When God Spoke Through a Witch

Doing this week's Bible study brought to mind a very real example of God's mercy.

In 2004, our choir performed Honegger’s "King David" for our spring concert.  For reasons that still escape me, I decided to audition for the part of the Witch of Endor -- and got it.  I dutifully memorized my part, which was an incantation that was woven through very menacing background music and ran somewhere between 2-3 minutes.  It started out at a whisper and culminated in a couple of blood-curdling screams as Samuel appeared. 

As the weekend of the concert arrived, we had an intense 3-hour choir rehearsal on Thursday night (minus my solo).  Friday night I had an additional rehearsal with the orchestra to go over my part.  We spent about half an hour on that 2-3 minute solo -- trying to get my microphone and the various instrument levels set so that it all worked together to the best effect.  I lost track of how many times I ended up screaming.  Saturday morning brought the 3-hour dress rehearsal with orchestra...and another round of screams. 

Sunday morning I woke up to get ready to go to church to sing for our two services....only to discover I had ABSOLUTELY NO VOICE.  Nothing.  Nada.  The performance was that evening and there was no understudy for my part.  Panic would be understating my immediate reaction.  My husband called in for me to tell them I was going to miss that morning because my voice was questionable, and I spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon not talking, praying constantly for God's assistance and a healing, and drinking a lot of hot water.

By early afternoon I had a whisper, by mid afternoon a soft voice that cracked, and by the time I needed to go to church I had lost the crack, but the voice was still pretty soft.

I talked to the sound technician and explained that Friday's settings were useless and he'd better crank it up the best he could because I had no voice to speak of.  I joined the choir and asked a couple of my friends sitting around me to pray like the dickens when I got up to do my solo.  I knew I'd need their help. 

The concert started.  There were 11 movements before I made my appearance and I lip-synced most of it, trying out my voice a few notes at a time here and there to limber up.  The time came for me to go backstage and change.  I took those few moments to pray for God's voice, calmed my nerves, and stepped up onto the raised platform to begin the incantation.

My voice was there.  I whispered my way through the first few “spells” and then began building in volume.  Two screams to go…with some spoken script between them.  I modified the screams slightly and made it through.  Samuel “appeared” and the narrator took over.  I stepped off the platform and returned to the choir room to get back into my robe, thanking God all the while for giving me a voice.  As I slipped back into the choir, I found my place in the music and prepared to enjoy singing the rest of the concert.  Nothing.  Nada.  Once again, I had absolutely no voice, not even the whispered volume of earlier that afternoon.  The concert would be finished in silence, for me. 

As we left that evening, our choir director stopped me to congratulate me on a good job.  I smiled and thanked her with a softly croaked whisper.  She was stunned, to say the least.  I just smiled, pointed up toward heaven and shrugged.  She got the message, loud and clear.  God had taken mercy on the witch of Endor and had given her a voice that she might both experience and help proclaim the message of God’s glory.

August 18, 2011 -- 5:58 A.M.

Another sleepless night. There have been so many lately. I check the clock next to my bed, 5:00 a.m. — too early to get up. I change positions, beating my poor pillow into a new shape. 5:15 a.m., my cell phone beeps, the sound advising of an incoming text message. My husband, also awake, asks who would be sending something this early. I know before checking that it must be his brother in Chicago.

He didn’t want to call because it was so early, but he wanted us to know that Mom’s caregivers had called him (since it was later there), to let him know that Mom was “in the very last phases of her life.” He ended the text with, “Today is the day.”

My husband heads for the shower while I go downstairs to feed the dogs and start coffee. He comes down and informs me he is going to eat something quickly and then go to see Mom. I tell him I’ll go with him and hurry upstairs to let our son know what is happening. He’s up immediately, planning to go with us. The two of us dash into our respective showers and are out and dressed, ready to go within 15 minutes.

5:58 a.m., the phone rings.

I grab it, certain that it will be the caregiver and wondering if it is to give us the same message she’s already left in Chicago an hour earlier.

“Your Mom is gone.” Words I’ve been praying to hear because we knew it was what Mom wanted. Words I’ve been dreading to hear because they break my heart. I sigh and say the first thing that comes to mind, “Praise be to God for His mercy.” We speak briefly, her tears as audible in her voice as I’m sure mine are.

I walk to our son’s room. “It’s Grandmama, she’s gone. I need to tell Dad.”

