Category: Grief

Christianity, Communication, Community, Faith, Freedom, Friendship, Grace, Gratitude, Grief, Hope, Listening, Positive Thinking, Prayer, Recovery, Relationships, Simplicity, Spirituality, Stories, Uncategorized, Writing

“Jim-isms”…

gregoryjoel

Rain came to North Texas last night; everywhere except here in our little cul-de-sac. We may not have gotten wet (yet) but we enjoyed the benefit of a sweet, cool morning. Margaret’s still in Oklahoma so I spent extra time reading, praying, and meditating out on the porch today. This summer is on track to become one of our hotter summers and the relief of coolness and freshness in the air is more than welcome…

I thought about this morning’s blog for quite a while and how to approach it. I am in a twelve-step recovery program and have been for many years. By nature, twelve-step programs are anonymous in nature. As such, I generally do not post or repost anything about “the program”, nor do I wear my recovery publicly. I don’t put recovery-oriented bumper stickers on my car or wear my recovery on T-shirts and such for the same reasons I choose not to put “fish” emblems, crosses, or other Christian symbols on my vehicle or person, even though I am a follower of the Teacher. When I act up, and I do on occasion, I don’t want to set a poor example. It’s not dishonest. I simply don’t want to be a stumbling block to others. I don’t want to be their excuse to miss the opportunity to discover the same joy I’ve found in a relationship with God.

Although I grew up in a home of strong Christian faith, it didn’t take with me. That is how I ended up needing a twelve-step program. It’s ironic that my relationship with God (as I understand Him), didn’t flourish until I found recovery. Over the last twenty-seven years, I’ve been blessed with the wisdom of so many people that have been where I have been and recovered from a “seemingly hopeless state of mind” that wreaked havoc on my life and the lives of everyone around me. I may not wear my recovery on my sleeve, but I’m not ashamed of it either. As my friend Jim used to say (quoting Popeye, of course) “I yam what I yam and that’s all that I am…

I was thinking about my friend Jim a lot lately. He passed on last February and, like my parents, hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about him. I hear his voice throughout the day. A few weeks ago, I joked with a mutual friend that I should write a book of “Jim-isms”: all the little sayings that were so appropriate to the various events of the day. Although I wasn’t serious at the time, that began to change over the last several weeks. I spoke with his widow and she sent a list of “Jim-isms” that an inmate in their prison ministry had compiled. Jim’s voice grew louder as a result.

Jim’s wife said that he never would’ve been comfortable calling them “Jim-isms”. He was simply repeating the things that he had been told repeatedly by his elders. I always knew that “Jim-isms weren’t original, but they were timeless words of wisdom from a man who truly believed in helping others. I won’t go into his biography here. Suffice it to say, that Jim was definitely Jim – you either loved him or hated him as he loved those around him in his often acerbic, sarcastic way.

I have many of my own stories to tell about my friendship with Jim and how he mentored me through the various stages, and often, difficult times of life. I wondered if anyone outside of twelve-step recovery, especially here in North Texas, would even be interested and if I shared them, would I be breaking the tradition of anonymity? The more I prayed and thought about it, the more I realized that Jim’s own recovery was open to anyone, whether in ‘the program’ or not. In fact, as he matured in his own faith, he helped many others beyond the rooms of recovery. He exercised the same spiritual principles no matter what he was doing. Moreover, the twelve steps of various recovery programs came from the wisdom of Jesus’ teaching in the ‘Sermon on the Mount’ and the Book of James in the New Testament. Jesus didn’t exactly seek to remain anonymous and anyway, Jim’s wife gave me permission…

“Jim-isms” apply to far more than twelve-step recovery, although that’s where I first heard them. I was hard-headed, and recovery came about over the first few years I knew Jim. When I finally got on track, I thought my name was ‘Dumb-ass” for the first year or so. After that, I was excited to become “Cowboy”. Once you begin to hear “Jim-isms” that will make perfect sense.

Now that I’ve told you about “Jim-isms” I have a request to make. I’m compiling a complete list and would appreciate it if those of my readers who have their own “Jim-isms” or stories about Jim share them with me. Leave a comment or PM me if you’d rather do that. Please give me a day or two to respond as things are a bit hectic here with a new project starting.

