Hitting Hard

Posted on December 7, 2013 by ivanbenson

On Wednesday of this week the traffic on the way to work was unusually heavy, and the pouring rain made it an even greater challenge to navigate. As I crept along in the seemingly endless slow moving stream of cars I was imagining there must be a horrible accident up ahead, and so I tried to take the focus off myself and my lateness, and refocus on the unknown injured parties in the accident.

But when I passed the scene all it appeared to be was one patrol car that had pulled someone over for a traffic violation. I couldn’t believe that this tiny insignificant scene had held up traffic for so many miles.

When I arrived at work (10 minutes late), I carefully descended the outdoor wooden beam steps that lead to my office (most treacherous when rainy). Once safely inside I hurriedly put down my things, started up the computer, etc. and then noticed I did not have my cell phone with me. Assuming I had left it in the car I proceeded to walk back up the rain soaked wooden steps.

As I began my trek back up the steps I was thinking to myself, “Now be just as careful going up those steps as you were coming . . . ” and then BOOM! In an instant I had fallen, as if on ice. No time to react. No time to brace myself with my hands. BOOM!

All I knew was that my cheek had hit the corner of one of the wooden beams. And I am not referring to the cheek that sits halfway between my head and my feet. It was my face that took the brunt of the fall, with left ribcage and knees to follow. I wish I had a video of the fall. Maybe.

One moment I was upright, and the next moment I experienced a bone crushing blow to my face. As I rolled over, and moaned, I thought to myself, “Wow! You have really hurt yourself badly this time!”

I did triage on myself and decided I was worth saving. Upon inspection in the bathroom mirror I saw bleeding upper teeth and gums, and a bleeding cut on my face. I applied frozen peas to the affected area and began trying to read emails, etc. (hard to do with one hand – for me, anyway), hoping to reduce what was sure to be one heck of a swollen head.

Eventually, after running some work errands, it became apparent that I might be better off resting at home, and so my work day ended a bit early. Once home, I called the dentist, and he seemed to agree with me that any ensuing problems would make themselves known in the next few weeks (e.g. dead teeth from the traumatic blow, etc.) and that there was no urgent need for me to come in to be examined unless I wanted to do so. Nothing was cracked (apparently), and nothing loose. So, I applied ibuprofen and some more periodic icing therapy.

And there you have it!  My sob story for December 2013.

Truthfully, I am relieved that things weren’t much worse. My left eye sits in that same vicinity. And believe me, if it had been hit with the same ferocity, having no protection whatsoever, well . . . you know how that might have gone down. I suppose I could have hit my temple, or the back of my head. Just three years ago a friend my age went to haul out trash from his house, fell on ice, ended up in the hospital with bleeding on the brain, and died days later.  Several more years back another friend was golfing, lost his grip holding onto the back of a golf cart, hit his head, and has had severe, irreparable brain damage as a result.

It always amazes me when a traumatic event interrupts our lives and changes the course for us. It changes plans. It changes dreams. It changes families. It even changes us.

That same afternoon a family member called to tell me some details about a close relative’s developing condition: possibly some dementia or early Alzheimer’s disease. Hopefully, tests later this month will tell us more.

And in an instant . . . everything is refocused.

It seems that it always takes a hard hit to cause me to refocus. An accident, a death, a tragedy of some kind or other is required to get my attention off my routine. And it is in those moments that clarity comes: clarity about priorities; clarity about values; clarity about – life.

I wish I could say that I live with that kind of clarity on a daily basis. But, alas, I do not!

I must be jarred into clarity. I must be slammed to the ground sometimes before I open my eyes to the true value of the persons and things around me.

The Christmas season is upon us. A time when we are reminded (no matter our personal beliefs) of the value of family and friends. A time when we are encouraged to give of ourselves and our possessions. A time when sacrifice for others puts a smile on our face. And when assisting the needy or dropping a few dollars into a Salvation Army bucket just feels exactly right.

But it also is a time of bone jarring events. For no matter what personal decisions you have made about the man Jesus, and the meaning of Christmas, the events that ensued as a result of that man’s birth have changed history forever. Ancient history records stories about an amazing star, the journey of Magi, the murder of infants and toddlers, and a chorus in the night sky for Bedouin shepherds.

Some were tragedies. Some were amazing events, seismic in proportion to the every day life of the average person. But in each case their profundity was lived out in the lives of the persons they touched.

Those persons were never the same again.

They had to refocus.

And so do I. What we never seem to know is whether or not the trauma/amazing event we are experiencing at any given time is a life-changer, or merely a blip on the screen of life, a blip that one day we will hardly recall.

May we learn to read the events of our lives with both appreciation and appropriate pause.

And . . . watch those steps!  Slippery when wet.

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Dirty Stories (Adults Only)

Posted on November 19, 2013 by ivanbenson

I generally try to keep my blog stories clean and wholesome for readers, but from time to time I have to deal with subjects that are best termed dirty stories. I hope no one is offended, but . . . here we go!

My grandson matriculated in an intensive three day long boot camp for learning to use the potty last week. His diapers were put in the garage, and be began wearing big boy underwear exclusively. He completed the course with flying colors, although he is still perfecting the timely expulsion of fecal matter.