We go down together. My husband, who assumes that the call is the same as his brother had received earlier, isn’t prepared for the news. “Already?” he asks, unable for the moment to take it in. Shared tears, and then I leave him in his son’s arms to call his brother.

More shock. He’d received a call, but had misinterpreted the simple message that Mom was no longer in pain to be more of a status update. None of us had expected the end, when it finally came, to be so swift. Mom had lingered throughout the process, and we had come to expect that this final time would be no exception. But as I look back, I realize that what had felt like an excruciatingly long process had really only been a matter of about six weeks. To all of us, especially to Mom, it had seemed interminable.

Yesterday I’d had enough, and in the quiet and privacy of an empty home had told God exactly what I thought about His “perfect timing.” I wasn’t impressed, and I was angry. I let Him have it with both barrels. I figured He was big enough to hear it and to handle it. If I was going to have a meaningful relationship with Him, then He was going to get me in all my honesty. Afterwards, I felt a calmness come over me. I figured that was His answer—instead of a lightning bolt reducing me to ash—and I was grateful for His mercy and understanding.

We wait until a semi-reasonable hour and my husband makes the first call to his cousin. His heart is too raw, and I decide he doesn’t need to do the rest, so I take over the remaining phone calls to family and old friends. Their reactions range from quiet sorrow to heart-rending sobs. But as I speak with them, they begin relieving fond memories and there is an amazing amount of laughter mixed into the conversations. Their words and voices speak of such love. Without thinking, I begin taking notes as I talk to people. Most of them live too far away to come for the memorial service, and when they express regret, I promise them that their voices will be heard and their stories shared.

The amazing thing in all of this is the continued sense of peace and calm.

The inevitable question comes frequently, “How are you?” I explain to friends that right now it’s a mixture of sadness at her passing and gratitude that she is finally at rest. The rejoicing that we promised Mom will come later. But it’s more than that. I realize that the peace brought through faith has provided an incredibly stark contrast to what I experienced with my own parents. It’s not that she wasn’t really “my” mom so somehow it’s easier. What I realize is that this is the peace that we are promised, the one that “surpasses all understanding.” It’s very real, and I am grateful to God.

5:58 a.m. — not the end, but rather the beginning.

However Much Time There Is....

This journey with Mom is different than what I experienced with my parents who both died from cancer.  There is no underlying illness lurking and threatening, no evil thing we can point to as the culprit for our loss.  It’s simply time.  And we’re discovering that nothing about time is truly simple.

This winding down is so different to watch and to experience.  There is no fighting against it.  No thrashing about trying to push away what is to come.  It’s more peaceful.  And yet, the process is still wrapped in frustration for "she who has no patience" (by her own admission) and sorrow for those of us who want to see her happy and yet know that we will be saddened when her earthly presence ends.  But it won't really end — because her sons are her legacy, just as they are their Dad's.  And in turn, each son shares some of that essence with their own families — children and grandchildren — who will share a piece of it with their children to come.  It’s inevitable.

There’s comfort in her continued assertion that the time that she's had here in this life has been well spent in her eyes.   And if there are any questions lingering as to whether or not she’s happy and secure, they are humorously eased when she is asked if she would she would like to speak with a priest.  Her response is quick and sure:  “No.  I haven’t done anything.”  She has her own conversations with God, and she’s good.  No regrets. 

Our conversations are becoming shorter, but they are filled with reminders of love.  This is a new side.  Never one to wear emotions openly, Mom is determined to use this time to remind us about the fact that she “love, love, loves” us.  Well, we love, love, love her, too.  She is, after all, our Mom. 

And that will not change however much time there is.

Do You Have Any Questions?

“Do you have any questions?”  This has become the phrase du jour. 

The doctor asks Mom, “Do you have any questions?”  But while she is certainly cognizant enough to ask questions, she is mired in her own residual pain from a fall five days earlier that has left her aching and miserable.  Nothing is broken per the x-rays and CT Scan, but she hurts nonetheless simply because she’s 92 years old, weighs in at less than 100 pounds, and doesn’t have the padding to cushion her bones when they slam so abruptly against the bathroom floor.

She has plenty of questions on the drive over to see the doctor.  “Who made the appointment?”  “Why am I seeing the doctor?”  “Who said I’m refusing to take my medications?”   We explain the need to have a meeting with all of us in the room at the same time so that there is no question about what is said.  We urge her to talk to the doctor and tell him everything she’s experiencing.  “He’s not a mind-reader,” we tell her.  “You have to tell him what’s wrong and ask him the questions that you want answered.”

