Sec C Row 32 Seats 1,2,3,4

Sec C Row 32 Seats 1,2,3,4

These were the seats where I was raised. The are located in Neyland Stadium in Knoxville TN. If you believe the family stories, I was practically born there… in the rain in October 1966 as Joe Namath played for Alabama.

It was there that I sat and listened to stories of games played in Knoxville, Athens, Birmingham, “on the Plain”, Tuscaloosa, and Gainesville. Stories of games played in Emory VA, Jefferson City, TN and Bluefield, WVa. We talked football. And along with the sport, I learned the geography of my family and my faith.

Saturdays in Knoxville were spent in the ritual of getting ready for the game. When I was 5 or 6 I got to go to one game a year. It was usually Alabama because that was my “birthday game”. As I got older and that rivalry got more one sided, I usually chose the Georgia game. Our seats were alongside the visitor section. I learned all the school cheers, not just Rocky Top. I learned that “damn” was a cuss word and I was not to use it at home (thanks Hotty Toddy) and I never much liked cowbell (Mississippi State). I memorized the rules and the game program. I wondered about places like “The Plains” and Commonwealth Stadium. I got to go to Birmingham and understood why the Iron Bowl was played. I listened to "Lordy Hershel! RUN!!!" more than I care to remember.

This last Saturday, I had the privilege to go to Sanford Stadium with my friend Blair, also a child of the SEC south. It was a pilgrimage. With the ones who taught me the game long gone, I went alone to see a friend. I carried with me the memories, legends, and excitement of two men who I hope somewhere could watch me and see who I had become. That fact alone was enough for the weekend to serve its purpose. I touched the hedges, imagined a trip home in 1960 something that my father and Sam called “harrowing” as they were bumped “all the way down the highway”…the only time I recall my father wanting to fight someone, a feat hard to believe for his easy going temperament.

I wore red and black on Saturday, with orange socks. I wanted to experience Athens as a Georgia fan. As one welcomed home and into the fold. I am frequently asked why it is that I can sit and watch a game and enjoy it no matter who is playing.
It is because of those Saturdays in Sec C. I would cheer for Tennessee then. Still do most days. Sam and I shook our heads in dismay in those days…for the good and the ugly. I heard other fight songs and watched other mascots. I secretly hoped Vanderbilt would win most games.

Maybe it was in the section where I learned and saw differences. Subtle, obvious, and in between. It was in those seats that I learned some people win a lot and some people can’t win for losing. And that isn’t always fair.

And it was in those seats that I sat with my family, learned the rules of the game, and traded stories and knew I was loved.

Today is September 11.

Nine years ago I came out of a windowless training room with 7 co workers and the world had changed. We emerged to see small television screens fuzzy with images of ash, smoke, and fire. A coworker worried that her husband would be unable to return from his business trip. I worried that a cousin in New York was safe. Both were safe and sound though shaken for obvious reasons. I also gave thanks for my mother’s death three months prior as I knew she would be frightened in ways I would not want to see.

I have seen signs and facebook statuses that tell me to “never forget”. That will not be a problem. I don’t forget what I have experienced. A lot has happened in these nine years since. America has been at constant war, both at home and abroad. I have friends whose family members have served in Iraq and Afghanistan. I have cared for them, their children, and their families in many ways. Through prayer, presence, and phone calls. It is the least I can do for them.

Closer to home this week has seen calls for burning of sacred texts. I haven’t read a Qur’an. I will buy one today. I will read it and hopefully talk to a Muslim friend who can help me understand it. I will compare it to my sacred text, the Bible. These are streams of faith that run into rivers of holy waters. I am baptized in those waters created by a God who is seen and heard in many ways for longer than any of us have known.

The God I serve is called many names. Even Allah.

The God I serve calls me to love my enemies. I am not even sure they are my enemies. I disagree with them for certain. Ideologically, theologically. We may not even agree on what football teams we like… and in the South that’s important. What I do know is they look like Fred Phelps. They look like Terry Jones. They look a lot like Scott Roeder. Those are the easy ones.

What about the enemy that sits next to you on the couch? The ones you know who loved you on the first day of your life? The ones that taught you to pray for peace? The ones that sit next to you at the office and need to tell you they are hurting because of something they know you support? The ones you care for in body, mind, and spirit who speak ill against “people like that” knowing you are the “that” of which they speak? Can you love them?