The greatest examples of what it is to live a spiritual and joyous life of freedom are often disguised as old gruff cowboy, ex- Marines, who “love God with all their heart and love others”. I certainly learned not to “judge a book by its cover…”

Christianity, Faith, Family, Grief, Hope, Immigration, Neighbors, Politics, Prayer, Public Policy, Uncategorized

Father’s Day 2018

gregoryjoel

I didn’t spend very much time on the porch this morning, despite the fact it was much more pleasant than it has been lately. Rain came close enough from the south to make for a cool morning. A gentle breeze invited me to stay longer, but I couldn’t. My heart was heavy this morning and I simply needed to retire to my desk to write and journal.

Yesterday was Father’s Day and I want to extend a belated Father’s Day blessing to all fathers out there. I hope you were celebrated and appreciated by the one’s you love. I hope you were able to spend time with your kids, young and old, and enjoy time with family and friends. That wasn’t the case for everyone. Still, I wish a Happy Father’s Day to you all.

My wife got out of bed before I did and left the CBS Morning News on when she went to the porch. When I woke up a short while later, the very first thing I heard was a story about the separation of immigrant families along the southern border of our state. I’ve been following this story closely since it became public knowledge. The more I learn and see, the angrier I get. It’s wrong! It’s evil! I don’t see how anyone with any kind of moral code can remain silent about it!

If there’s anything good to come from such a policy, it’s the growing number of people who are outraged by it. In a culture of divisiveness, anger, and antagonism, it seems to be the one thing people can agree on. Maybe there’s hope for us yet…

I read articles where previous First Ladies, from both ends of the political spectrum, condemn Mr. Trump’s policy of family separation (it’s still impossible to use the words Trump and President in the same sentence without throwing up…). Politicians from both conservative and liberal leanings have equated his policy to Nazi practices and the internment of Japanese-American citizens during World War II.

I had the privilege of celebrating Father’s Day with my wife’s family yesterday while many fathers didn’t even get to see their families because of the corrupt rantings of men like Donald Trump and Jeff Sessions. They won’t even accept responsibility for their evil. They blame it on someone else. They are just doing their job – echoes of Nazi war criminals…

NPR reported the other day that one father had been voluntarily deported to avoid continued separation from his infant son. Four months later he’s still waiting for his son to be returned to him! Not only has the government failed to reunite him with his son, they’re not sure when or where that reunion can take place. I’m not even sure if they know where he is…

I was outraged by a Washington Post report of the long-term damage these kids (and their parents) will suffer as the result of these hateful political games. One pediatrician witnessed a two-year old girl constantly crying and slamming her little fists against the floor because she’s been kept from her mother who came here seeking asylum from neighborhood terror and domestic violence. Such scenes should spark outrage in others as well, regardless of their political leanings or views on immigration.

“As of Thursday, 11,432 migrant children are in the custody of the Department of Health and Human Services, up from 9,000 at the beginning of May. These numbers include minors who arrived at the border without a relative and children separated from their parents.

The policy so far has pushed shelters to their capacity. Administration officials had started making preparations to hold immigrant children on military bases. On Thursday, the Trump administration said it will house children in tents in the desert outside El Paso.” (Washington Post.com  June 17, 2018)

I’d like to believe that we, as a people, are better than this. I’d like to believe that we are better than to allow such behavior to go on unchallenged. Seeing the folks who spent their Father’s Day marching on the Texas border or attending rallies against this cruelty gives me hope. Maybe if enough people put aside their partisanship and simply act like human beings, we can effect change. I’d like to think so…

I understand the anger and frustration that led to the election of a man like Donald Trump. What surprises me is that, according to the most recent Gallup Poll, 42% of Americans still approve of him. I must admit that it scares me more than a little bit. Still, I hope that humanity wins out…

So, on this day after Father’s Day, my heart goes out to all the fathers who are separated from their children, especially because of the maliciousness and evil of morally bankrupt politicians. Please know that there are people with you in spirit who striving to do what’s right on your behalf. Be strong. Love and appreciate your families and know you’re loved and appreciated for wanting them to have a better life – just like most of us fathers. Happy Father’s Day…

Christianity, Faith, Grief, Health, Recovery, Relationships, Spirituality, Trust, Uncategorized

