The Finger Of God. Again. (Part I of III)

Some day I should take an ankle selfie and post it to this reflection. But it's midnight and there's no way that's gonna happen tonight. What would the photo show if it were here? Two ankles, of course. And a 3-inch scar running down each of them.

Yes, I've ruptured both of my Achilles tendons. (It's funny how you learn the technical jargon of anything in your body that you break. I know what a clavicle is, and if you've broken one you surely know that word too.)

To rupture one of those tendons is a rare feat (feet?), but to rupture both puts me in rarefied air, especially since I did one in as a young kid fresh out of college. (It typically happens to weekend warriors in their forties.) So people are usually curious how I pulled off this dubious achievement.

The answer isn't exciting. I was in a racquetball court on both (separate) occasions. But that just explains where I was. The question of Why is a bit more tricky. I can grin and say, "My Achilles heel is my Achilles' heel", and that's good for a smile. But in a more serious response to that question, I often say (or at least think to myself), "The finger of God swept by..."

Why would God's finger swoop past my ankle and leave me critically injured? I don't know. But that answer works as well as any other. God touched Jacob's hip. He touched my ankle. Go figure.

But I don't think of it as a blame game, and furthermore I trust God with these random (or not-so-random) events. (The irony here is that I've reflected recently on the question of randomness–or lack thereof–in life.)

All I know is, aside from those doozies, I've been largely free of stitches.

(Yeah, here it comes...)

Until Sunday. A few days ago I was washing dishes (husbands, take note... this activity can be dangerous!) and went to rinse a Pyrex casserole dish. Whups. It slipped out of my hand. No biggie, right? Well... no. It fell an inch or two (or four?) hit the edge of the sink at the wrong angle and (quite literally) shattered into hundreds of pieces.

And one of those pieces passed by my right thumb. It left a calling card, too. A big long slice. One instant I am perfectly healthy. The next instant...

The finger of God returns. (Or was it a thumb this time?)

Yeah, doesn't look like something you'd do for entertainment, but on the other hand, it doesn't look too serious. Right?

Wrong. Looks can be deceiving. While in the ER, I was struck by the fact that I could not pull my thumb toward my palm. Echoes of a certain ankle injury... But no matter, this is just a thumb, right?

Wrong. The folks in the ER did a nice job of cleaning it up and stitching it, but they didn't seem too keen to mess with my thumb. I was irritated. I'm here. The wound is open. Just go in there and fix it up while we're here?

No.

And to cut (!) a long story, short, I have since discovered that this injury is anything but simple. Tomorrow morning in the wee hours after dawn, I'm going under general anesthesia. And they will attempt to repair a tendon that will not be making anything about the task easy.

Suffice it to say, I will say here that it is simply a mystery to me why I have such a talent for wreaking serious havoc with tendons. What I managed to do while standing in front of a kitchen sink seems to rival the first achilles rupture, which I effected while standing still.

Goooo figure. Lord willing, I'll cover two thoughts in my next reflection. First, why this surgery is going to be so bloody complicated, and second, why that fact makes me wish I had been less frustrated with the health professionals looking after me over the past few days.

Damned Words

I offended him, and he had every right to be offended. What made the situation unusual, perhaps, is that he made it clear that I had done so.

Others with thicker skin might have brushed it off, but I was blessed by the candor of his words: "Now, Pilgrim, you don't have to make me feel stupid."

Not much of a blessing? To the contrary, it is a great blessing to have your faults pointed out to you, however painful that experience may be. And it hurt a lot to hear those words, because I had earned them, and I don't like to think of myself as an asshole, especially in a public setting.

But that, in unvarnished terms, was what I had been. I did the best damage control I could in a crowded room, and later pulled him aside and apologized for having been an asshole, using those very words.

Then this morning I read some scriptures and my devotional-du-jour. (Yes, there was a break in there where I had to feed the hamster.)

It was something I read in my devotional that inspired me to write this blog, but as I began to type, I suddenly remembered the scriptures I had read, and realized that they too were pointing in the same direction.