Can you forget them?

Advent Coming

Advent Coming

Cold breeze blowing on a November night
Before Thanksgiving
Have you seen me lately?
In your dreams day and night
Sitting in a corner with my cigarette reading my paper
Across from you in a coffee shop
Watching you from a place unknown
Where I hear your voice
See your face
In your waking and lying down
Cold nights and days coming
Are here... now
Gripping you in their fold
Leaves dead on the sidewalk
Kicked to the curb
On a long walk last night
In the dark
Embraced by the chill
Air that hits with sharp pangs
Biting
Crunching
Crushing
Coming like the death that comes soon but not soon enough
Waiting is the hardest
With news of old wounds that won't heal
Here
Now

Observations on Life (and sometimes death)

So today …. I went alone.

Ok so that was dramatic!! I have begun a year long residency in chaplaincy better known as CPE or Clinical Pastoral Education. For those who need to know, most chaplains actually DO get certified to do their job and a year long residency is part of the process. Most chaplaincy jobs require a residency in a clinical placement which may be in a hospital setting (where I have worked before), prisons, psych hospitals, and hospice settings (where I am placed) and other places. I have been visiting folks in tandem with another team member. Today I escaped and was on my own thankfully.

My placement is in a hospice group. This placement requires me to visit patients in their homes. What I have discovered in the mere two weeks I have been working in hospice is that one home is as different from another and another and another…. And people live everywhere.

Some random observations after a week.

Observation #1: Despite what the “typical” definition of family may be, I have yet to see a “typical” family. I met a couple, now married for 10 years who married each other late in life. They “lived in sin” for two years before they got married. They were 65 and 69 respectively when they married. Grown kids and grandchildren. Another man I met is estranged from 2 of his 3 children (I think I know why but still…). Two patients are living with friends who have taken them in. One patient is living with his significant other girlfriend and sees his ex wife about every week.

Observation #2: I love GPS. I swear I do. I even used it to get to the store yesterday. Just because I wanted to try a new route (which I knew but the voice on the GPS relaxes me)

Observation #3: Pets. Pets matter. Period. Just today, I met Binkie the cat, still traumatized by a de-clawing experience. I was the first person to see him today as he has remained hidden for the last three days. Rufus the boxer who hates it when you leave. I have a hole in my shirt sleeve from that one. And finally, Bubbles the parrot. He does talk but I couldn’t teach him Rocky Top today. Maybe next time.

Observation #4: Lots of parents worry about lots of kids. And houses and property that no one may want.

Observation #5: Access to health care is a privilege. A paid for privilege. It shouldn't be. Right now, the way the system works money is access and access is limited. Period. Health should not be a matter of economics of treatment. I knew that in theory. I am now coming to know this in practice. I am not sure how to rectify this but will work on it.

Observation #6: 80 year olds apparently used the word “copacetic” back in the day. My friend Sam uses it often… he is 82. An 86 year old used it today. I love the word.

New factoid: Cows lived across the street from me… in 1933. And there was a tornado that year to. Trauma to a 10 year old girl who is now 86.

Not bad for the first two weeks.

There's life in the old girl yet...

I have worked the evening shift at the hospital the last couple of nights. Not a bad gig if you are into quiet hallways and crickets. And I have been fortunate that there have been no huge emergencies…though those make life interesting.

Yesterday, I met a woman whose aorta exploded. Don’t ask me how or why or what that looks like but according to her husband, that is what the doctor told them. The patient, whom I will call Cecilia, was in and out of sleep and on a breathing tube. She has been here for 3 weeks and each day is part of the roller coaster ride of life on the edge of death. Her husband, Mr. French, (again I will call him that) was a gentle sort who took his hat off when I came in and clutched it in his hands as we talked.

Conversations often begin with how and why a patient is here, where folks are from, etc. I usually ask about families and how long the patient and spouse have been married. This conversation was no different, other than the worry on Mr. French’s face. He had been sleeping in the waiting area for the last three weeks. Afraid to leave and afraid to stay all at once. As our conversation turned toward his marriage to Cecilia, he smiled and blushed.

“How long have you been married?” I asked
“27 years” he answered
“That is a good long time”, I responded, thinking this may be a second marriage.
From the other corner of the room I heard “It is both of their first marriages”

“Great!” I say, “Nothing like waiting to be certain. Where did you get married?”
Mr. French shuffled a bit and the blush grew a little deeper….. “we eloped”

“Eloped!” I said, along with the nurse who replied all at once. Both of us imagining this sweet sweet couple sneaking off one day to their parents surprise.

