Just What Does it Take to Make a Decision

My wife is one of those people who likes to tackle a decision only after getting all the facts. Me? Well I think can get “all the facts I need” to make a decision more quickly than she. In other words I like to fly by the seat of my pants.

While Sue and I don’t always reach the same conclusions, there are time when her plodding, methodical approach brings her to the same opinion I reached in about ten seconds. And then there are times when I am enlightened by her “research” and am persuaded to join her wholeheartedly. So we walk on in life and balance each other.

But there was this one time, about ten years ago, when Sue did something uncharacteristically rash. Without having all the plans in place, without knowing all the facts, she made a decision that changed the direction of her life. I was kind of shocked as I watched her, wondering what in the world she was thinking. This was not the Sue I had known for most of a decade. What was going on inside her? Had she taken leave of her senses?

You see ten years ago today, October 2 1999, Sue said I do and married me and our two children. I had lost my first wife to cancer, the kids were three and five years old; and Sue married us anyway! What a difference that has made for us all.

So I got to witness Sue jumping into the great unknown and am grateful to God that I got to jump into the unknown with her.

Happy anniversary Sue.

Peace

Leon

My Father is my Role Model

A little over twenty three years ago my father began a new phase of his journey. He departed this life and entered the next.

Wherever he went on this earth my father left an indelible impression on those he encountered. To start with he had a port-wine birthmark that covered one half of his face. So to meet him was to see that huge red mark. But in just a few minutes, if you were like 95% of the people who met him, you completely forgot about the birthmark. My father’s warm, gregarious personality overwhelmed any feelings of “look at that red mark.” In short he became your friend and then there was so much more to be fascinated with than a port wine colored birthmark.

Though he was never able to finish the sixth grade, my father was a widely read man. Dad used to say, “If you can read you can learn anything!” And he proved his love of reading by collecting books and magazines on almost any topic, from all around the world. Just off the top of my head I remember a novel about a Chinese peasant, a collection of folk tales from Liberia, Mother Earth News, a host of political writings, McGuffy Readers from the early 1900’s, various tomes on holistic medicine, popular science, popular mechanics; and the list is just getting started.

Dad’s friends were…well most everyone wanted to be his friend. Our home was always open for the stranger. So many people counted our family as their own, that we had a hard time figuring out who should sit where at the funeral. The conversation went something like this. Well there’s Don. He has to sit with the family. Don was about a third cousin, but spent as much time at our house as I did.

We never had Thanksgiving or Christmas where only our immediate family was present. Someone always brought a friend or sometimes even the friend of a friend along who had nowhere to go that day. Each one was welcomed and accepted to sit at that table and enjoy the conversation, great food, and hospitality in our home. The funny thing was that few people felt like they were outsiders. In just minutes they would be laughing and talking, fully engaged in whatever topic was being discussed.

What made this even more interesting was that our family was only one generation removed from being Amish. Both my mother and father were raised Amish. I grew up in a very conservative offshoot of the Amish. We had cars and electricity, but other than that…we looked the part.

Among people who counted my dad as their friend were people who were blatantly racist, people who were deeply religious, as well as those who did not believe in God at all. Our family had so many friendships outside our close Amish-like community, that none of us kids learned how to speak “dutch.”  But to everyone who crossed his path, dad was welcoming, generous, and giving.

He once gave his credit card to a young man who got stuck on his honeymoon and told him to mail it back when he got home. More than once, young men seeking to buy a house, came to my dad for help; and our family really didn’t have that much to spare, but he tried to give these young families a shot at home ownership.

Long after his death, after my brother had purchased the home place and was then getting ready to sell and move away, there was an amazing gathering. So many people had come to see 1121 Rittman Road as their second home, so many referred to my parents as their grandparents, that they gathered together  to remember. They talked about the wonderful days and nights they had spent within those walls. They talked about the way my father had influenced them; befriended them. They reminisced and shared. They all laughed, and some even cried.

Even though my dad had long since begun that new phase of his journey, here were people gathered to remember how his open door home made them feel like they belonged, like they mattered. His generosity had touched them all in some powerful way. He truly reflected God in a powerful way.

So this weekend as I remember my father, I realize anew the desire to be like him. I want my children to see me welcome and accept others, especially those who need a place to feel safe and at home. I want to instill in my children a deep love of books and reading, to be “hunters and gatherers” of learning. And long after I begin that phase of my journey that comes after this life, my hope is that my family and others remember my life as reflecting the values of my both of my fathers…earthly and heavenly.

