Daily Dose (Aug 13 – 16)

TUESDAY AUGUST 13 —

This week we will take to heart Ashley Judd’s reflection, “You can pretend to care, but you can’t pretend to show up.”
And we will remember that regardless of our circumstances, life pulls us inexorably toward love and beauty, even though it may be wrapped in aching pain and or delicious hope. To engage this pull, this fuel that feeds life, is the sacred necessity of resilience. Which means that resilience allows us to live with intention. To show up.

This reminder comes with an indispensable paradigm shift. We too easily see “showing up” as a skill set given to the special few. Or a skill we need to “master”.
And we forget the words of the song we sang so enthusiastically as children, waving our index finger in the air, “This little light of mine.”
In Matthew’s Gospel Jesus tells the disciples, “You are the light of the world.”
And then adds, “Let your light shine.”
Let. As is, allow. As in, the light is already there.
As in, the light is something we carry. Inside.
Jesus never said, “Create the light.” He never said, “Make the light.” He never even said, “Be good at light shining.”
He simply told us to get out of the way, and let the light that is already there, spill.
So. Instead of light shining classes, let us give ourselves the gift of embracing the light that is alive and well inside… the light of compassion, kindness, empathy, inclusion and hope. Yes, when we shine (or spill) our light, we are wholeheartedly, showing up.

Granted, much of that light may be “under a bushel”, but it is still there, nonetheless. And this is the power: when we know that the light is here, now, we embrace (and are fueled by) the permission to be present. Yes.
Because when we don’t see (or miss seeing) because our light is “under a bushel”, we shut down or find ways to compensate. And we project strength through clout or cynicism or callousness.
There are so many competing messages about where we tether our identity. It’s no wonder that we find comfort with the need to impress or sway, “Look who I am.”
But here’s the disconnect; we’ve swallowed the notion that strength is only about power, as in control, or being over and against. So, we fixate on rising above weakness (or at least pretend, and don’t let anyone see it). When this happens, we lose sight of the fundamental reality that strength is in vulnerability.
Here’s the deal my friends: We are tough enough, to be soft. And human.
Tough enough, to access—yes, to show up—and spill tenderness, gentleness, empathy, resilience, and humility.

WEDNESDAY AUGUST 14 —

I really enjoyed watching the Olympics. Some of the sports I could relate to, some were way beyond me. Here’s what mattered most. “While we can measure distance and speed, keep track of scores for who wins in soccer or basketball, and compare the beauty and synchronization of diving and gymnastics—there is no way to measure courage and commitment. We know it when we witness it. We recognize its presence, and we know when it’s missing.” Thank you, Robyn DeLong, Cuppa Joy.
The sacred necessity of resilience. Yes, showing up.