Mother’s Day for a Proud Papa

gregoryjoel

I haven’t posted very much lately. It’s not because the thoughts have slowed down (okay, maybe they have, but not for the reasons you might think…) or because Spring is accompanied by a long “To-Do” list. It has more to do with the fact that I simply haven’t been feeling well. I finally received an answer regarding my CT scan and quite honestly, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. There’s an issue needing to be addressed by my neurosurgeon and I don’t see him until tomorrow. So, the answer I’ve been waiting for is still “wait”. I’m grateful for the lessons I’ve learned about patience, and more importantly, trust. It keeps my thinking in check – from becoming full blown obsession. It reminds me that I have a relationship with a power greater than myself and that Power, whom I know as God, has my best interests at heart.

The physical things going on didn’t keep me from enjoying a beautiful Spring Saturday. I got to spend some time on the porch with my beautiful wife since my grandson’s baseball game didn’t start until 10:30. It was a brilliant sunny day for the game. Watching the parents is almost as much fun as watching the game. They seem to get far more upset with the umpire and the score than the kids do. Maybe they should bring post-game snacks for the adults as well…

Yesterday evening, I had the honor and the privilege of attending the reception for my son’s gallery exhibit. I went early. The crowd was smaller then and I’m having difficulty dealing with crowds right now. Besides, he would be busy later doing what artist do at openings – cavorting about and schmoozing with collectors. He wouldn’t have time for me later. Besides, I’m more of a small-town kind of guy and out of my element. The art world is a different animal…

I spent some time talking to the gallery owner who told me of Jeremy’s successes over the last year. I was the proud papa and learned some things I didn’t know about my son. We don’t talk the way we used to and to hear someone else talk about his growth left me with a feeling of pride and an even deeper love for him as a person, an artist, and my son.

We have an unusual relationship. There have been times when his anger has kept us apart, though never for long. Growing up with an addicted parent, particularly a single parent, isn’t easy. It’s hard to see the effects of the disease of addiction on the people we love the most. I don’t know how I can ever make that right, despite an incredible willingness to do so. I’m sure that parenting out of guilt is not the answer, though I’ve done that more than I’d like to admit. Those of you who have been there know what I mean…

I guess that’s why I was so impressed by his exhibit. Prior to the last year his work reflected the scars of growing up as he did. What I saw, and heard, reflected a letting go of the past and pressing on to the future. My son is growing up. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for both my boys. I felt a sigh of relief last night when I realized that both my boys were, in their own way, men of whom I could be proud, and often despite me…

This morning, Mother’s Day, is an interesting culmination to a great weekend. This is the first Mother’s Day since my mother passed last year. Last night, all I could think about was how proud she must be of Jeremy. She wouldn’t “get” his art but she’d beam with pride at his accomplishment. I would love for her to be there in person, but I’ll just have to settle for her presence spiritually. She was there and she’s so proud of you Jeremy Joel.

Of all the paintings he had on exhibit last night, there was one that struck me at a deeper level than the others. It was a piece about two men in a rowboat, fishing together. I didn’t realize that it depicted Jeremy and I until the gallery owner told me. I felt a massive wave of hope flow over me. I’d like to think that in that moment of awareness our relationship changed. I’m not sure how. I just know it’s different.

Art has a way of doing that. It speaks to a deeper level of consciousness. Great art tells a story; a story that resonates with its observers. It offers hope that maybe, just maybe, the future can be different than the past. Real art – whether paintings, sculpture, movies, music, or great books – speaks loudly and clearly. It says that things don’t have to stay the way they are. Real art compliments the unique spirit within each of us and allows us to see differently. Jeremy, my son, you’ve produced some real art.

As you can probably already tell, this blog hasn’t been entirely objective. Some time back, I told Jeremy I would author a press release for him. The more I tried to write it the more I realized I couldn’t. It wasn’t for me to do. My kids are grown. They’re making their own ways in the world. Jeremy’s work obviously speaks for itself. That’s why he has a gallery show and I do not. I only hope that I can draw pictures with words as well as he does with paint…