The doctor has been treating Mom for years.  He was, in fact, Dad’s doctor, too.  There’s comfort in the fact that he has a history with her.  He knows her and all that she has been through.  He broaches the subject of whether or not she wants any heroic measures taken.

“Do you understand what the doctor is asking you?”  My husband, her son, is tuned in to the fact that she’s withdrawn from the discussion and has just given an answer that we know is exactly opposite of what she’s been saying for several years.

The doctor tries again.  “If something were to happen today, and you had a heart attack, would you want us to do everything we can to help you live longer?”

“No!  I don’t want that.”  Her voice is strong and certain.  Then in a whisper, “Just let me go, it’s time.  It’s time.”  This is the answer we’d been expecting.  The doctor revisits this question several more times throughout the consultation to make certain that he’s confident she knows what she wants.  And she does.  “I miss my husband and sister.  I miss my friends.  I just want to go.”

He gives us a referral for hospice and orders for lab work to be done on the way out of the building.  This generates more questions from Mom as we’re riding down the elevator.  “Why do I have to go?  Why can’t I just go home?”  We explain that the doctor wants to check things.  “I don’t want to go” fails to produce the response she’s looking for as we acknowledge her discomfort but insist that she stop by the lab.  It quickly escalates to temper tantrum proportions, but since she’s in a wheel chair, her options are limited to loud protestations of cruelty.  She’s tired and her back hurts.  We understand, but...  Rebellion quiets and she is soon done with the blood draw and is on the way back to her room at the assisted living facility.  She’s exhausted and probably glad to have us go away so that she can rest in the comfort of her favorite chair.

We stop off at the nursing coordinator’s office.  We’d promised to come by and brief her on the outcome of the meeting.  We learn that hospice has already contacted her, so she has some idea.

We return home to our own message from the hospice provider.  A quick call sets up a meeting the next morning at Mom’s place.  We understand that they offer more than simply being there during the last days, but we have questions as to what exactly they bring to the table in terms of Mom’s care.  We have questions about what Mom’s being on hospice means compared to simply going along as she is without them.

The next morning we’re anticipating Mom’s question to be, “Why are you here?”  We’re not prepared for “Who are you?” as we wheel her into the elevator from the dining room.  The looks that chase across on my husband’s face probably mirror my own.  We’ve been talking with her for 10 or 15 minutes and are stunned.  We know that eyesight is an issue, but she knows our voices and we’ve been calling her “Mom” throughout the conversation.  I can see the question in the hospice nurse’s eyes.  “Is this usual for her?”  I expect she can see the answering confusion on my face as I lean down to tell Mom that it’s us.

We listen to the nurse’s explanations and introduction to this new world that we are entering.  We answer her basic questions about Mom’s health.  Yes, she has Type II Diabetes.  Yes she’s legally blind in one eye.  Mom interjects a clarifying point, explaining that it’s a detached retina, and then settles back into quiet listening.  My question is what she is listening to – I’m not sure it’s the conversation taking place around her.  The nurse lists off various ailments.  No, no, no.  “Basically,” I tell her, “Mom is in pain because of her back.  But other than the diabetes and her eyes, she’s in pretty good shape for a 92-year-old woman who won’t eat.  She’s just wearing down and, frankly, she doesn’t want to be here any more.”

The conversation winds down and, after the nurse has left, we settle in with Mom because we have more questions.  My husband goes through everything again, stopping periodically and asking her to repeat back what he’s said.  She understands their role of just keeping her comfortable.  We decide to be brutally blunt.  Does she understand that if she’s dying, they won’t give her anything to cure the problem?  Mom nods, “They’ll just keep me comfortable.  That’s all I want.”

It’s not a light conversation.  We are all sitting together and very calmly talking about her dying.  For years she’s made announcements at dinners and other gatherings to the effect that “this will probably be the last one,” or there being no need to continue a magazine subscription because she probably won’t be around long enough to get them all.  Such dramatic pronouncements have generally resulted in eye rolls on our part, or quick comebacks like, “Oh, do you have a ticket to go somewhere?”  This is not that conversation.  Today we are telling her that we accept her decision to choose.  We are learning that there comes a time when someone is simply tired and wants to go home. 

