip that would prove to be unforgettable for a myriad of reasons. Not least of which was its dubious start.
We met up early, with the crisp morning dew caressing the shiny surfaces of our bikes as we headed out of town for the first fill-up of the day. Seconds after leaving the gas station, the sweet sound of our big bore v-twins was cut in half, as my ride choked and gasped to a halt. I coasted to the side of the road, while running a mental checklist of possible causes, and trying to flag down my eager friend, now a quarter mile up the road.
One press of the push start, and the racebred rumble returned as if it never missed a beat. By now, my partner had made a u-turn and was pulling up alongside me, gesturing impatiently.
"She died on me..." I said, scanning the engine area, looking to poke something back into place. We both knew that unexpected engine malfunctions while on a "spirited" ride could kill more than just our fun.
"Bad fuel maybe?...", offered my friend. "Probably..." I said, now scowling at the somewhat decrepit gas station behind us.
Bad fuel usually means water contamination, which will cause an engine to sputter, spit, cough and miss, every time it ingests the undesirable fluid. Water does not mix with gasoline and tends to sit at the bottom of the tank, sloshing around, waiting for the worst possible time to be sucked into the fuel system, wrecking havoc with the performance and reliability of an engine.
The disconcerting behaviour would repeat itself for several miles. How ironic that state-of-the-art machinery, capable of hair raising performance could be quenched by a few drops of unwanted water.
On a modern bike, troubleshooting a problem, especially an intermittent one, can be a frustrating and time consuming exercise, with too many variables to rule out. But given the abrupt and curious timing of the malfunction, as well as our eagerness to resume the journey, the diagnosis seemed to fit. As did the prescribed treatment plan - ride it until (E)mpty.
Our day long ride was interrupted several times by the contaminant within my fuel tank, and were it not for the availability of clean fuel, I might have wasted my time attempting to fix the wrong components, or worse, I may have become accustomed to a tainted fuel source.
Recently, a popular idol from the world of two wheels was brought low by a confession that shocked many. A confession of a tank that had been filled with dirty fuel. As fans, pundits and haters rushed to label the undoubtedly inexcusable actions of a man worshipped beyond reason, I found myself appreciating him, and the barren land where he has parked his proverbial bike.
No, I won't excuse any of it, nor do I see a very public apology at the end of a long and hostile defence, as a truly voluntary admission. It had the feel of a marlin saying to its catcher; "I give up." from the hull of the fishing boat, after an hours long duel. His words can never serve us the way we might have hoped. But they can serve him, who now has as clear a mirror to stare at as he ever has.
We have all done things that if scrutinized, would deeply shame us. I know I have. Not many of us have the good looks, the fame, the money, and the victory over probable death with half a world cheering us on, like this man did. If our fuel is this impure in our state of anonymity, how deplorable would it be under that kind of adulation?
The proclivity, even insistence on dirty fuel is common to all. Using episodes like this recent one to point a finger at someone whose fuel is worse than ours, or simply more visible, in order to feel exonerated, is choosing to look the other way of truth. It is choosing to call dirty fuel - clean, and opting to return to its source rather that seek out a new one.
There is fuel available, made by the manufacturer, which more than exceeds the specifications of our machinery. Fuel so incredibly clean that there will never be need of another. All we need to do is face the state of our condition and ask for a fill-up of the good stuff. That is why running on empty is a good thing.
The tragedy isn't that one person found himself running on dirty fuel. The real tragedy is that so many never do.
There is a Way to Peace
There are sometimes surprising ways in which provision comes to us, and goes out from us. While navigating some of the curves thrown by the road of life, on an empty fuel tank that never ran out, I've often neglected to look up towards the horizon. While the journey continues, it is worth having a look...
My passion for people, relationships and sharing God's grace with those in need, has led me to research, study and launch a practice focused on serving people in need of peace.
The Way Mediation serves the Durham Region (Oshawa, Whitby, Ajax, Pickering, Uxbridge, Clarington, Scugog and Brock) with alternative conflict resolution services in the form of Family Mediation, Elder Care Mediation, Community Mediation, Workplace Disputes , Congregational Mediation and more.
Mediation is a voluntary, confidential way of solving disputes. A trained mediator helps both parties reach a mutually satisfactory agreement. A mediator does not take sides or make decisions, but is a neutral intermediary party in the process. Mediation is very helpful in reducing time consuming and expensive litigation, while fostering positive outcomes and relationships.
For more information about The Way Mediation Inc.,
visit: www.thewaymediation.com
or call: 905-244-0728
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