We are watching him at our house, today; this happens each week on Tuesday. We pick him up at his house, then drive to Dunkin Donuts, eat a cinnamon raisin bagel, chat with the workers there, then drive to our house where he spends the remainder of the day. Of course, today we did not spend any time at the doughnut shop because we wanted to make sure he didn’t have an “accident” before we could get him to safe potty haven.

So far, he has performed admirably, and even called out to us not long after his nap began, saying, “I have to potty!” And potty he did. No accidents so far today. Bravo! He is awarded a sticker and a small cookie for each successful episode where the undies stay dry.

Of course, we make a big deal over his success. We even have a children’s book about using the potty; he can push a button on the front of the book and hear the sound of a toilet flushing and children laughing and enjoying the experience. What will they think of next?

Needless to say, he is proud of himself. He no longer wears “baby diapers,” and his physique has even noticeably improved: his derriere looks so slim and trim without that bulky diaper.

I don’t remember potty training, but I do remember wetting the bed a number of times. I’m sure my grandson will experience some setbacks in the future, too. But he has now successfully tackled one of his first hurdles in life, well on his way to becoming a functioning adult, right?

We all have to learn these lessons in life, don’t we? Don’t pick your nose in public. Don’t belch; but if you do so inadvertently, please say, “excuse me.” Don’t eat with your mouth open. The list is endless. Most of us follow these rules, and we find it difficult to be around folks who do not. It’s just “common decency,” we sometimes say.

Theoretically then, I suppose that by the time a person is 30, or 40, or 50, or 60 or more years old – they should have perfected themselves in an untold number of ways: socially, hygienically, mentally, physically, spiritually, etc.

But often . . . that is not the case.

Many of us carry into adulthood any number of childish habits we have never given up; we foster attitudes which should have been discarded and replaced years before; we hold onto ways of dealing with others that seemed to work well when we were little children; we have ceased growing, maturing, and nurturing what is good, healthy, and right.

After potty training . . . we quit growing up!

You can easily see this in post offices and banks (at least that’s where I’ve seen it the most) where people are made to wait in lines. We loathe waiting, don’t we? Of course. But those who have never grown up are the ones you’ll find barking at the employees, trying to get privileges for themselves that no one else in line receives, and openly expressing their disgust at having to be detained in the course of their day.

What derails us in our growth as humans?

By the time we should be excellent human beings we are often anything but that! And sometimes this shows itself in old age the most. I am not speaking here of elderly people who have diseases which cause them to lose their emotional or mental abilities. In most cases, elderly incorrigibles were middle-aged incorrigibles, and young adult incorrigibles before that.

As my mother approached her final months and days she remained the gentle soul she had always been. She maintained a sense of respectability, decency, and propriety right up until her final breath. That is who she was. When she finished her formal education in school her learning did not stop. She continued to read, to write, to take classes in continuing education, to improve herself. She was not a perfect human being. But she read books of various kinds until her eyes failed her, and her strength failed her in the last week of her life – a life of 88 years.

Why do so many of us quit growing up?

Do we get tired of all the hard work? Is it that we reach a point in life where people no longer prod us along? Demands are seldom foisted upon us, and we are left to live as we please because no one wants to deal with us anymore?

Is that the way you want to be thought of as you grow older? Truly? Someone who must be dealt with?

Not me.

I pray that I will not give myself license to be a pain in the butt when I am old. I hope I do not reach a time in life when I expect others to tolerate bad behavior in me just because I have given up doing the work necessary to have meaningful relationships. Even if I am forced to revert to wearing diapers again – because I have lost physical control of my bowels – I will not shirk on my responsibility to continue to engage amicably with others in this dance we call life.

I want to keep growing up . . . until I take my final breath.

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60 Years . . . and Counting

Posted on November 12, 2013 by ivanbenson

All right, all right! Some people are impressed that today’s numerical date (not in Europe, since they do it backwards) is 11/12/13. I think that’s pretty cool. But it’s especially cool because today is also my 60th birthday!

That’s right! It is, as Dylan Thomas might say, “my” sixtieth “year to heaven.” Actually, he said “thirtieth,” but who’s counting, right? He actually died in my birth year (1953) three days before I was born.

And I was born premature, mother always said. I weighed in at just over 4 pounds, had to be put in an incubator, and stayed in the hospital for several days after mother had been released. That should have been ample warning concerning the trouble I would make in this life, I’d say. (You know, they eventually named a famous hurricane after me in 2004).

So, now I have officially begun my 61st year on this planet (having lived full lives on several others previous to this, of course). And it seems fitting that I should share six decades of accumulated wisdom with you (or three score and a day for those still using such archaic language).

As I have made by way through this day, so far, I have been inundated with little white note cards from my immediate family members; note cards that carry the sweetest, most admirable comments a man could want to read. And I have found them in the most unlikely places, scattered around the house: on mirrors, in the shower, under my laptop computer, taped on doors, etc.

The sentiments are priceless. I am told that by day’s end they will total 60 in all.

As I read each of them, I am reminded of a simple truth: the way I decide to live my life affects many people, and it affects them profoundly.