There have been so many conversations where she has assured me that she’s content.  She’s had a good life filled with family, friends, and travel.  She is content because she knows that her two sons are happily married, that they have good jobs, and that their children are headed in the right direction.  She tells me that she feels like she’s had everything she could possibly want.  But now, she wants to be with her husband and her sister.  She misses them terribly and she just wants to go.  She’s tried to explain why she feels like she’s done.  For my part, while I understand on a certain level what she’s saying, I’m not in the same place.  I look forward to exploring my life in all its new phases.  She grows impatient and tells me I’ll understand when I get to be her age. 

As I speak with our son, updating him on the latest developments, his response helps me crystallize my own thoughts.  He loves his grandmother dearly.  And while he is sad at the thought of her dying and knows that he will miss her presence in his life, he says that the thing that makes him the saddest of all is watching her be so very unhappy.  “That’s not the way it should be in her last years.  I don’t want to see her being so sad.”

So today, I understand and I accept.  I accept that I do not have her perspective.  I understand that she has been the only mother remaining to me after my own died 28 years ago.  I understand that I didn’t want to face losing that.  But today, I accept that this is not my decision.  It is her life.  And while we are not standing over a woman who is within hours of breathing her last, we are sitting with a woman whose end-time is probably closer than we realize.  And we are sitting with a woman who has the right to be happy and to be comfortable.  So we’ll work on making that our question—“Are you happy?  Are you comfortable?”

On the Verge of Creativity

They’re like ghosts that linger just outside the door that guards my conscious thought, flitting briefly into the periphery of my mental vision and then gone before I can fully turn to see them. They slip away too quickly to capture but still slowly enough to tease me with the knowledge that they were there. Shadowy ideas and images – what I could be painting if I could just see them.

I think back to my childhood. I didn’t use photos for ideas – I didn’t need “no stinkin’ photos.” I had my imagination, and it was rich and limitless. If I wanted to draw an ocean – I knew what my ocean looked like. If I wanted a horse or an entire herd – it was simply a question of what color or colors they would be. A princess, a castle, a crone, a cave. It didn’t matter – I just drew and colored or painted. And when it was done – it was good. It was right. It was what I saw in my mind.

And then I had a bad experience. I ran into a teacher who was determined to destroy my dream because – and I see this now with the vision of an adult – he was jealous of my passion. He’d lost his and mine was too painful a reminder. But I was a child during those years – only 15, 16, 17 – and taught to always respect my elders, my teachers, because they were authority and, therefore, right.

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, the problems escalated when I started taking commercial art from another teacher in addition to my painting class. It was no secret that there were tensions between the two teachers. In fact it was bad enough that the commercial art teacher warned me that there could be some fallout for taking his class. I smiled politely, clueless to what he was trying to say, because it was just a class and their disputes had nothing to do with me. Only it wasn’t just a class. I had failed an important loyalty test. I had crossed over to the enemy, the competition. This was a war, and I was about to become collateral damage.

So I listened to my painting instructor slowly dripping poison – “you’re too smart, you can’t be creative,” “you’ll fail, you’re never going to make it.” Over and over again, sliding into my ear and burrowing into my brain and my heart. By the third year, I began to dread my painting class. I couldn’t do anything right. No matter how hard I tried, he was never pleased with the outcome. He’d shake his head in mock sorrow, sigh, and remind me I was too smart to be creative.

Twice the department chose me to receive a scholarship to attend the Art Center College of Design for figure drawing classes. He couldn’t block it; or maybe he chose not to – I don’t know. So I spent my Saturdays in a totally different environment, feeling like an artist. They liked my work, and I could feel the excitement trying desperately to claw its way up through the slag heap of discouragement under which it was being buried. But then I returned each Monday to class where I was reminded that I was destined to fail. By the time my senior year was over, I had learned the lesson well, and I ran away from a love that had become too painful. I chose another academic subject and settled in to become something, anything other than an artist. Something that I could succeed at because I was smart – but not creative.

I was successful in my career. He was right – I was smart. Much of my career required me to come up with creative ideas that solved problems, so I did. I could see the solutions – full blown and complete in intricate detail – just as I had once seen my paintings.

Thirty-eight years later, I retired.

I started hearing voices. They came from ghosts in my soul and whispered in my heart. They beckoned me to walk past the painting supplies at the art store – a destination I had painstakingly avoided for all those years. I found myself touching the brushes with reverence, holding my breath as my fingers played across soft, supple sable. They were precious and exotic. They were foreign to me, yet I could remember that I once knew how to use them. I felt a longing to know once again.