Devotional first. From The Imitation of Christ: "Beware of much talking."

Yeah, not a long quote. But it cut to the bone. I had offended this fellow traveler with callous and careless words. I speak way too soon and way too flippantly. Way too often. Yes, Thomas à Kempis had me pinned.

But it wasn't just Thomas. Jesus piled on. I remembered what I had read...

Matthew 12:34-37

You brood of vipers, how can you who are evil say anything good? For out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks. Good people bring good things out of the good stored up in them, and evil people bring evil things out of the evil stored up in them. But I tell you that people will have to give account on the day of judgment for every empty word they have spoken. For by your own words you will be acquitted, and by your words you will be condemned.

Another irony. As I began to type in this passage from Matthew, I was reminded gently of what I had been thinking about when I had been reading this passage on the first pass–or should I say who. Donald Trump.

Yes, Donald will have a lot to give account for, and I do not envy him his situation on that front. But Jesus had something to say about taking care of your own sins before attending to the sins of others. This morning I should have left The Donald to God and attended to myself first. I hadn't, but Thomas (bless him) helped me return to Jesus.

And now I realize they were both speaking to me. I need to watch my mouth. And be thankful for God's mercy, as well as the mercy of that fellow traveler, who immediately gave me the gracious words I needed to hear.

"I forgive you."

Lessons on Prayer From A Hamster

So we return again to the lowly hamster. I've blogged about them before.

Over the years I have, thanks to hamsters, been the beneficiary of an occasional good reminder. Today's reflection begins with a bit of hamster basics: they sleep at day and run around their cage all night. They're nocturnal. This is not a plus. They can be noisy at night, running on the wheel and making their various noises.

So when we bought yet another hamster this year (they don't live long, either, which is also a bummer) it was decided to put this one in my basement office, so that the little feller (Mr. Squeakers, to you) doesn't wake anyone up with his nighttime antics.

Here we come to our lesson, for I have a habit of heading into the basement each morning to pray. At least, that's the plan.

But Mr. Squeakers has worked out my schedule. When I come in and flip on the light, it's not more than a minute or two before he strikes the following pose:

Why? Because he know's I will pick him up. And why does he know that? Because I always do. Why do I pick him up? Because he's adorable. And because he's waiting for me. I can't just leave him there.

Now the fact is, he's typically a little anxious when I pick him up. I'm big. He's small. Even though it happens every day, letting me pick him up always seems like a struggle of the will for him. He's afraid. But he seems at the same time to know it's OK.

But I don't think it's entirely the "getting picked up" part that he's excited to have as part of his daily routine. No, I think the bigger selling point of this activity is as shown below:

He knows that after I put him back down, I'm going to give him some food. Every time. And while he's a bit anxious when I pick him up, he's totally relaxed when he places his head in my hand and retrieves the grain offering.

I find all hamsters quite irresistible, and Mr. Squeakers is no exception. It's unfortunate that he's (understandably) rather intimidated by me, and I wish he loved me as much as he loves the food I give him. But that's asking a bit much of a hamster, so I give him attention and food in the morning and appreciate him in ways he cannot begin to know anything about.

It's obvious where I'm going with all of this. I am faced every morning with a striking juxtaposition: Mr. Squeakers meets me in the morning right when I meet with God. In fact, I put off my meeting with God in order to attend to him. The parallels are many and obvious. I don't have to lay them all out. But I am reminded of Jesus' words about sparrows and worry.

Suffice it to say, I am worth many hamsters.

And I am reminded also of this:

Luke 11:11-13 (with modifications)
“Which of you hamster owners, if your hamster wants grain, will put a snake in his cage instead? Or if he wants some celery, will give him a cat? If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your hamster, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

That's an encouraging reminder for a guy heading into prayer time.

Thanks, Mr. Squeakers, for the object lesson. Now off you go to bed.

Improving My Own Unfinished Story. Offline.

[This continues from the 3rd of a 4-part reflection on biographies...]

Three blogs on three celebrities and their stories. My name and story are virtually unknown, however. Ditto that for my blog, which spans six years now. What say we for 2015? A Sabbath rest? Or perhaps a peaceful death.