In the age of “do your own thing” and “be your own person” (actually, I was taught in high school English class that it was 14th century Chaucer who said, “let it suffice for each man to do his own thing” although I can find no reference for such a statement), it is quite clear to me that my actions have a significant and sometimes lasting effect on those closest to me.

And it is more than comforting to learn that 60 years of perfection (even if it were attainable), is not the goal. In fact, it is not even what is most helpful.

My life has been made up of many successes and many failures. Not unlike others, I am sure. But it is my birthday, today, so humor me! What I learned from my friend, Landon Saunders, in the 1980s, has stuck with me for 30 years:

“God has great tasks only for those who have demonstrated their ability to deal with great failure. The greater the failure, the greater the opportunity for service.”

Failure is a given in this life. No one is immune. What I do with my failure? Ah . . . that, my friend, is the key. Do I “shrink to fit my failure”? Or do I learn how to rise above it, and go on? Will I have the “heart of the fighter,” and will I learn to truly be “a great human being”?

One thing I have learned in my sixty years on this earth is this: your children benefit from your mistakes and how you deal with them every bit as much, if not more, than your successes.

How comforting! Then I have a wealth of wisdom to share, don’t I?

Oops! I have a wealth of mistakes. But that is not the key, is it? It is how I deal with those mistakes that makes them either a benefit or a curse.

Perfection eludes us all. Shame, the modern world tells us,  is unhealthy, and should be eradicated. And so, we are tempted to deny our shame, deny our mistakes, do what is natural for us, and do it with total abandon.

As a friend of mine used to say, “And how’s that working out for you?”

It doesn’t work out well at all! There are things that are “right” and things that are “wrong.” Each of us crosses those boundaries on a regular basis, and ends up paying a price for our choices. But we compound the price we pay, we increase the cost geometrically, we multiply and intensify the effect of our error – when we deny it.

When we admit our wrong, and take steps to correct it, the effect on those around us is almost magical, because it proves that transformation is possible. Instead of bearing shame, we wear a badge of honor; instead of working to deny our weakness (which is quite tiring), we use our weakness as a tool to serve other human beings.

At any rate, that is what I have learned in my sixty years. And it has served to strengthen my family. If you disagree, or are simply not impressed with my words of wisdom, please bear in mind . . .

I was a preemie.

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Thanksgiving

Posted on November 6, 2013 by ivanbenson

Three weeks from this Thursday families across this country will celebrate a day that Abraham Lincoln proclaimed a national Thanksgiving Day in 1863. Prior to that there is evidence that some form of it had been celebrated by various colonies (and later by individual states) as early as 1621; the first such autumn celebration was engaged in by the Wampanoag tribe and the Plymouth colonists.

This year my brother and his wife plan to join us; both my daughters will be present, as well as my son-in-law and my grandson. And once again, I have arranged to be off work. It promises to be a delightful time. I’m sure we will make an excursion to see my parents’ grave markers, and to put new flowers there.

I am also sure that we will overeat a bit, suffer sleepiness from the tryptophan in our turkey, and pecan pie in our bellies, etc. But overall there will be celebration of family, love, and togetherness.

It was interesting (and puzzling) to me years ago when someone close to me said that their favorite holiday was . . . no, not Christmas; rather . . . Thanksgiving Day! Since then I have begun to understand that feeling. Each holiday has its special flare, but I must admit there is something about Thanksgiving that seems foundational, substantial, seminal, the basis of everything that matters in life.

It is, indeed, the celebration of life and togetherness.

This year (in our family) we are trying to think of something each day until November 28 for which we are grateful. We will take turns thinking of a word or theme for each day of the month, share that in the morning with each family member, and remember that item throughout the day. We started two days ago, so the list is not yet long:

  • November 4 – The gift of one more day of life
  • November 5 – The blessing of our various pets throughout the years
  • November 6 – The changing of the seasons (of life, and of the weather)

I don’t know what we will come up with the rest of the month, but I am certain that each item will be full of meaning for each of us. If you have not yet planned something for your family to do as you progress toward Thanksgiving Day, I would highly recommend you try something like this!

We do so little together as families anymore, it seems. It is amazing how unified you feel when you share a little project like this. The rewards are mammoth in comparison with the effort expended.

Give it a try!

Two years ago we met at our house with this same grouping of persons for Thanksgiving Day, and we took a family picture to remember the event. Now two persons in the photograph will be missing this year: my mother, and my niece.

I am certain that in that first celebration of autumn in 1621 there were mixed feelings: gratefulness, as well as sadness; 50 of the 102 persons who made the initial voyage from England died in the first winter there in Massachusetts. Surely that was on each person’s mind as they celebrated that next autumn.

As Garrison Keillor reminisced many years ago (when singing about a family sitting around grandma’s table for Sunday dinner), “children take the places – of folks they never met.” Kermit the Frog says that “life is made up of meetings and partings; that is the way of it.” It has been so ever since the first Thanksgiving; it remains so, today.

{NOTE: If you are not impressed with my philosophical sources, I am sorry; I do not intend to apologize! I give no quarter to persons who do not respect Keillor or Kermit.}

The fall leaves change their color magnificently and with unparalleled flare, reminding us (perhaps) that the passing of life has a beauty all its own, and reminding us (as Abraham Lincoln also said that same year in November) “. . . it is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work . . . to be dedicated to the great task remaining before us . . . .”