Peace,

Leon

Camping: I Hate It

It’s that time of the year. School is out and families are preparing to experience the great camping adventures of summer.

We have friends who use pop-up campers, others prefer tents, and there are even a few who love a sleeping bag out under the stars. But they all tell wonderful stories of sitting around the campfire at night, making smores, roasting hotdogs and making hobo breakfasts on the bottom of old tin cans. What an economical way to bring entertainment and fun into the lives of your children.  And it doesn’t stop there. I know elderly people who as they got older bought bigger and better campers. When they camp it is in style. Every weekend throughout the summer one can find large groups of people visiting or playing games together as they sit outside their beautiful pull behinds or RV’s.

I am not one to rain on anyone’s camping experience, but I just don’t like sleeping outdoors. I don’t like sleeping in a tent. I don’t like mosquitoes and bugs. I don’t like choking on smoke. I don’t like baking in the heat or freezing in the cold. Actually camping seems like the perfect way to waste a house. My big beef is with tent camping, but please hear me out. Almost every time I have been camping since 1979 it has rained. In fact, I can only remember one time when it didn’t. And I don’t mean a gentle rain or drizzle.

Once in Indiana there was a tornado. Tents blew away, trees came crashing down, camp sites were flooded; it was a doozy. Then there was that time in the UK, it started raining the minute I got into my sleeping bag. All night long the rain poured down, and before it was done it was raining sideways. I was soaked. My sleeping bag was soaked. My backpack and everything in it was soaked. But since I was not a quitter several nights later we were trekking once again. This time it alternately snowed, hailed and sleeted throughout the night. People always say things like, “Oh but what great memories!” Memories! I needed inner healing after that week!

Sometime since that night I decided the camping Gods had it in for me. Never again would I go camping. But then I got married. And a couple of years ago my wife begged me to go camping in a tent with her and the kids. I told her “No way was I going to sleep in a tent again.” I explained that if I did it would rain. She scoffed at me and muttered something about inducing a curse.

So after we got the tent set up (you see who won that argument) we chatted with the folks nearby and finally decided to go to bed around ten that night. And sure enough it started to rain. The little creek near our tent was transformed into a raging torrent. Soon a small river was running through the tent. Once again everything got soaked and once again I got no sleep. I spent a large chunk of the next day at a laundry washing and drying things out.

I really should find a way to market this unusual ability…or curse. Got a drought? Give me a call. I’ll set up camp and it WILL rain. For now I will watch others go camping and listen to their stories of adventure. Me; I prefer a Hampton Inn and Suites with high speed internet and a good breakfast buffet. I‘m not a weenie. I just hate getting wet out of context.

Peace,

Leon

Joyous Music and Bloody Occasions

Last evening my family went to my daughter’s high school pops concert. I was impressed with the quality of the music. The jazz band was amazing, the string orchestra rich and lush, the brass was polished (both literally and musically), there several choirs; overall it was a great concert!

The theme for the concert was Americana. We heard everything from rock and roll and Scott Joplin to some Walt Whitman stuff set to music. It was a high quality production with vocalists, projected images, recitations, and all around great music.

A major part of Americana is the military side of things. Let the record show that the stirring, martial music of all branches of our military was present and accounted for. It was moving to see old men, long retired from this or that branch of the military, be honored for their years of service. Each stood as the song from their branch of the service was played.

However, it was also quite jarring to hear the happy, dignified strains of the songs honoring those who served, while watching images of tanks, helicopters, and F-18s at war. Somehow the honor and dignity conveyed in the songs seemed darkened and sullied by the reality (projected images) of what war actually does to people; both those who must fight and those who are killed.

Nowhere in those spirited songs did anyone get the sense of how many service men and women have committed suicide after they returned home and were not able to re-integrate the horrors of their experience back into society. Nothing in the music reflected on my friend with PTSD (and thousands like him) who, after Vietnam, wonders through life destroying relationship after relationship with his explosive outbursts, and also missing from the music was the precious little help he  did not received from the VA hospitals. The uplifting melodies did not reflect the increase in broken families and failed marriages that come with war. And finally, nowhere in the stirring music is one moved to think about the tally…you know, how many people did that tank crew have to kill? How many bombs did that sleek, beautiful F-18 drop, and on whom? And the kindly older gentleman who stood three rows back as the Marine Hymn was being played; what scars, emotional or otherwise, does he carry as a result of his participation?