As I examine my life of late, I feel a growing sense of dissatisfaction and dis-ease — frequently when it seems I have invested my time poorly. There are trade-offs between writing a good story (or trying to, anyway) and living one. I think it's time for me to focus more intently upon the latter.

That's not to say there wasn't value in blogging. Some of my blogs have really helped me (and occasionally others) to think things through or see things in a new way. Nor is it to say that my life's in a bad place. It's not. But we cannot examine too closely how we use our time, and too often my blogging hobby has crowded out other things of greater importance.

Time to cut back. Two activities, to be specific. These words illuminate:

"All his discourse was upon God and the Holy Scriptures. When any in his presence spoke of worldly affairs, he never (unless necessity required) opened his mouth, having no desire of such knowledge. But where conversation turned upon God and heavenly things, his words flowed like a stream from an inexhaustible fountain."

Thus wrote a contemporary of Thomas à Kempis. Two things stand out.

First, Thomas avoided knowledge of the trivial. Me? Not so much. Why else do I know about Bill Cosby's recent travails in such detail? Why else do I know that Angelina's movie had a $65M budget or that she needs a better father figure in her life? If I could remove worthless trivia from my head, I'd be three pounds lighter. It's time (again) for an internet news/trivia diet.

Second, Thomas left us a treasure trove of spiritual gems. In what limited time I have, I'd like to focus more on appreciating and internalizing gems like his than on trying to cut and polish new ones of my own.

Thomas. Bonhoeffer. Hammarskjöld. All on the same journey, but so far ahead. I'd love to catch up with them, but the gap won't narrow until I slow down. I'd love to travel with them and, with God's help, to make my story more like theirs. To, like them, become more like Jesus Christ.

I began my first blog with the observation that my literary efforts were not in high demand. I end my last blog with the observation that nothing has changed since then on that front. Yes, it will be a quiet death for my blog.

But hopefully my story will improve.

Let Unfinished Stories Be Unfinished. And Hope.

[This continues from the 2nd of a 4-part reflection on biographies...]

I didn't see a connection between the last two reflections right away. It wasn't until after publishing the second one that it struck me. Bill Cosby is trying to edit the worst stuff out of his story. Angelina Jolie, in turn, seems no less keen to edit the best stuff out of Louie Zamperini's story.

This realization got me thinking about people and their stories, but the kicker was still coming: an online article arguing that Christians should go see the Unbroken movie and should enjoy it. It was both convincing and moving. And convicting. It challenged my version of Angelina's story.

In my telling of Ms. Jolie's story, she (for whatever personal reasons) didn't want no Bible-thumpin' stuff in her movie, so she cut it out. But I was wrong. It turns out that Louie Zamperini himself wanted the movie done as it was. We could argue the merits of the approach taken, but he wanted the movie to be approachable for people from all walks and faiths.

Then came the 2-by-4 over my head. As I read the article, I was moved by how the entire extended Zamperini family had loved on Angelina and embraced her as their own. Louie, in particular, had become a very dear father figure for Angelina. Lord knows she needs one. Zamperini's daughter Cynthia Garris said this of Angelina:

"She was moved by my father's faith to try [praying to God for help] and that's what he wants for people to get from the movie," Garris explained. "I'll tell you, when my father died we were all with him in the hospital. [Angelina] came about 45 minutes later and she was pointing above saying 'I know he's with us, I know he's there with God.' I think maybe in God's plan for Angelina, she was supposed to find Louie and make this movie to find her way to a life that would encompass the Almighty."

Now the spotlight was on me. If Angelina had read my little vent-fest, would she have wanted me for family? I knew that the answer was No. But I wanted it to be (and knew it should be) Yes. My feelings about both Jolie and her movie had changed drastically. But the funny thing is...

Angelina hasn't changed in the last 12 hours. Just my perception of her.

Angelina Jolie has a story, too. It's complicated. And I don't know it. All this reminds me (yet again) that I should not rush to judge stories I don't know or try to end them prematurely. Especially people's stories.