And what was that unfinished work, that great task to which Lincoln referred as he reminisced about Gettysburg and the sacrifices made that previous summer? Was it not the work of unifying the divided country, the great task of creating a government that exists “of,” “by,” and “for” the people? And in that, achieving a “new birth of freedom.”

It may seem obvious, but . . . it seems to me that, difficult as it may be to attain, what Lincoln longed for – what each of us longs for – is a country that resembles a family.

Now I do not intend to wax political with you. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am closely akin to Alan Jackson’s description of himself in his song Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning).

It may be true that “it takes a village” to rear a child; what I am certain of is that it takes a family to rear a child, empower a young adult, energize the middle-aged, and care for the elderly.

And that is, I think, the element of attractiveness that gives Thanksgiving Day its beauty: it is the day (above all other days) that honors, commemorates, and applauds the concept of family.

Without family . . . well, I shudder to think what we would be like. Selfishness would prevail, of course, and we would have no safe haven where we could unreservedly be ourselves. There would likely be no of whom you could say, “they’ve known me since I was born.”

In the family we find acceptance, encouragement, and identity. We find our true selves.

On Thanksgiving Day we do not look for presents under a tree; rather, we look for presents in the presence of persons around us. Special persons. Parents. Grandparents. Great grandparents. Aunts, uncles, children of all ages.

For the truth is this: we all sit together at the table of life, sharing our bountiful harvest, enjoying the laughter, and clinging to one another through the tears. And as the faces around the table change, one by one, and the old are replaced by the young – we keep on telling the stories of the ones who have gone before us.

At Thanksgiving we get back in touch with our roots; as a nation, but also as individual families. And we rehearse the tales that have made us who we are.

I love Thanksgiving Day.

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Waiting

Posted on October 22, 2013 by ivanbenson

I am sitting in a surgical waiting room at Piedmont Hospital in midtown Atlanta, Georgia. The room was designed for waiting. And that is what I am doing.

Waiting.

I am waiting along with a host of strangers. An adjoining waiting room is for heart surgery patients’ families; the section I am in is for general surgery.

I am waiting for my wife, today.

Her surgery has now been delayed, so the waiting time will be increased. Several hours, they think.

Waiting.

All my life I’ve heard that waiting is not a long suit for Americans; it has become axiomatic. But waiting has its values, of course; payoffs that are rewarding even though we do not seek them out. Serendipitous, I suppose.

While sitting in this waiting room the silence was broken when an elderly gentleman came in with his female companion, and started a discussion with the admissions worker who had escorted them over to general surgery. At first the worker seemed a bit perturbed, but soon it was apparent that he had her attention.

He said, “Eighty-one years ago I was born in this hospital. I spent a week here, and I have my mother’s bill for that week; it totaled $99.84.” He wanted to give this to the worker so she could hand it over to persons who handled the display of historical artifacts and papers at Piedmont Hospital. She told him she would get it into the appropriate hands.

Piedmont Hospital actually began as a 10 bed sanatorium and school for nurses in 1905. The first graduating class matriculated in 1907, around the same time my paternal grandmother and her sister (both orphans) graduated from high school in Columbia, South Carolina (at what would become the Epworth Orphanage). Grandmother would go on to attend nursing school in Augusta, Georgia.

The Piedmont Sanatorium and Training School for Nurses was originally located on Capitol Avenue where the now defunct Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium would one day stand. In 1957 Piedmont Hospital moved to its current location on Peachtree Road. The nursing school was closed in 1983, but the burgeoning hospital continues to grow and expand to the present day.

But I digress.

The 81 year old gentleman I mentioned previously broke the uncomfortable silence that typically surrounds such waiting areas. Several began a discussion of the cost of things, change, etc. One gentleman (in his early 70s) said he was born on a farm, and his doctor had charged $2.00 for the birth. A woman seated nearby shared her story of 34 cent gasoline, but was then trumped by the 81 year old who remembered 17 cents per gallon. (Factually, at 60 I can even recall 17 cent gas out in Tucson, Arizona in the early 1960s; my father said that was due to what he called “gas wars”).

Two women began a discussion of the common faith they shared (one of them was reading the Bible), then exchanged email addresses. Soon our small group had covered everything from kidney stones to the growing number of deaths of friends and loved ones, and the decreasing number of classmates still alive at class reunions.

Waiting.

Waiting can sometimes unite people who would otherwise never interact with one another. It creates a common bond, a shared experience, a conjoint journey (if you will). When you wait with someone, there are barriers that collapse, possibly because familiarity allays fear. We are social creatures. And so, given enough time, and a setting which either breeds emotional safety or forges inescapable dependance, we talk. We share. We accept.

I have been in lines at the grocery store where waiting was cursed. I have witnessed the same phenomenon at banks and post offices (and here the emotions tend to run very high, because people are in a hurry for a variety of reasons). Amusement parks are notorious in this regard. And I’m sure the same might be said of doctor’s offices, restaurants, and any number of other places we go. The axiom is true. We do not like to wait.

It is interesting to me that waiting comes highly recommended in certain ancient writings (Psalm 27:14; Isaiah 40:31; Acts 8:4; Romans 8:23; 1 Corinthians 11:33; 1 Thessalonians 1:10; Psalm 40:1-3). Truthfully, I suspect that waiting has never won a popularity contest among human beings. It has always been hard on us.

