What to Do Between 4 and 6 o’clock in the Morning?

For the second morning in a row I have woken up during the 4 o’clock hour. Both times I had been having one of those frustration loop dreams where you are on the cusp of a breakthrough at something then something strange happens to prevent you from accomplishing whatever it is. Yesterday morning, I had somehow snagged an interview with some hot shot book publisher in New York City and I was pitching my latest novel idea to him. He was nodding enthusiastically. But when I reached for the manuscript to hand to him a wind comes in through the window and blows it everywhere. I spent the rest of the dream trying to put the pages back in order, all the while the big shot book publisher is getting more and more annoyed. It was horrible! This morning was worse…I was in a line of cars at a toll booth and everyone in front of me was paying with pennies, getting out of their car, taking their sweet time while having lunch etc. Meanwhile, all the other lanes were EasyPASS lanes and Pam kept telling me that we should get in the EasyPASS lane but I couldn’t get over to save my life.

I need a vacation.

Luckily for me, I have a friend who is also usually awake in the wee hours. Pam from Buena Vista, cancer survivor and fellow advisor, also is plagued by occasional insomnia, so I usually send her a text and she answers right away. This morning it went like this:

Me: as bad as waking up at 4 in the morning is, you know what the best part is?

Pam: It’s Friday?

Me: Nope.

Pam: Almost Maine?

Me: Nope.

Pam: Futures are up?

Me: Nope

Pam: We are alive??

Me: Nope.

Pam: What then???

Me: No matter when I wake up in the morning, I’m still handsome.

Pam: Good Grief!! You’re such a punk.

Then I started thinking about Mom. She’s been gone ten years now and I still think about her at the oddest times. I wonder what she would think of me now if she were still here. Lots has changed since she passed away, not the least of which is Pam and I are members of a Presbyterian church! She probably would ask me the same thing that Pam did one day when we were pulling out of the church parking lot—“Do these people even know who Lottie Moon is??” (Baptist Humor).

By this time its 6 o’clock and I find a couple of decent dad jokes:

* Apple is bringing out a new device that tells a Dad Joke every time you press a button. They are calling it the iRoll.

* My neighbor’s little girl came over the other day and asked me where poo comes from. So, I gave her a basic scientific description of the biological process that produces poo. She looked terrified and I thought she was going to burst into tears. Then she asked, “…but what about Tigger?”

So, this is what happens between the hours of 4 and 6 in the morning. Are there more productive ways for me to have spent this time? Absolutely. But clearly, I don’t do my best thinking this early.

A Remarkable Photograph

Sometimes you stumble across a photograph that stuns you. You’ve seen it before, you knew it existed, but you had forgotten until suddenly it appears. There’s nothing particularly artistic about it, in fact its old enough to have been taken before the digital age. It has started to yellow and the details aren’t crystal clear, and yet when you look at the thing it takes your breath away. It’s an unremarkable snapshot of an uneventful morning. There’s a cup of coffee in my hand. It appears to be morning and it already looks hot outside. We are at the beach, sitting on the back deck of a rented beach house. I am squinting at the photographer, seemingly unimpressed with the moment, possibly wondering why our picture is being taken in the first place. But whoever did take this photograph did me an eternal favor. It’s the only one of its kind that exists in the universe that I am aware of. It is invaluable. It was taken in the summer of 1993…

My Dad was 69 years old, one year shy of his retirement. He had 20 more years to live. Back then he was still strong as an ox, more talkative and energetic than he became later. He loved nothing quite so much as when one of his many grandchildren would sit on his lap.

Patrick had just turned 4 years old that summer and he was a ball of fire, more energy and curiosity that any ten other kids. His favorite beach pajamas were always an oversized t-shirt.

I was a 35 year old man, father of two children under the age of 7, not even married 10 years yet. My career had just gotten off the ground that year. We were finally living some way other than hand to mouth. There was finally money in the bank.

There’s not a gray hair on the three of us. We all have almost the exact same expression on our faces. We favor each other in this picture. We look like three generations of men should look like, I think.

When I look at this I feel two equally strong emotions. I’m very proud…and just a bit sad. I’m not even sure why. I have no desire to go back in time. But this photograph stirs in me a strange longing for something that once was but can never be again.

Counting My Blessings, Naming Them One By One

Listen, I get it. The world is screwed up. Everywhere you look there’s bad news, and I’m not minimizing any of it with what follows here. I’m also not one of those who dismisses human suffering with a wave of the hand and cavalier slogans about how a positive attitude is the answer to everything. If your friend loses a child it won’t do to just hand them a book by Zig Zigler or Norman Vincent Peale. Sometimes, the troubles we face in this life are pitched battles that for a season can strip us of hope. Sometimes, the news we are bombarded with about politics and the state of our country and the world is so overwhelmingly bad we are tempted to believe that things will never get better, that our troubles are intractable, permanent. Maybe they are, maybe not. I really don’t know.