My mind was filled with these musings. Was I the only one present who had these thoughts. Did anyone else wonder at the juxtaposition of amazing music and weapons of destruction, designed only to kill and maim the nameless enemies. Am I strange to think that somehow Jesus our Lord, shakes his head and sighs at the inability of humanity to get along? Am I nuts? Everyone else seemed to be fully at home and not giving the beautiful music paired with the violent images a second thought. Did the music somehow serve to sanitize reality? I left the concert deep in thought.

As we left my son summed it all up when he offered this unsolicited comment. “That sure was some joyous music for such a bloody occasion.” Ok. No blood was spilled at the concert. But he gets it! He understood the message and saw that it was both beautiful and terrifying at the same time. He understood that no amount of violins, brass, flutes, and kettle drums; or stirring, emotional music, can erase the violence of war or make it better.

Joyous music and bloody occasions…makes you think don’t it?

Peace,

Leon

What Kind of Dictator Would You Be: And Other Topics My Kids Bring Up

Driving around with my kids can be a wonderfully mysterious, often hilarious, experience. Getting to hear their insight into life, experiencing their wit and emerging ideas can have you in stitches, or tears, depending on the subject matter.Recently we were out and about grocery shopping when I was startled by this question from my son.

“Dad, if you would be a dictator, what kind of dictator do you think you would you be?”

Well now there’s a question you don’t get every day. In fact, I don’t think I have ever given it a thought! I was not sure how to begin to answer his question, so I did the classic; I have no idea where to go with this one, move and turned it back to him.

“Hmmm. Not sure son. What kind of dictator do you think you would be?”

Unlike me he had obviously given this a good deal of thought, because he immediately responded.

“I would want to be a good dictator so people would like me and stuff. I would try to make everything equal for the people. I would try to show people how to do God stuff, show them right from wrong. And I would avoid death at all costs!”

At first I wondered how avoiding death was a political objective, but after I thought about it for a bit it did make sense. However, I am not sure he’s picked up on the difference between a democratic leader and a dictator, but that is one of the reasons the conversation was so funny. And I guess I had better inform him that eventually death is in the cards for all of us.

On another recent trip, he reminded me to “buckle up.” I thanked him for reminding me. After a brief moment of silence he burst out with.

“You must have AIDS!”

“What?” I asked, shocked and surprised.

“You know. It’s a disease that makes you forget stuff. And you forget stuff all the time so you must have AIDS.”

It was very hard not to burst out laughing. “Do mean Alzheimer’s?” I asked him.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “That’s the one I mean.”

This morning on the way to church with my kids we talked about the economy and the political will to make hard choices. They brought it up and off we went. At one point we stopped the conversation and I was told,

“This is a good conversation and I’m enjoying it so don’t stop talking.”

On the way back we talked about abortion and war, why they exist and what Jesus might want for those situations. After that we discussed homosexuality and the Kingdom of God. Believe me that was a challenging conversation to have with a twelve and fourteen year old.

What a gift my kids are. While they are typical kids, they think deeply about life. Sometimes I expect them to be occupied only with fun thing like sports, cell phones, and music. But I am constantly challenged with their deep thoughts about the nature of life.

Lord have mercy. I need far more wisdom than I have to guide them.

Peace.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Christmas

So a funny thing happened on the way to Christmas.

We always like to go out and cut our tree the weekend after Thanksgiving. That way we get to enjoy the tree for a whole month. It’s a big family outing. And then we decorate the tree and bring out the old standby ornaments we have had since the kids were just little. It’s a wonderful way to spend the weekend.

Usually my dear wife is the tree chooser. Oh the rest of us act like we have a say, but in reality it is the queen of our household who gives the nod to this or that tree. We start out at the tree farm with all the options. There are big trees, little trees, fat ones, well shaped ones and those that have gaps. They all cost the same so price is not really an issue. But my dear wife has us traipsing hither and yon looking for that perfect sized and full-bodied tree. Often we wind up at the first or second rejected one, because it was “Ok after all.” This year the weather was perfect, not too cold. We were done in about 20 minutes; very little fuss or wasted time. Sue said, “That was too fast. It should have taken longer.” I should have known then that something strange was up.