No matter what society.

No matter what time period.

I’ve noticed an odd phenomenon when cooking my breakfast oats in the morning. We usually buy the old fashioned kind of oats at the grocery, but this last time we got the “quick” cooking oats by mistake. They are different in appearance from the old fashioned oats; they are smaller, more compact, more uniform. And they cook differently, too. If I microwave a serving size of old fashioned oats in a quart glass measuring bowl, I have to watch to make sure it does not boil over and spill everywhere. But the quick oats . . . they do not boil over at all. Hmmmm.

I wonder how much of life we miss because of the hurry we are in? When the experiences of our lives are so controlled that they cannot boil over? Predictable. Without surprises. And quickly gratified. But how nourishing?

Much has been written in recent decades about enjoying the journey and not just the destination. So, I will not go there, today. But suffice it to say that in this waiting room today, I have connected with the humanity of strangers in a way impossible to achieve in my insulated, routine, fast-and-furious lifestyle.

With the windows of my life rolled down, I may have a first-hand encounter with heat, or cold, or inclement weather. But I will likely do so in the company of others. And that will make all the difference.

When my wife emerges from surgery later today, and I discover that she is safe and will recover, I will experience great relief. And I’m sure that – if they were aware of it – each of the persons in that small section of the waiting room this morning would be happy for me. For us. And I would feel the same for each of them and their loved ones.

Waiting has both improved my character, and informed by life.

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Living Life in H0 Gauge

Posted on October 15, 2013 by ivanbenson

I just couldn’t help myself today. I had taken my 2 1/2 year old grandson to “the train store” (although his pronunciation of that phrase sounds a bit different from what you just sounded out in your head), and while he was busy playing with the wooden Thomas train sets, I happened upon a couple of things to interest me, too.

You see, I have always loved trains.

When I was a boy my father pulled down an old electric train that had been stored in a box up high in the garage. I think it had belonged to his nephew, Edward (he was named after Dad). It was fantastic! A solid black locomotive engine in what must have been O scale. It was powered by an electric transformer that gave off an oily-electric odor; turning a plastic knob would increase or decrease its speed. We would set up the track, making it wind under and around the furniture, couple up the cars (there were several, as I recall, boxcars, oil tankers, caboose, etc.), then we would turn out the lights and start it up. It had a headlight on the engine, and we would watch it wind its way around the track in the dark, watching as the beam of light scanned each piece of new terrain. It was enchanting.

I have often wondered what happened to that old train.

My father told us that he was interested in the smaller H0 scale trains (named this because they are 1:87, roughly half the size of the O scale trains), and that he had wanted to have one for himself. It intrigued me (and pleased me immensely) that even as a man he still had an interest in something that was so important to me as a child. I loved that about him. The boy. In the man.

Many years later, as a married man with children, I purchased a starter H0 scale train set for Dad. I don’t know if it thrilled him or not, but to me, it was the perfect gift for him. I mean, what would YOU rather have? A tie? A pair of socks? Or . . . a life like H0 scale diesel engine?

The H0 scale trains originated in Germany in the early 1920s, evidently, and by the 1950s they were gaining in popularity in the United States. I remember my cousin, John, had an electric train that must have been O scale. The H0 set Dad brought down for us to play with from time to time (it didn’t get to stay in the house year round) might have been a postwar Lionel although I don’t ever recall seeing the brand name; the engine was made of a heavy metal, and the body of each of the other cars was probably plastic.

And so . . . as I entered the train store today . . . I came with a history, you see. A love story, so to speak. With trains.

I found a small treasure in a cardboard box, a pile of  old pre-owned things, discounted in the extreme, most likely unusable in a working electric train set up. But . . . quite the prize to place in a model train yard, mothballed (so to speak), for visual pleasure only. And I bought it. It was a black locomotive with a coal car that says CHATTANOOGA on its side.

Chattanooga was where my father used to work for Southern Railway; he was a steward for a short time on the railroad.

The mystique that surrounds trains, both model and real-to-life trains, enthralls me. I will forever be captivated by the sound of train whistles, the beckoning of train tunnels, the allure of train tracks that wander into the distance, and the distinct smell of the train yard. These call out to me the instant I hear or see them.

Models. Miniatures. What is it in diminutive things that is so appealing to us?

As the scale of model trains decreased greater attention was given to detail. Depicting the real on a smaller scale. We love that, don’t we? Such is the intent in the phrase, “cute as a bug’s ear.”

I could stand in the train store’s showroom and watch the four or five electric trains they have set up there run for a very long time. There are mountain scenes with tunnels, farm scenes with animals, city scenes with cars, buses, children playing, men and women working . . . life being lived out.

And here I stand, presiding above it all. Like some kind of god.

In the 1985, the Julie Gold song, From A Distance (first recorded by Nanci Griffith in 1987) offered a commentary on perspective with the words “from a distance there is harmony.” From a distance “we all have enough” and we march “in a common band.” Julie’s intent was to say that God is beneficent and kind, and that He sees us without all the detail of our imperfections, just as if he were a man looking on from a great distance.