However, and life is often found in the however’s, I remember an old hymn that my mother used to sing around the house when I was little. I don’t remember all the words but this phrase stood out…count your many blessings, name them one by one. Mom would be busy scrubbing some pan, hair falling down around her eyes, or mopping the floor and she’d be belting this song out. I can see it as clear as day.

So, for your consideration on this Wednesday, I have decided to take my Mom up on her suggestion. If you are so inclined you can do the same. Let’s see if it makes a difference in how this day goes. I will count my blessings, naming them one by one…

1. I’m healthy

2. I live in a great neighborhood in a nice house with air conditioning, indoor plumbing and electricity.

3. I enjoy the love and devotion of an amazing woman.

4. My two adult children love me and make me proud every day.

5. I have a large and loving extended family who all get along with each other.

6. I work with great people who I trust and respect.

7. I have lived every day of my life in a free country where I have been allowed to make my life decisions free of government coercion.

8. I have made an amazing living doing good and important work.

9. I have never spent a single day of my life hungry, homeless or abandoned.

10. I am a part of a body of believers who for the most part are just like me, flawed but grateful to be a part of a community of faith.

11. I am able to spend 6-8 weeks every year in Maine.

12. I have a Solo Stove.

13. I am alive at a time in history when I have access to all the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of the world in a devise that fits in the palm of my hand.

14. I have had the company of a Golden Retriever for thirty five years now.

15. Every single morning, my car starts.

The Waiting

Now that its getting warmer I have started going on my walks and runs in the morning before it gets too intolerable. When I’m just planning on a leisurely stroll I take Lucy along, but if I’m planning on a longer walk or a run, she stays at home. A few days ago I headed out for a morning run. Pam watched Lucy go over to the bedroom window where she sat down and watched me as I made it around the culdesac, then as I disappeared down the street. Several times while I was gone she would walk back over to the window, watching and waiting for me to return. Finally, Pam took this picture:

Its a perfect example of why we love dogs, right? Their entire world revolves around us. They love us without reservation or condition. When we leave them they wait expectantly for our return. She is concerned, her ears perked up wondering where I am and when I will come home. If you look closely at the window you will see that it is covered with nose prints. This is one of Lucy’s many lookout spots. She is always watching. Waiting…and its the waiting that’s the hardest part.

When I first saw this picture it occurred to me that most of us are just like Lucy. Most of us have someone who we wait for, someone who when they are away we worry about. For some of us its a child, both the little ones and the ones grown up and moved on. For more and more of my friends, they’re waiting for someone who will never again return in this life. A husband has passed away, a wife, a parent, or worst of all…a child. They are learning to live with the crushing weight of loss. My heart goes out to them, along with the words of the psalmist, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”

Juneteenth

So today we celebrate a brand new federal holiday for the first time, the ghastly-named Juneteenth. In case you’re wondering how I feel about it…yes, we absolutely, positively, without a shadow of a doubt, should celebrate the end of slavery. End of story. But..Juneteenth?? Why not Emancipation Day?

Now, on to a subject of far less controversy—in 18 days Pam and I will be leaving for Maine, our car loaded to the max, doing its best Beverly Hillbillies impersonation. A lot can happen in 18 days which could play havoc with our plans. One or both of us could come down with COVID. Our house could be struck by lightning. Lucy could become plagued by uncontrollable diarrhea. These are among the many nightmare thoughts that plague my dreams in the final days before leaving for the north. Its almost as if I become paranoid. I start to feel like one of those end times geeks, preparing for the four horses of the apocalypse to be released. I become suspicious of any and all packages delivered by UPS or FEDEX. God knows what could be in one of those packages! And don’t even get me started on the U.S. mail!!

Anyway, if my writings over the next couple of weeks start to sound more unhinged than usual, keep this in mind. I offer this blanket apology in advance.

To begin this week off right, I ran across a great joke the other day:

A man boarded an airplane and took his seat. As he settled in, he glanced up and saw the most beautiful woman boarding the plane.

He soon realized she was heading straight towards his seat... As fate would have it, she took the seat right beside his.

Eager to strike up a conversation he blurted out, " Business trip or pleasure?"

She turned, smiled, and said, "Business. I'm going to the Annual Nymphomaniacs of America Convention in Boston."

He swallowed hard. Here was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen sitting next to him, and she was going to a meeting of nymphomaniacs.

Struggling to maintain his composure, he calmly asked, "What's your business role at this convention?"

"Lecturer," she responded. " I use information that I have learned from my personal experiences to debunk some of the popular myths about sexuality."

"Really?" he said. " And what kind of myths are there?"