Was it too late to try? What if I found out that he was right? I dithered, I ignored, I even cried. I was terrified. I was clinging to the dream of a dream and wasn’t certain if I wanted to risk losing even that. My son told me none too gently that he was tired of hearing me whine. Whine? I wasn’t whining. Was I whining? I thought I was wrestling with a dilemma. He added insult to injury and repeated the words I had told him so often. “If you want to do something, then just do it. If you want to take a class, sign up.” He literally stood beside me as I logged into the local community college website and started checking the available art classes. I registered. I felt triumphant and maybe a little nervous. He was pleased, and I thought I might also detect a note of relief. I must have been whining.

And so began my return to painting. The medium was different – acrylics didn’t behave in quite the same way as my beloved oil paints. But I found I remembered much more than I had expected. I was reveling in the fact that I could still paint – even if it was just a black and white study of cones and cubes, spheres and cylinders. The frustration came when my hand couldn’t keep up with my brain. I was rusty and out of practice, but I knew that was something that could be fixed.

What I couldn’t understand was why I no longer knew what my painting was supposed to look like. Everything felt stiff, and I wasn’t sure how to deal with that. Class was over for the semester and I decided to try studying with a private instructor. I got a referral from a local art supply store and made an appointment to take in my three paintings I’d just completed. I told him I needed to “loosen up.” He nodded and said he knew exactly what I was looking for. I signed up for the summer.

My first class arrived and I immediately froze. First of all, he wanted me to use my imagination for a subject. I was stumped. I found a picture to use as a guideline and made my drawing. Since it wasn’t a copy, I had some room to make decisions. But I couldn’t seem to find my voice in the painting. I found myself waiting for him to tell me exactly what to do each step of the way. At the rate I was progressing with this small canvas, it would probably be done in about 18 months. I decided to pick up the pace and try painting at home. I couldn’t, because I didn’t know what he wanted me to do. Another class, another square inch of canvas covered. And frankly, I wasn’t that wild about the way the painting was looking. He kept assuring me that he could see how it was going to look when it was complete and that I would be happy. But rather than making me feel hopeful, it was frustrating.

I took it home and propped it up near my computer. I found myself constantly detouring through the house just to look at it. What was wrong? What was it he was seeing, and why couldn’t I see it? And then I finally realized, I was trying to paint the picture he was seeing, and I didn’t have a clue what that was. And by doing that, it was no longer my painting. I grabbed my brushes and started making changes. No more anemic little dabs of light color applied to minuscule areas of canvas. I started laying on serious, intense color, filling the canvas with what I saw. I took it back to the next class, set it up and started working. He was surprised to see me painting away without the customary period of waiting for his go-ahead. He came over and was shocked to see how far along I’d taken the painting. He studied it, nodded, and smiled. “Nice. I like where you’re going with that.” I liked where I was going, too, and it had less to do with the painting and more with the fact that I realized I actually had a vision and was painting from my imagination.

Summer ended and the fall semester began. I was going to try something new that completely terrified me. Watercolor. I’d tried it once, years before without benefit of instruction, and it was a horrifying mess. But the teacher I’d had the semester before also taught watercolor and she made a compelling argument for giving it another try. Why not – what did I have to lose?

And the answer to that question, as I soon discovered, was what little bit of self-confidence I had achieved over the summer. The medium was difficult and it did not come as naturally to me as it did to some of the other students. The class was composed of varying levels of proficiency. There were those who were brand new and those who had been painting with watercolor for decades. The pros made it look so easy and I soon came to realize that there are natural watercolorists, and then there are those of us who struggle. I persevered and produced adequate results, but they were achieved only through massive sweat and toil. But I was pleased and decided to take another semester.

I had set aside my acrylic painting for the time being. I suspected that the dueling techniques would probably be too confusing. I was right – but I longed for the control over the paint that I had with acrylics. I kept battling the watercolor and was surprised when the pieces I submitted to the student art show were accepted for display. I was stunned when one of them actually won an award. Vindication! I wasn’t so silly as to think that my work was the best – but apparently it had appealed to someone, and that, after all, was the whole point.