Whether or not the theological statement is true, what strikes a chord with me today is the parallel I find when I try to mine my fascination with models. Especially diminutive ones. I am fascinated with the visible details, to whatever extent they are possible in an object that has been reduced 87 times (as is the case with HO scale).

But I am more enthralled with the scope of what I am able to see all at once; that is, the ability to see the entirety of an object that in the real world is exceedingly large. I am not dwarfed by a locomotive that could measure 65 to 85 feet in length in the real world. I tower over it in the diminutive world, and can observe its entire circuitous route across the floor, foreseeing obstacles soon to be in its path, and anticipating the timing of its arrival at various junctures.

I am the god of the model train universe, taking satisfaction in the minute details visible to me, and overseeing the passing of events as they transpire in the tiny world that lies in my purview.

It may be that I have over-philosophized this trait or tendency in human beings. But I think not.

I think there is, in each of us, a desire to live life in HO scale; that is, a world of beauty and attractive detail where we are in charge. Where tragedies do indeed occur, but they are limited to derailments that can be easily remedied, or the occasional collapse of a miniature tree (usually caused by the finger of a god who is not being careful).

We long for order, beauty, intricate detail, and realistic scenes both pastoral and urban.

We are obsessed with the depiction of life: in movies, in literature, in art, music, and dance. We want to convey how it really is.

But then, too, we long for the idyllic.

When I look at the tiny HO locomotive engine and coal car I bought today, with the word CHATTANOOGA written across the side of the coal car, and observe the workings of the Walschaerts valve gear and connecting rods, I marvel at the intricacy of this 1970s Tyco Chattanooga Choo Choo.

And I love what I see.

Because from a distance . . . or up close and personal . . . it harks back to a depiction of a world that touched my family in many ways. It was the world of my father and mother. It was, and is, my world. And, no doubt, it will be like the world of my grandson who is enamored with trains, too.

I am in a love story. With trains. Toy trains.

But . . . it’s not trains exactly. It’s about the things we love – together. Or loved together. It’s about our lives.

We revel in the depiction of our lives.

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The Perfect Day

Posted on October 5, 2013 by ivanbenson

I might be wrong about this, but . . . today may have been “the perfect day.”

My wife got up early (for a Saturday) and drove off with a good friend at 7:22 AM, headed for a day of shopping at a craft fair a couple of hours to the south. Our dog, Lex, and I got up just after she left, and began our day. I made the bed, the kitchen got cleaned up, and the washroom straightened. A breakfast of oats, fresh fruit, almonds and coffee was followed by a quick trip to the bank just as it opened so that I could visit my safe deposit box and then make a bank deposit.

When I returned home my daughter and I went together for a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee, spoke with several employees there (that we’ve come to know quite well), and then drove to the site where I will be playing guitar and singing next Saturday evening – to scope out the situation and figure out the placement of loudspeakers, etc.

Upon returning home I put on old jeans and launched into my outdoor tasks for the day: cutting down what remains of the hedges in front of our house, mowing the front and back yards, blowing, raking, and bagging the fall leaves that are making their 2013 debut, then blowing the driveway clean.

An exquisite lunch followed: left over beef and barley soup, toast with peanut butter and avocado (my own creation, sure to become the latest rage since the peanut butter and banana combo I was raised on many years ago), and a few delightful pieces of strawberry, pineapple, cantaloupe, and raspberry.

I told my daughter that lunch was “as good as the smell of a young dog pup’s breath.” But . . . she failed to appreciate the illustration. I’m not sure why.

When my daughter left in the early afternoon to go practice with the church band, I headed to the gym for a short walk on the elliptical (it actually ended up being shorter than I had planned due to my previous activity today – I was worn out), followed that with a much needed shower, a change of clothes, a quick glance at how the stock market is faring, and then I headed for Starbucks. Where I now sit. Writing and drinking a grande salted caramel mocha frappuccino.

Life is good.

My wife will return home in another hour or two. Prior to that I will try to work in some rehearsal time (for my show next Saturday). And after dinner tonight we will go to my other daughter’s house to see our grandson, then sit and watch “The Wonder Years” (which we failed to see when it was aired on TV years ago) with her before heading back home and settling in for another night of much needed sleep.

I feel very blessed, indeed. Some tasks accomplished. Enjoying an absolutely beautiful fall day with a bright, clear, blue sky, and mild temperatures.

A family where love and mutual support are outstanding characteristics (although I must add, we have had to work to get there).

Gifts without number. That I do not deserve. But I appreciate very much.

As my neighbor, Bill Horton, shouted out across the street to me 20 years ago (in Red Bank, TN) as he raised his arms skyward on a beautiful fall day:

“I didn’t do anything to deserve this!  Did YOU?”

No. I didn’t.

And I do not, today.

And so, in contrast to The Perfect Storm . . . factors have converged on this October 5th to create The Perfect Day. A day where love, family, hard work, and leisure have nested together in absolutely perfect proportion.

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Dinosaurs on the Beach?

Posted on September 28, 2013 by ivanbenson

This morning I am sitting in a lovely beach house built in the 1890s. It’s the Washaway house at Grayton Beach, Florida; referred to as “A Grayton Tradition – Washaway” in case you happen to look it up on the internet (http://secure.rivardnet.com/rns/search/AGraytonTr.aspx). The house sits about 100 yards from the ocean water. Absolutely beautiful. I highly recommend it.