Robyn tells the story of Derek Redmond, from the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona. Many of you will remember the story, and the images it imprinted.
Derek Redmond took his place at the starting blocks for the 400m semi-finals confident that he could win. He had posted the fastest time in the first round of heats. Four years earlier at the Games in Seoul, he didn’t even start because of an Achilles injury. This time, after eight operations in four years, he felt on top of his game. He got off to a good start, but around the first turn he says he heard a popping sound and a few strides later the pain hit him like he’d been shot. He dropped to the ground in excruciating pain—like someone had shoved a hot knife into the back of his knee. Derek put his hand over his face and began to cry. He lay down on the track, flat on his back in obvious despair.
Years later, when he was asked about his thoughts at that moment, Derek recalled: “Then I remembered where I was. And it was like (snaps his finger), you’re in the Olympic semi-finals. And that’s what made me get up and start to run—or hobble. And, I just thought, you know what, I’m going to finish this race. It may be the last race I ever run, so I’m going to finish it. Not for anyone else, but just for me.”
Epitomizing the true Olympic spirit, Redmond began limping around the track. About 120 meters from the finish, a man came barreling down from the stands. He broke through security and ran up behind Derek’s left shoulder. The man said, “It’s me. You don’t have to do this.” Derek immediately recognized this man’s voice. It was his father, Jim Redmond. Now sobbing, Derek responded emphatically, “Yes, I do!” His father put his arm around his son and said, “Well then, we’re going to finish this together.”
“Up until then, I managed to keep all of my emotions in and hold it together relatively well,” Derek recalled years later. “But as soon as I saw him, that was it, I lost it all. I was in tears.” Derek put his arm around his dad and slowed to a walk. This walk was all about them. All those years they spent going to meets. All the effort. All the sacrifice.
The two of them walked the remaining 100 meters to the finish line. Three different race officials tried to stop this duo from finishing. After all, no one knew who this strange man was. In addition, once a runner receives assistance, he or she automatically is disqualified. However, at that moment neither Derek nor Jim Redmond cared about the rules. So, even though Jim Redmond’s words might have been inaudible to the onlookers, his response was clear and distinct. In no uncertain terms, he was ordering each race official to get away and to let them finish.
“Get me back in lane 5,” Derek said to his father. “I just want to finish.” As they crossed the finish line, Derek repeatedly placed his hand over his face. He seemed embarrassed to be expressing such intense emotions in front of such a large audience. Every time that Derek placed his hand over his face, his father intuitively pulled Derek’s hand away. He wanted to tell his son that he had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. Jim had this to say about his son later that day: “I’m the proudest father alive. I’m prouder of him than I would have been if he had won the gold medal. It took a lot of guts for him to do what he did.”
The crowd shared Jim’s sentiments. There were 65,000 people in the stands, and they all got to their feet and cheered. There weren’t many dry eyes in the stadium that day. Derek had inspired them and the millions watching on television. They recognized the courage it took to get up and continue. They empathized with how Derek must have been feeling at that moment.
According to the official record book Derek Redmond never finished that Olympic race in 1992. He is listed as DNF–Did Not Finish. However, we all know better. If you google the top 10 most inspirational Olympic moments, every source lists him in the top three. Remembering the Olympic creed: “The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well.”
(Kudos to Robyn DeLong, Cuppa Joy)

THURSDAY AUGUST 15 —

I am the son of a brick mason. I am the eldest of five children. Which means that my summer options, as a schoolboy, were limited. I could be a hod carrier (mixing mortar—called “mud”—hauling bricks, blocks or stone and intuiting the needs of masons not known for their patience).
Or, I could be a hod carrier.
Being a hod carrier is real work. I mean, physical work. Dog-tired at the end of the day work. And I couldn’t wait to grow up and go to college, and get a real job.
My father’s leadership style, typical of Midwestern fathers of his generation, was straightforward, “Don’t loaf. Don’t whine. Don’t make excuses. This’ll make a man out of you.” (I will admit, as a high school football player and wrestler, I couldn’t have asked for a better workout regimen.)
Even so, college beckoned. Real work, you know, where I could make a real difference. And become somebody.
And I did. After two degrees and an ordination, I set out as The Reverend. No longer just a hod carrier, or “just a” construction worker.
And my Father? Well, in my mind, he was “just a” brick mason.
And I was “just a” hod carrier.
Boy, did I ever get that wrong.
Focused only on labels (limiting everyone by “just a”—seeing only their trade or job) I missed the gift and the power of connection. And I missed the healing reality that making a difference grows in the soil of connection. We make a difference when hearts and lives touch. We make a difference when we show up.

On one visit to Michigan in my late 30s, my father and I drove the streets in the small town of Sturgis, drifting in his pickup truck. We could drive for miles without saying much. (Not a bad skill to learn.) The truck slowed as if by volition, and I wondered if something was amiss. Then it hit me. My Father slowed to regard a house that he had built; decades prior. He parked by the curb. And he told me stories, about building the house, about the owner, about members of the crew and about pranks played on the job site.
For the rest of the afternoon, we meander the streets, looking not just at houses or chimneys, but also at the quality of work that has stood the test of time. These weren’t just buildings. They were works of art and labors of love.
And then we stopped in front of a house I recognized. Where I spent a summer on a crew, just a hod carrier, building someone’s dream. (But I hadn’t seen it.)
And the light bulb came on.
Now, I never use the phrase “just a” anymore. About anyone.
I know this for certain: it doesn’t take much to nurse resentment or regret. There are times when whatever we are doing seems not enough (no doubt a miasma of guilt or shame and the vagaries of public opinion).