That next summer I spent painting with the acrylics and ignored the watercolor. I figured I deserved time off for good behavior. When the fall semester came back around, I enrolled again for another round of watercolor. But in a giant leap of confidence, I now was painting with acrylics at home, certain that I could switch back and forth and handle both.

But I was still struggling with the feeling that something was missing. It wasn’t necessarily the “loosen up” thing that I’d labeled it earlier, and I couldn’t quite put my paint brush on it. Then I read a quote that said art is not about WHAT you see, but rather about what YOU see. Funny how sometimes something so simple is so difficult to articulate. But there it was. And it was that simple.

As a child, I’d painted what I saw, and I’d done it without apology or excuse. That was the freedom I’d set aside at some point. Undoubtedly, part of it had to do with the experience that had driven me away from art in the first place. But I have never considered myself a victim, and I wasn’t about to start now. I knew there was an answer, I just had to look for it.

Our high school was holding a multi-year reunion. While I was not planning on attending, I had been enjoying going to the website and reading about what folks were doing with their lives. Many of the names were only vaguely familiar at this stage. In looking through them, I saw one that I recognized. We hadn’t traveled in the same circle. He’d been part of the popular, jock crowd who’d gone on to an acting career. I hadn’t seen him in anything for years, and I decided to see what he’d been up to. Imagine my shock to discover that he was a nationally known painter. He’d gone on to major in commercial art – obviously having experienced the more nurturing art instructor of the two at our high school. I visited his website to see what he was doing – and it was gorgeous work. He’d left acting 20 years before and was devoting himself to what he loved. I poured over his paintings and realized that while they were beautifully executed, what made them stunning was the emotion that flew out of the canvas.

I’ll admit, my first reaction was jealousy. Why had he gotten to live his dream? I started reading the rest of his website. Going through the material that he’d written about his decision to change styles of art and move into impressionism, I found the passage about painting what you see. It was a quote from another artist, he said, that had made a difference to his own artwork. He went on to add that he believed everyone is creative – that we’re created to be creative. And he threw down a challenge. He said that if someone says they’re not creative – it’s because they’re not taking the time to create.

If it’s possible to be slapped up side the head by reading something, that’s what happened. My jealousy dissolved and was replaced by gratitude. I went back over his work and could see his heart painted all over the canvases. Gratitude was joined by excitement.

I decided to try examining this discovery in the way that works best for me. I started writing and working my way through the process that has been going on. Along the way I realized things I’d never seen before. I made connections and new discoveries about the mistakes of the past. And I’d like to think that I gave them a decent and FINAL burial.

I went back and looked at my high school yearbook. Scribbled by his picture, my teacher had written, “My great dreams were never realized. Maybe yours will be.” He’d signed it and then added something nice about my leadership in art club, probably because he realized what he’d written was all about himself. I sat and looked at that inscription, and I realized that it screamed pain and frustration and self-absorption. How incredibly sad.

And I forgave him.

His problems are not mine. His lack of sight is not mine. His lost passion is not mine.

My passion is alive and starting to burn brightly. I am once again a painter. I may have much to learn insofar as technique, but I can now bring a wealth of life experience that I will mix into my paints and let flow onto my canvases. I am so excited to see what pictures are waiting to come. Now, I just need to tell the images that were lurking and hiding to wait their turn. They’re rushing at me, demanding to be recorded. They’re crying, “Look at me!”

And I can see them.

A Quiet Radical

One of the most meaningful lessons I ever learned in college came out of a required class that had nothing to do with my major and everything, as it turned out, to do with the way I have lived my life.

As a freshman at Chapman in the fall of 1970, I took an entry-level class in philosophy that probably would have curled my mother’s toes if she’d realized what a radical there was teaching it. My parents were both conservative – my mother falling on the “ultra” part of the spectrum. In our family, she was the final arbiter of what was acceptable and what wasn’t insofar as education, behavior, and ideas went. That’s not to say that my dad didn’t have opinions. He did. He just didn’t express them as often and was more easy-going about things than my mom. And if he didn’t have a strong opinion one way or the other, then my mom’s word became law. I was happy enough most of the time to float along, as most children do, accepting the world as presented through my mother’s eyes.

So there I was in a class that was required, facing a professor who was old enough to be my grandfather, and learning that this rather benign, gentle soul had been a conscientious objector in WWII. Oh, no! My first reaction was horror. He must be a Communist – and those of us raised in the 60s who had participated in the duck-and-cover drills through our years in grade school knew what that meant – well at least I knew it was something evil and to be avoided. And by the standards in my house, by everything I had had drilled into me, there was no question but that I should be standing up, marching smartly out of the classroom, and immediately calling my mother so that she could demand my reassignment. (And yes, she would have expected to be the one to handle this – not me.)