Let unfinished stories be unfinished. Especially the ones that seem bad. If the story doesn't look pretty, pray for more chapters! This is not a good ending for Bill Cosby's story. Pray for him a good ending. Angelina Jolie has had a rough life. Pray for her a good ending.

[To be continued...]

How To Break Unbroken. (Or Not.)

[Spoiler alert: Book/Movie plot twists revealed here.]

[This continues from the 1st of a 4-part reflection on biographies...]

Having read Unbroken, Laura Hillenbrand's biography on the life of Louis Zamperini, I was quite excited to see the movie. Zamperini was a 1936 USA Olympic runner who became a Japanese POW during WWII. But escaping WWII alive (against all odds) marks only the halfway point of his struggle.

Upon returning to the US, Zamperini's life began to spiral downward, sped on its way by PTSD nightmares, alcoholism and an imminent divorce. The climactic moment in the book is Zamperini's conversion experience at a Billy Graham crusade, after which his whole life was turned around. He gave up the booze. The marriage was saved. The nightmares went away. And Mr. Zamperini spent the rest of his life working in Christian ministry.

This whirlwind summary doesn't begin to cover all of Zamperini's stunning experiences. So I just assumed the movie would follow the plot of the riveting book. Conversion experience and all. Why, I thought, would a movie director risk ruining a $65M movie by messing with the story?

I guess you'd have to ask Ms. Jolie that one, because that's what she did.

She turned the story of the redemption of Louis Zamperini's soul into the story of his surviving WWII. The real climax from the book is literally GONE. Hints of his post-WWI life are pasted onto the screen as quotes during the closing credits, if I understand what I'm reading in the previews.

Did Angelina Jolie really turn the true story of a man's spiritual redemption into a formulaic action flick? So it seemed. I was stunned. I began to muse over how the Lord of the Rings might have looked like under Jolie's direction. Perhaps she would have cut out the Mount Doom sequence? Then in the credits she might inform us that Frodo resolved the situation with the ring and left it in Gollum's possession.

I wouldn't waste my time watching a movie like that. I'd put my money to better uses. And that's what I suspect I'll do with regards to Unbroken, too. Once something is truly broken, there's no use wasting money on it.

At least, that is what I was thinking this morning.

[To be continued...]

Autobiographies, Biographies, and the Final Draft

A verse keeps coming to my mind when I hear about Bill Cosby in the news.

1 Timothy 5:24
The sins of some people are conspicuous and precede them to judgment, while the sins of others follow them there.

If Bill Cosby did do the things he stands accused of, it could fairly be said that he spent fifty years living in the second half of this verse, and in a matter of weeks transitioned (permanently) to the first half.

For many decades, people could hardly make the distinction between Bill Cosby and his fictional personality Cliff Huxtable. Bill was everyone's favorite father figure. All that has changed in the blink of an eye.

In the court of public opinion, Cosby has been branded as an unrepentant sexual predator. America's 3rd most trusted celebrity (out of 3,000) is now ranked 2,615. And dropping.

But Cosby has an autobiography in his head, and he's not going to let go of it that quickly. You can almost hear him saying, "I'll write the story, thank you, and I'll tell you how it goes." When the infamous PBS interview did not go according to that script, he literally went silent.

A strategy of blanket denials and silence served Mr. Cosby well for decades, so it's understandable that this new situation has caught him by surprise. He is used to being in control of his story, but now there's a competing version out there. And try as he might, he can't make it go away.

Which story is more accurate? It's an important question, and it appears that earthly courts will weigh in soon enough. But the whole truth won't be known until God opens the Book of Life and renders a final judgement in the court of heaven. On the Day the Book of Life is opened, all our various (and conflicting) autobiographies and biographies will turn to dust.

Watching Mr. Cosby try (and fail) to control even the earthly version of his life's story is a poignant reminder. There is a true version of our life's story, but none of us are permitted to write the final draft. We only get to live it.

God has the final say. You might want to write that one down, Bill.

To be continued...