I am up early, today, as is my grandson. I was up before the sun, and enjoyed a gorgeous Florida sunrise. The fall air is cool now, and the characteristic beach breeze makes me appreciate my warm cup of coffee even more than usual (and that, is saying something). My grandson’s Mom and Dad need some extra rest, so I have him with me downstairs; we are watching Dinosaur Train on the television.

Last night, my daughter took some pictures of my wife and me on the beach just as the sun was setting. There’s nothing much like a sunset on the beach with a beautiful woman in your arms! And I saw a sight I don’t recall ever seeing before; for beach dwellers it might be commonplace, but to me it was unique. As the red ball of the sun set on the ocean water amidst a thin band of clouds (similar to the masthead on my blog) it appeared to be sitting on a convex shape, like a dinner plate made of sunlight. Breathtaking!

But this morning there are dinosaurs on the beach.

No, not in the paleontological sense (they may have sunbathed on these beaches a long time ago, but not today); just on the television. It puts me to thinking about the generations this house has hosted, and the technological changes it has embraced over the years. The flat screen TV is attached to a wood paneled wall above the fireplace, a wall that once may have held a picture, too – just not one that was animated.

Of course, the electricity that we are so dependent upon, was not original to this house; nor was the type of plumbing we enjoy. Characteristically, the kitchen sits opposite the main house, separated by a breezeway common to 19th century houses. The wood paneled ceilings appear to be about 10 feet high, and there are wooden floors throughout the house.

Much has changed over the years.

I guess the only thing that hasn’t changed is that daily rising, traversing, and setting sun, and the unremitting pounding of the surf onto the shore. But then . . . those are not changeless either, are they?

The shoreline I see today is not even in the same place it was in 1890. There is constant change even though at times it seems infinitesimal. The position of the sun has changed in relation to the earth. And the magnificent stars we saw in the sky last night are not exactly as they have always appeared to their admirers.

My grandson constantly asks for our iPhones so he can “look at Nana’s pictures” (as he says); he loves to watch himself on the screen. He does this activity today in a house built 120 years ago, a time before anyone used the words download, cyberspace, and vanilla chai latte.

We live and love in a world that has been inhabited by countless souls who have gone before us. They walked many of the same paths we tread today . . . well . . . maybe a few inches to the left or right of where we tread today, but . . . nevertheless. And their lives were just as full, and present-day, and pressing as ours. They would not have understood all our gadgets and “necessities,” in their day, would they?

And what lies ahead of each of us?

Change. Change. And more change.

But also . . . love, family, suns, moons, stars, oceans of life experience, and time.

Time effaces this beach I enjoy. Time reminds me that I am about to turn sixty years old in a few weeks. I rise each morning with hopes, dreams, and tasks to perform. Then time washes that day away. Night falls. Then another day begins.

The writer of Ecclesiastes says: “The sun rises, and the sun goes down, and hastens to the place where it rises” (Eccles. 1:5). “What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun” (Eccles. 1:9).

True. Nothing new. Nothing unique and unrepeatable. Not ultimately.

But it feels new today. It feels unique. It feels . . . unrepeatable. Today.

And I think I will go with that feeling today. And I think I will treat it as one of a kind.

And now . . . I will leave you to make your choice.

But before you do . . . take five minutes out of your day (if you please) and read this piece from the ancient Hebrew writings: Psalm 104. You’ll be glad you did.

The morning view from our porch at Grayton Beach - Washaway, Sept. 2013.

My morning view from the porch at Grayton Beach – Washaway, Sept. 2013.

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When Things Collide

Posted on September 10, 2013 by ivanbenson

I have been to two memorials in the past two weeks: one for my niece, Victoria; the other for my friend, Robert, who died on the morning of Vic’s memorial. Vic was 20 years old when she died; Robert was 61. Both services had audiences in excess of 100. And I played a public role in them both.

Vic’s memorial featured a song called “Collide” by Howie Day (released in July 2004). Robert’s service concluded with a song called “The Hurt and The Healer” by MercyMe (released in May 2012).

Both songs seem to focus on the word collide.

Collide is an interesting word to me; arresting, to say the least. Show stopping might be even more appropriate. It carries a force and an awesome power that is hard to match. We talk about cars colliding in a traffic accident, planes colliding in midair. Scientists talk about atoms colliding; they have built particle accelerators which they call colliders.

And it is of interest to me, also, that the word collision (which, of course, is the same word in noun form) does not carry with it the same force as the verb collide. Probably the letter d is responsible here, giving a final and inescapable conclusion to the long vowel sound in the second syllable.

In any event, the word is powerful, forceful, and immediately communicates the fact that there will be a definite change ahead. For when two objects collide (lit. are struck together) . . . neither is ever the same again.

In Howie Day’s song two lovers collide because of their differences; but in the end, they come together in spite of their differences. That is, they “collide” (they are forcefully drawn together) eventually in a positive, even inevitable way, because of their love. In MercyMe’s song the hurt and suffering of life are on a collision course with the grace and mercy of God. And so glory and suffering collide; scars are eventually understood, because when hurt collides with The Healer, what was dead is resuscitated with the breath of God.