"Well," she explained," one popular myth is that African-American men are the most well-endowed of all men, when in fact it is the Native American Indian who is most likely to possess that trait. Another popular myth is that Frenchmen are the best lovers, when actually it is men of Jewish descent who are the best. I have also discovered that the lover with absolutely the best stamina is the Southern Redneck."

Suddenly the woman became a little uncomfortable and blushed. "I'm sorry," she said, "I shouldn't really be discussing all of this with you. I don't even know your name..."

"Tonto," the man said, "Tonto Goldstein, but my friends call me Bubba."

My Neighborhood

Suddenly, I have been freed from the stress and strain of the United States equity markets for the next three days. That’s 72 hours without a knot in my stomach and it feels like a gift. To make matters even better, the weather forecast sounds delightful, sunny skies with high temperatures in the high 70’s low 80’s with low humidity. Later this morning I will be heading out for a run, attempting 5 miles.

Last night there was an end of school, beginning of summer celebration in our culdesac which featured a food truck parked on the street directly in front of our house. Right about the time it was to begin there were thunderstorms in the area. Fortunately, after a short two minute downpour, the clouds parted and a cooling breeze popped up. The culdesac was filled with families and dogs. Pam and I sat up some folding tables in our driveway, soon they were populated with moms and dads and little kids. Beach balls and footballs were flying through the air and the sound of laughter was everywhere. The tacos provided by the La Concinita truck were delicious.

We have been here since the very beginning of Wythe Trace, the only people to ever live in our house. We have watched the neighborhood change over the past 25 years, watched a list of neighbors come and go in the houses around us. When we moved here our kids were in elementary school. Now they are both married adults who live in other cities. Now, we are surrounded by families that are exactly like we were back in the day, harried and harassed by the pressures and joys of raising a family. We love being able to watch them, without the pressures and responsibilities of it all! This is the benefit of staying put in one place. As you age, your neighborhood gets younger…which helps you feel younger.

But there was another thing I noticed last night. Not only is this place younger, its also gotten much more diverse. I saw beautiful kids playing in the street last night from all over the world. There are families from India, Egypt, Haiti, Russia, Asia and England. I saw white kids happily playing with black and brown kids. Red heads, blonds, brunettes and shiny black haired kids slurping on popsicles. I saw different breeds of dogs soaking up the attention, oblivious to the race of whoever happened to be scratching their bellies.

As I watched it all I couldn’t help wondering…Why on Earth would anyone fear this?

What Do You Value?

What do you value the most? This is a very different question than what is the most expensive thing you own, isn’t it? You can be proud of an expensive car. You can be proud of a lovely home or a large and growing investment portfolio. But what is it that you…value? It has been said that too many people know the price of everything but the value of nothing. I think this is true. Do not misunderstand me. There is nothing at all inherently wrong with an expensive car, lovely home or a large investment portfolio. I am quite fond of all three. But none of these things will end up defining me when I’m gone. I don’t draw any identity from them. They all three serve a purpose, but they are not eternal purposes. These are not the things that friends and family will stand around talking about at my funeral…or yours.

So, Pam and I are housing a youth intern from our church for the summer. So far he has feasted on Pam’s cooking like its his job, but last night Pam had other plans so it was going to be just the two of us for dinner. I took him to Wong’s Tacos and we had a great time eating and talking sports. He’s a good kid. But like everyone else who meets someone new, I want to tell him all about the things I like. We talked baseball, pro football and college football. When we got back home the garage was empty since Pam was away and I noticed it more than I usually do. Its something that I wanted to show him. I wanted him to see it, because to see it goes a long way to explaining who I am. What did I show him? 

This…

At first glance this probably looks like an ugly garage wall…because it is an ugly garage wall. But, its much more than that. Back in the day it was known as “The Wall.” Any middle school, high school, or college kid who ever spent any time at our house for anything was asked to sign the wall. There are kids we housed from choir tours as they passed through Short Pump. There are nursing students from Liberty who we housed when they were in town for their clinical studies. There were high schoolers who attended the New Year’s Eve parties we used to throw every year for them. There were kids who I taught in Sunday School, Kaitlin’s friends, Patrick’s friends, friends of friends of kids who I didn’t even know. There were boys that used to let themselves in the house through this garage at all hours to help themselves to whatever was in the fridge. Pretty soon I will get the sweet kids next door to sign it. I tell my intern that he has to sign it before he heads back to school in the fall. Sometimes when I’m putting the lawn mower away I will stop for a minute and read a couple of them and think…I wonder what Meghan is up to these days? Each note is precious to me. Each has meaning. More than any material thing I have ever owned, I value this wall. But if I ever sell this house, the wall will be painted over, because the scribblings and the names beneath the scribbles will mean nothing to a stranger. To me, they help tell the story of the life that Pam and I have built over the past 38 years.