Christianity, Grief, Recovery, Relationships, Spirituality, Uncategorized

Family dinners…

gregoryjoel

Spring is in full bloom here in North Texas. Bluebonnets, One-Eyed Susan’s, and Indian Paintbrush make driving, even during rush hour, a beautiful experience. The pink blooms of the Morning Glories are so thick on the freeway medians there’s hardly a trace of green. The Arizona Ash and Pecan trees are vibrant greens and offer shade from the late afternoon sun. We’ve had frequent visits from the Woodpeckers, with their bright red crowns, as well as Cardinals and other species that were absent in the past few years. Blooms are making their appearance in the garden and my mouth is watering in anticipation of homegrown veggies…

I haven’t written as much the last few days. I’ve had several projects going at once, alternating between the office and the outdoors, which I enjoy. I have what my friend calls “First World” problems today: work, home, recovery, and so forth. Busy, busy, busy. So, it was nice to have Sunday to slow down, relax, and stay home. I didn’t write or work on any projects. I read, piddled around the house, and worked in the garden. Sitting here this morning and looking back at the last week, I’m truly grateful for the Sabbath rest, even if it was on Sunday…

One of my regular routes through the city takes me by the Mount Olivet Cemetery. I always look at it as I drive by: my Grandfather’s grave is slightly visible from the road. For the last couple of months something else has caught my eye (and my heart!). The area of the cemetery next to my Grandfather’s is called” Babyland” and, as the name implies, it’s dedicated to the little ones. Rows and rows of tiny headstones line that section of the cemetery. The rows are much closer together and the dates on the headstones range from one day to a couple of years. Balloons, flowers, and crosses adorn many of the graves giving an almost festive, yet somber, atmosphere.

Death is part of life. I know that. Yet, it makes me sad that “Babyland” has grown large enough to expand to an adjoining section of the cemetery. It was there I saw the young couple for the first time that touched me so deeply. I’ve never met them; I don’t know their story except for the little part they’ve unknowingly allowed me to see. And I see it often…

I have experienced the loss of parents, a wife, as well as close friends. I’ve known grief, but I can’t begin to imagine what it must be like to lose a child, especially a young one. Parents aren’t meant to bury their children. I’ve watched friends go through that experience and I’m amazed by the amount of courage, strength, and grace it takes just to make it through the day. I also know there’s no time limit on grief.

That’s why I’m so touched by the young couple I frequently see at Mount Olivet. I have no idea how fresh their loss is, but now that Spring’s here, they’re out there almost every day. There’s always balloons and fresh flowers at the grave and they sit on a blanket sharing dinner, holding hands, until the sun begins to set, and Mount Olivet starts to close the gates. I’m sad for their loss and touched by their spirit…

I have no answers to offer, no words of wisdom. I don’t know why some parents experience the loss of their children and others don’t. What I do know is that by unknowingly sharing their loss and grief, they have shown me what it is to love. I’m more aware of just how precious the people in my life are. I want to hug my kids and grandkids. I become a little more present in the lives of the people who have so wonderfully touched mine. Ultimately, through the simple grief and love of two people I don’t even know, I’m reminded to cherish my family and friends more, love a little better and live each day to the fullest.

I’m always amazed at how God uses our grief, our loss, and our pain for good. Several years ago, my friend Rusty lost his mother. I never had the opportunity to know her. By the time Rusty and I met, she was already in a memory care center, suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. I attended her viewing to pay my respects to the family since I couldn’t be at the funeral the following day. Rusty showed me a picture of his dad, Dale, feeding her dinner one night. I found out that Dale spent everyday for several years visiting the center, helping feed the love of his life, and spending time with her even when Alzheimer’s robbed her of their life together. Rusty explained how everyone at the center knew and loved Dale. I can only imagine that his cheerfulness and his love for his bride was contagious.

Several weeks later, Rusty and I were having lunch and his Mom came up in conversation. He asked the question we all ask while grieving: why. Why did his mom have to suffer such a horrific illness for so long? I certainly didn’t have an answer. Until I remembered the picture he had shown me. Maybe her caregivers saw the love she shared with Dale and maybe they went home and were a little more loving? Maybe, just maybe, they had a little more patience, tolerance and gratitude for the people in their lives? Maybe his parents were simply busy sharing the Good News: preaching by example of just how much God loves us.

I’m so grateful for seeing a couple in a cemetery and a picture in a wallet. Sometimes the greatest joys come from the most unlikely places. I’m grateful for the ability to see that sometimes even grief can be Good News…