Then the decorating of the tree went off without a hitch. My wife rarely rants, but I have experienced her completely unglued when strings of lights seemed to have a will of their own, randomly lighting up and going out. Numerous times we have had the tree inexplicably decide to lean off to one side, which made my poor spouse crazy! Other years ornaments fall for no reason, but not this year. This year there was none of that. The new LED lights worked like a charm. The tree seems to be standing at attention. And all the tree ornaments are hanging in there. Why didn’t I take notice?

I managed to purchase my children their gifts a couple of weeks ago. Sue’s gift was purchased last week. Looking back I realize all this was going way too smoothly. Wednesday evening I wrapped Sue’s gift. I do not enjoy wrapping gifts, and I am not that good at it. Somehow the paper always gets bunched up or crooked and looks like a third grader did it. But since it was Sue’s gift I couldn’t very well have her wrap it. So I managed to wrap this rather large box in a way that actually looked Ok. The stripes were running pretty straight, and everything lined up.

I was in the process of bringing her gift down the stairs to the waiting tree. Now the stairs in our home seems to be the repository for just about everything under the sun. At any time one might find homework, coats, socks, books, really just about everything on our stairs. Well my field of vision was full of a freshly wrapped gift and I did not see that about half-way down the stairs was the homework assignment of one of our dear offspring. My foot hit the paper, which decided to act like black ice, and suddenly I was moving down the steps in a far more rapid fashion that I ever anticipated. Well at least a part of me was. While one leg was bumping rapidly down the stairs, my other leg managed to get twisted and wedged at what felt like eight feet in the other direction. After all of me was back together at the bottom of the stairs I was one hurting puppy. And sure enough I am now the proud owner of a fractured fibula. Thankfully it was not a complete break or a displaced fracture.

On another bright note the freshly wrapped gift was intact and not even wrinkled; and our stairs have never looked so empty. My family jumps to serve me at every turn, a reality I am trying to milk for all it’s worth. My neighbor even came over to check on me today while everyone was at work and school. My hunch is that all this service will change in direct proportion to the return of my mobility.

Well next year I am looking forward to at least an hour of looking for just the right tree in a cold wind, preferably one that won’t stand up straight. Hopefully the lights will not work properly. And I won’t buy any Christmas gifts until the week of Christmas. And hopefully next year I will not have any broken bones.

Peace,

Leon

The Hospital Visit

Somehow my beautiful daughter has an extra pathway, an extra pathway in the heart. That means there are those times when the electrical impulses in her heart start looping on a closed circuit. I have seen her standing absolutely still and her heart rate was around 250 bpm.

Needless to say it is a frightening thing. Immediately I wonder if she has inherited my gene for Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy? If so, such a heart rate could be deadly. My defibrillator is set to go off at 150 bpm. Well so far there is no evidence that she does have my gene, but soon we will know for sure with DNA testing.

This morning I saw my beautiful daughter hooked up to an IV and be carted off to have the Dr. find this extra pathway and then to eliminate it. She was brave. I acted all cheerful, but inside you always wonder if it will go with the statistics this time or will this be the one in a hundred where something goes wrong? She talked about how it felt to be the one in the hospital bed. She said, “Always before I was visiting others. There was grandma, grandpa, cousins being born, and of course first mom when she was sick.” First mom died almost 10 years ago when my daughter was four. (See my post entitled Today I Remember for more on that story). She continued, “This time it is my turn.” She held my hand. She gave me instructions to call her friends as soon as they got home from school. She looked up at me and said, “Dad. You can blog about this if you want.” She is quite the trooper.

I think back to the drive up here at 6 a.m. We discussed politics, books she has read, racism, history…it was such fun. I was reminded that my daughter is becoming a young woman. She said, “Wow. We started out talking about my heart procedure and wound up talking about history and Thomas Jefferson.” Inside I am hoping that our wide-ranging chat has calmed her nerves.

So here I sit. Waiting…wondering…tired (been up since 4 a.m.)…bored. I am just a little bit peeved that Hershey Medical Center does not have a way for people to get on with a wireless connection. I guess walking all over the hospital trying to find a place to log on was a good way to pass the time. Finally I discovered the library where they take your license and sit you down at one of their computers. Of course there are no bookmarks and I had to remember how to get to what.

But I will wait. I will wait however long I have to wait. When she wakes up I will be there. When she throws up I will try to be with her. I don’t do well in that department. When she is ready to eat something I will feed her. She once asked me, “Will you be there the whole time?” What a responsibility I have. What an honor.  It is still my responsibility to care for her like a small child; to make her feel safe. She is 14 and I am not as obviously needed any more. Someday she will head out into the world and discover its joys, achievements, disappointments, and pain. I have been entrusted to prepare her for that (along with her mom of course).