But a strange thing happened – and it became my first act of rebellion as a college student. I sat still and I listened.

And as Dr. Paul Delp spoke and explained why he’d made the decisions he did, I found my horror turning to fascination. He wasn’t evil. He wasn’t a Communist. He didn’t hate his country – he just refused to carry a gun and shoot someone. He was, quite simply and sincerely, a pacifist. And he had made that stand in an age where such a declaration was not popular. So after facing the onslaught of disapproval and public ridicule, he had submitted to the necessary inquiries, including a formal meeting with a representative of the President of the United States when his initial request was denied, and ultimately was granted formal CO status.

I returned home that evening to my own inquisition as to the professors I had and what they would be teaching, instinctively protecting my right to take this class by glossing over the first day’s lecture and simply saying that the professor seemed nice enough and that we would be reading about a lot of the different philosophers to get a brief idea of what they had each said. My mother seemed pleased that no one particular philosophy was going to be taught to the exclusion of others (i.e., I wouldn’t be taught anything inappropriate that didn’t match with our belief systems), and that was the end of the discussion. Thereafter, I never really mentioned the class.

I must stop at this point and defend my mother. She was a good mother who loved her family ferociously. But as I stand on the other side of some years of experience and perspective, I can see that her own demons and flaws shaped her view of life – just as it does for us all. But the bottom line in all of this was that my mother loved me and she sincerely believed that her actions were always in my best interests. That said, I do not believe that she would have been happy with this class.

To be honest, I don’t really remember much if any of what I learned in that semester insofar as the philosophers go – and that is no reflection on Professor Delp’s teaching. At this stage in life, the best I can claim is to recognize some names that I might not otherwise have known. But what I do remember, and use to this day, is an exercise he gave us every week—the “thought paper.”

We were required to explore, in writing, something each week. Something we believed or had questions about, something that was troubling us. The only rule was that it was not to be a rehash of what we were reading – unless there was a point that was niggling away at us. He liked the exercise of writing it down because it forced us to face the issue and bring it to some conclusion. There wasn’t an assigned topic, and I have to admit that at first that was a bit disconcerting to the structured individual in me. But being the good and faithful student I was, I went ahead and tackled the assignment with my usual determination to do exactly what we were being told to do. I jumped in with both feet and confronted the question of the war. Vietnam was raging at the time and my parents were fervent hawks. And in my house, disagreement with their views was enough to cause near apoplectic fits.

A funny thing happened during that paper – it became less about the war and more about my inability to raise these questions at home. For the first time, I admitted that I might not always agree with my parents and that revelation in turn raised a lot of questions about how that made me feel. There was no question as to how writing that paper made me feel – it felt like treason, and I prayed my parents never saw it. But I turned it in.

The paper came back and, frankly, I don’t remember if there was a grade or not. What I do remember is that he wrote that it took courage to question what we’d been taught and that for a belief to be our own, we had to think it through and find our own answers. Sometimes we would end up agreeing and sometimes we wouldn’t—and either way was fine—just so long as whatever we were clinging to was truly our own and that we were prepared to defend our views based on actual belief.

I have used this approach to problem-solving ever since. The big issues, the issues that are painful and/or difficult – those aren’t fun to tackle. They’re uncomfortable and often if we simply try to “think” about them, our minds become co-conspirators in avoidance, skittering away to other topics that are either more fun or at least less difficult. That’s normal. But the very process of committing them to paper allows me to take control of my thoughts. By forcing myself to write my questions down, I discover that the real question or reason for concern is often not what I thought it was at first blush. It helps me dig deeper to see what it is that’s actually bothering me. And once I’ve gotten to that point, once I have faced and actually articulated whatever it is that needs to be dealt with, I have a starting point because I finally know what the real issue is. And if the answer is that there is no answer, then it’s easier to let it go because I know that I’ve honestly thought it through.

I think, somehow, that Professor Delp would not mind my inability to discuss the philosophical differences between Kant and Nietzsche. I believe he would be delighted to know that more than any other one thing I learned in college, I have used the thought paper in my life. I have taught my son to use this technique and have shared it over the years with friends and co-workers facing dilemmas. I feel like I owe such a debt of gratitude to this quiet radical – this lovely, gentle, brilliant man who passed through my life for a few brief months so many years ago leaving an indelible impression and invaluable tool for me to carry forward.