So. Let me tell you the rest of the story (I can still hear Paul Harvey’s voice): Twenty-four years ago, building a new house on Vashon Island, there was a good bit of stone work and brick work needed, including fireplace and two story chimney. I had my father spend a couple of months on the island. And we did all the brick and stone work together. I’m still smiling big…
Jimmy Carter’s reminder, “I have one life and one chance to make it count for something… I’m free to choose what that something is, and the something I’ve chosen is my faith. Now, my faith goes beyond theology and religion and requires considerable work and effort. My faith demands—this is not optional—my faith demands that I do whatever I can, wherever I am, whenever I can, for as long as I can with whatever I have to try to make a difference.”
What was my Father’s job? He built houses.
What did my Father do? He made a difference.

FRIDAY AUGUST 16 —

“You can pretend to care, but you can’t pretend to show up.” Thank you Ashley Judd.
What is remarkably affirming to me, is how people showing up encourages and builds on the connectedness we share. Yes, bringing people together. Let us never forget, no one of us is on the journey alone.
And here’s the deal: when people show up, we need to keep telling their stories. Because the invitation to show up, spills.

This story came from Sabbath Moment friend, Charles Ochello.
They came in bateaux, canoes, crawfish skiffs and dual engine fishing craft, launching off the sides of roads, where highways dipped into several feet of murky water. Dubbed by some as a “Cajun Navy,” the citizen-sailors braved nasty water and nastier currents and have become a symbol of the Great Flood of 2016.
You’ve seen the photos. Many were heartrending. The waters of the Amite, Comite and Tickfaw rivers rising to devastating costs.
But along back roads and highways hundreds of boat-towing pickups streamed toward high water. This massive citizen flotilla pulled folks by the hundreds—along with sacks of possessions and frightened pets—from once-dry homes now surrounded by growing lakes.
To say that Louisiana boasts a deep reserve of experienced boaters, avid anglers, hunters and professional guides scattered across the state would be an understatement. Jared Serigne, a 32-year-old St. Bernard Parish resident said he and a cousin didn’t hesitate before hooking up their boat and driving to Baton Rouge on Saturday.
One of those rescued, with her two children and their cats and dogs, Nichole Witholder, wrote, “I don’t know their names. Regular men, going out of their way, using their own time and resources to help us get all dogs, cats, and children safely in a boat in the pouring rain.”
And why did the “Cajun Navy” hook up their boats and go? “We went through it in Katrina and Isaac,” said Graylin Shultheis Jr., a 30-year-old fireman and bowfishing guide who spent the weekend running rescue missions in Tangipahoa and Ascension parishes. “You’ve got to try to repay the favor when someone else is in need.”
“And besides,” said one, “Some of them were just really scared people.”
Yes. I do get that part. Life can unpredictably unravel us. And we’re never sure what is next.
Gratefully, here is what I’m learning: when it comes to showing up, it isn’t about tidy or about dogma or who’s in and who’s out. This is about compassion and mercy. And the undeniable reality that compassion and mercy (although sometimes buried) are alive and well in every single one of us.

Prayer for our week…
Breathing Lessons
Let it in, let it all in
Let it all in to your heart
All that is, all that is gift
You don’t’ have to take it apart
Everything we do is like breathing
We’ve been holding our breath for too long
Could you trust your life to the seasons and let the wind take you along
Let it out let it all out
Let it all out of your mind
Let it go, we don’t have to know
The answers to all that you find
There’s an emptiness that comes from having too much
Too much without any soul
Let out the lifeless the stale and the stuck
And let in what makes you more whole
Let in what makes you more whole
Charles Gaby

Photo… “Hi Terry, From today’s sauntering. And this doesn’t include collecting camomile and fleabane! Love to you,” Sue Wilhelm (Indiana)… Thank you Sue… And I’m so grateful for your photos, please send them to [email protected]