Speaking of mom. She awoke this morning with a fever and severe stomach ache. What was supposed to be a two with one setup rapidly became a one to one date.

So I wait.

Peace,

Leon

What To Do If You Forget Your Anniversary

So today is my anniversary. About right now nine years ago my wife, the kids and I were all getting married. It seems like a dream. Looking at the video the kids were so young! Now they are in middle and high school. I’ll pick up a lovely bouquet of flowers on the way home, but I always like to note the day the first thing in the morning.

In anticipation of celebrating the blessed event I went and got myself a nasty cold! So armed with a terribly scratchy throat and a runny nose I went to bed last night determined to be the first to say, Happy Anniversary!” this morning.

Needless to say the scratchy throat and runny nose kept waking me up throughout the night. I saw 12:30, 2:30, 4:15, 4:45, 5:30, 5:45, and finally I just got up at 6. What a night. Well in the hub-bub of everyone getting ready for school and work, grabbing something to eat, packing lunches showering, guess what I forgot? Yup. I forgot to wish my dear wife a wonderful anniversary and didn’t even think of it until I was arriving at work.

I could just imagine her feeling bad. I was sure she was in her office wondering what was wrong with me that I had not even mentioned our nuptials, let alone gotten her a card. Oh the guilt! Sure we are going away this weekend, but to not even notice the day…that was unforgivable.

So I called her at work. Her supervisor answered the phone. I explained the problem to her so that she would not be upset about a personal phone call at work. There was a long wait until my wife finally said, “Hello.” What was behind that one word? Was she angry? Hurt? She might have said hello dear or something, but just hello? I was sure I was in trouble. So I blurted out a “Happy Anniversary,” in my cheeriest, albeit very scratchy, voice.

She laughed! She laughed at me and said, “This is the second. I was thinking we got married on the third. I guess it is our anniversary!” Not only did SHE FORGET she even got the date wrong!

So gentlemen I have a bit of advice. If you do forget your anniversary, fake it until you know for sure you are in trouble. It just may be that your dear wife has forgotten too.

Peace,

Leon

Grandfather

Over the holiday weekend I went to a family reunion. We remembered and thought about the life and heritage our grandfather, Eli S. Miller, offered us. It was strange in a way seeing as how I never knew the man. He died when I was only two. Yet he looms large in my life as a man of honor, integrity and love.

My grandfather was a self-made, salt of the earth kind of man. His homespun humor and observations on life had a Will Rogers-like feel to it. He had very little formal education, but was filled with wisdom. He worked hard on his farm, was never rich financially, but was generous to a fault. He repaired watches and charged people less than the parts cost. He had no enemies, but had friends from all walks of life. At his market stall he sold honey he collected from his own bees and many other products from his farm. His hospitality was known far and wide. He never left the country, but traveled all over the world through his lifetime subscription to National Geographic. He was known to bend the rules, not in rebellion, but just because rules were meant to be tested a bit.

My grandfather was Amish!

At the reunion one of my first cousin’s sons had an old wallet from my grandfather, his great-grandfather. He got it from his grandmother, my aunt, after her death. In the wallet were various interesting papers from around WWII, but most interesting were two things.

On an identity card my grandfather had written. “If you find this wallet keep the money, but please return the rest.” He placed the value of his wallet on things other than the money. This was very typical of my grandfather.

What did he value? Well he carried a morning and evening prayer with him at all times so that he could regularly engage in prayer no matter where he was. The prayers were in old German script. I, having lived in Germany for four years, was able to read them. There was a depth and grace communicated through these prayers that was deeply moving. To think that my grandfather held these very papers in his hand and reverently read these words morning and evening, offering them to God in earnest prayer, was humbling and inspiring.

Other than connecting with relatives I had not seen in 30 years, seeing the contents of grandpa’s wallet was the highlight of the reunion. Somehow these physical items provided a link to my past…a link to my grandfather. He passed on his wisdom and humble generosity to my dad, who, of all his siblings, was probably most like my grandfather. I desperately hope I soaked up some of that wisdom and humility from him.

And I pray that someday my descendants will be able to look at my life and feel about me like I feel about my grandfather.

Peace,

Leon