He giggled and said “yes we did… to Florence AL!”

Of all places! We laughed and he grinned and gushed over his bride now lying behind a bank of machines and bells and whistles.

I noticed she was awake and went to her bedside. Her eyes opened and I introduced myself. She tried to talk but the breathing tube prevented any conversation. I saw in her eyes that she was aware of her surroundings. I told her I heard she eloped with this sweet man on the other side of her. Her blue eyes smiled as she nodded. And I saw someone else there in that pool of blue.

We prayed together and Mr. French cried… I hate it when men cry. I looked at Cecelia and told her I would visit again. I went back today. She was more alert and Mr. French had gone home for the night. A good sign I think. And those blue eyes of hers lit up again. She wanted to talk and couldn’t. I yammered on about how she needed to rest. We continued to look at each other intently. Her eyes wide and wonderfully bright. Mine trying to tell her it was ok to rest.

And then I realized who else was there…. my grandmother. The same look. The same blue. My grandmother died a good 12 or more years ago but I saw her again today. A shadow that follows me around a good bit. The woman who was so very strict and stoic but who read to me from the Bible. A woman who could remember the 23rd Psalm when she could no longer remember her name… or mine.

The woman who baked the best cakes and whole wheat rolls in the world. None of us can re-create those.

And the woman from whom I learned an awful lot about trusting God and prayer and the church.

I never know who I will meet in a hospital room. Sometimes, it isn’t the person in the bed but is the person you need the most.

Night work might be ok sometimes.

Guilty Pleasures

Ok I broke down..I am on Twitter. Don’t ask why. I was merely supporting those I love in their endeavors. But apparently it will be my new addiction. Thinking for some stupid adolescent reason that I can “follow” my favorite celebrities (ok basketball players and coaches!), I am following the likes of well…ok… former UT Lady Vols and hot coaches! There I admitted it!

So here I am, a relationship person. One who believes in a good cup of coffee and good belly laughs and conversation. Face to face. And I will be Twitterized for awhile now.

I also like People magazine and VH1 Behind the Music. And E True Stories. Roller Derby and an occasional Britany Spears break down.

How is it we think we can “know” each other in 140 characters or less?

I will let you know. And when the randomness comes out of my twitter account…. Maybe you can ask me a question.

PS KitKhet is one of the family nicknames. Me and Dad….just like always.

All will be well...

I went to lunch with friends yesterday. A long drive to Knoxville buoyed by conversation with a college friend with whom I have reconnected.

We were off to deliver some of my mom’s dishes to a former girlfriend. Long story there, but let it be said I seldom rid myself of relationships. I never have been good at goodbyes or separations. I have too much need to be connected and cared about to “get rid of people”. A normally good trait but it leads to complications some days.

So there we sat: two recovering alcoholics and a child of one who never could. Between the three of us we had seen the destruction of a lot of money, some relationships, and mostly damage to ourselves. But this day we weren’t thinking of that. We were instead three 40 plus year olds acknowledging our lives lived in ways only we could live them. We all harbor our insecurities. We all live into the people we are affected by and affecting us.

Conversation on the way over to Knoxville turned toward a comment about spiritual needs and spiritual disconnect. I am not sure how all of that works in us much less in how it manifests itself in an addictive personality. And we likely all exhibit addictive behaviors at one point or another. None of us are immune to that. Perhaps it is that some of us have an “off” button that gives us a better sense of when to stop things that are destructive. What I do know is that we are all human. I shy away from the word “broken” though surely that is a truth we know. I have read recently that there is original grace instead of original sin. I prefer that logic, particularly if we are made a little lower than the angels.

I also know how proud I am of these two who continue to work each day (maybe each minute) to stay sober. To stay healthy. To stay self aware. They speak truth to themselves each day and to me most of the time. We all laughed hard at college tales of stupidity but unadulterated fun at the same time. Not many regrets there either. We laughed hard at our own foibles and fallibility. And patted ourselves on the back for keeping at it and getting up every day.

It is times like these I am grateful for my habit of not ridding myself of people. I need these and others to remind me who I am, who I was, how far I have come, and how far I have yet to travel. It is good to go along with someone.