Whether you are religious or not, and whether you are in love or not, the apparent contradictory forces described in the previous paragraph may depict situations that ring true with your life’s experience. I would be surprised if they did not.

Out of great disaster strength will sometimes emerge. Horrific terror can spawn heroic and altruistic courage. Hopelessness can sometimes be transformed into indefatigable faith. And unbridled anger and hate . . . can on occasion . . . experience a metamorphosis that would even rival the experience of Kafka’s traveling salesman; it can be changed into love.

Many years ago now, a 20 year old I knew was on the highway between Knoxville, TN and Ashland City, TN. She was just months away from her wedding day, and was driving home from college to spend the holidays at home with her parents and her brother. Her name was Susan. A drunk driver coming from the opposite direction crossed the double yellow line and his car collided with Susan’s car.

Her life hung in the balance. Severe internal injuries and numerous broken bones. One of her eyes was totally destroyed. Susan was a cross country runner, and her strong heart gave her an edge in this battle, I’m sure. But at the time, we were all expecting the worse; they had cautioned us it was likely she wouldn’t make it. Devastation. Horror. The unthinkable had happened in her family.

I can tell you that Susan did recover, albeit with certain physical limitations. She married as planned. Her life did not end. But it was forever changed. That is part and parcel when things collide.

On the 6th of August, 1945, atomic particles were made to collide in the air above Hiroshima, Japan; then again three days later in Nagasaki, Japan. Although they were detonated differently, both caused a bombardment of particles which led to a condition of supercritical mass and nuclear fission. The instant loss of life was unparalleled in history.

When things collide, life changes. And the change is inescapable.

“Even the best fall down sometimes. Even the wrong words seem to rhyme. Even the stars refuse to shine” when things collide, writes Howie Day.

When life as we know it, and death as we know it collide, what happens? When a loved one passes we are forced to struggle over this collision of life and death. When competing national interests come into conflict there is a political (and sometimes military) collision. And when personal aspirations collide with human limitations, or failures create an unyielding limit to the advancement of our dreams . . . our hearts collide with reality.

Things are bound to collide. Of this you can be sure. All that remains . . . all that ever remains . . . is what I will do after the collision event. What I will become. For I cannot stay the same.

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Convergence

Posted on August 27, 2013 by ivanbenson

Jay Winik’s masterfully written book, April 1865, is both insightful and inspiring as it focuses on a single month in our nation’s history; he refers to it as “the month that saved America.”  Indeed. It was not just Robert E. Lee’s surrender at Appomattox that marked that month in our nation’s memory, nor the brutal assassination of our beloved Abraham Lincoln; rather it was the birth of a new nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

Winik says historians agree that “there are dates on which history turns . . . packed with meaning.” For the English it is 1066; for the French, 1789; for Americans, 1492 and 1776. And, he asserts, 1865, April in particular. It is the month our nation was forged in the  furnace of drama and devastation.

Astronomers discuss the aligning of planets, and astrologers find personal insights in the same phenomenon. Some have asserted that the bright star that accompanied Jesus’s birth was large and bright because it was caused by an alignment of heavenly bodies, a confluence (if you will) of planets.

There sometimes occurs an alignment of events in our lives, a confluence; what I would like to call a convergence. For my family it is, and always will be from this moment forward, August 24th.

You see, it was August 24th (just last year) that my dear mother passed away in the wee hours of the morning. It was on August 24th (this year) that we held a memorial for my 20 year old niece, Victoria, in Arlington, VA. And it was on August 24th (also, this year) that my long time friend, and fellow musician, Robert, finally succumbed in his brief battle with cancer.

Any one of these events is monumental in it’s own right. Each one is powerful enough to give us pause, to shake us into mental sobriety, to halt us from our normal pursuits, and to push us into deep contemplation.

But when each of these streams merge into one massive river; when the strands entwine and become a formidable cord; when the breezes become united in a gale force wind . . . all on the same day – the result is a numbness that defies description. Receptor overload.

I try, in vain, to make sense of all these events in our family’s life. But I cannot. Not yet. One day, perhaps. But I doubt it. I suspect that August 24 will remain an anomaly in our family’s history. What does one do with such great tragedy? When disappointment is compounded. When the number of things amiss reach a level of incredulity.

I picture a group of men surrounding the body of our beloved President; it is 7:22 AM on April 15, 1865. In my mind’s eye I can see a table where two indefatigable Generals are seated in the McLean house; it is about 4:00 PM on April 9, 1865. And I can also envision a scene centuries ago when a variegated group of Jesus’s followers gathered together in secret, emotionally crushed by the gruesome and utterly disappointing turn of events that threatened to completely annihilate all their hopes and dreams.

Out of each of these trying events the Phoenix rose from its ashes. Apparent horrific endings gave birth to amazingly powerful beginnings. And the world has never been the same since.

Convergence.

I do not know what lies ahead for us. What I do know is that when volatile weather systems collide and converge, funnel clouds begin to twist, descend toward earth, and form a tornado . . . the unspeakable devastation that occurs is sometimes a precursor to an eventual beauty and surpassing glory beyond our wildest dreams.

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