A Splat on the Windshield

The recent rains have been coming and going at shortly spaced intervals, so it wasn’t worth washing the car until it was going to remain clear for a while—or at least that’s the excuse I used to justify my unwashed vehicle. But finally, the sun came out and the dirt got washed off, and I rediscovered that pleasant satisfaction that comes from seeing things looking clean and nice. So it was with some frustration that, as I was driving along the freeway a day or so later, something splatted onto my window and marred my otherwise clear view.

It was, of course, directly in my line of vision. An entire windshield to hit, and this offending splat—which had to be all of an eighth of an inch across—landed at exactly eye-level in the middle of my view at that one point that was making my eyes cross slightly as my brain fought to focus on the spot rather than the road ahead. Besides that, and more importantly, it was ruining my otherwise perfectly clean window. Well, that obviously wouldn’t do, so I gave it a quick blast of wiper fluid and flipped on the windshield wipers—and instead of washing off neatly, it smeared into an inch-wide swoosh that followed the entire arc of the blades. I applied more water—the smear grew wider. What was it that hit my windshield? I held the button down, determined to rid my once clean window of what was quickly becoming a gigantic, smeary mess.

Finally, the area cleared, but not before I’d nearly emptied the fluid reservoir to make sure that every last trace was gone. By now my windshield had water streaming down from the top where the blades can’t reach, and the windows on the doors were rapidly gathering water trails as the excess blew back. I arrived at my destination, parked the car and took care of a quick errand. When I returned, I noted that the water was no longer running down my windshield because it had dried and made hundreds of spots all over the glass. For just an instant I contemplated rewashing the windows to make them pristine once again. Then sanity reasserted itself and I accepted the fact that worrying about it was just plain silly. And that brought to mind a conversation I’d had just a few days before.

I’ve recently returned to the local community college for a painting class. One of the unexpected pleasures has been the opportunity to chat with the other students (who are all young enough to be my children). During one of those exchanges, one young woman was bemoaning the fact that she didn’t think her painting was good enough. Please understand that this painting we’d all just completed was a study in black and white containing a sphere, a cube, a cylinder, a cone, and a gray-scale along the side of the picture that changed gradually in ten percent increments from pure white to pure black. Not exactly the kind of thing that you hope to hang on a wall. While I found it fascinating that all the paintings looked so different and unique—she was making herself miserable over what she had produced. She ended her comments with the startling pronouncement, “I just can’t compete with you.”

“It’s not a competition,” I said, “it’s an art class.”

“Well, I know, but I’m a perfectionist,” she responded.

I explained that being a perfectionist is fine, but maybe not in all things. That it’s good to strive for excellence, but that maybe she needed to pick her battles and relax and enjoy it since art is supposed to be fun. She looked dubious. Maybe that’s easier for me to say since I’m not worrying about grades and transferring to another college. But still, it’s art and it should be fun. I pointed out that it’s important to give it our best shot, but reminded her that what we were doing was not going to solve world hunger, nor was it going to bring peace in the Middle East. It probably wasn’t even going to bring a speedier end to the recession.

She smiled and nodded and agreed. Then she added that she was really upset that it didn’t look exactly like the items in the setup—emphasis on “exactly.” I smiled and nodded back at her and told her to take a photography class next time if that’s what she wants. She looked surprised and then started to laugh. Our conversations continue, but she seems less harsh with herself and her current painting.

So here I was with a windshield full of water spots, and I realized this is another one of those little life-lesson reminders. We can do what we’re able to do to make things just the way we want them, and we can fool ourselves into thinking that we’re in control, but we have to expect that sooner or later something may come along and splat all over it. And often, as we try to fix it up and make it better because it isn’t part of our “perfect plan,” the little splat becomes a smeary blob and gets bigger and uglier and messier. All in the name of being in control.

So we really have a choice. We can make ourselves crazy over every little thing that doesn’t go exactly according to plan (and risk making a bigger mess), or we can take a deep breath and decide whether or not it’s truly important. And if it isn’t, then we can relax and let it go.

My windshield still has water spots and some other unidentified substance that appeared mysteriously. It’s out of reach of the wipers.

I’m hoping for rain.