Rusty Coins

I know a man with a rusty coin.

Held tight,

Deteriorating in the palm of his hand,

Only to fall on the floor

after his last gasp.

I know a man with a rusty coin.

Propped at his desk in crispy white shirt

Calendar full,

Heart empty,

Hoping his passion for writing will pass.

I know a man with a rust coin.

Sitting in bleachers

Watching his star-spangled child perform

Holding and molding,

Telling others what he might have done.

I know a man with a rusty coin.

Whose hands held little,

But face said much,

About twists and turns, cuts and bruises.

Never shared,

Secrets till the end.

Chilled crackers and warm water.

I work in an unpredictable place that constantly teaches me what I most need to learn. The lessons are not found in our noble mission, the state occasions, but in the irregular whispers that awaken me from routine.

This week it happened when our residents prepared for a Board meeting by supplying drinks, cheese and crackers on a table off to the side. We gave specific instructions of what was needed, and found that the entire tray had been kept in the refrigerator, including the crackers, and that the waters had not. Those of us responsible for the meeting were frustrated and a bit embarrassed, but in hindsight the moment was an important reminder of who we really are as a community, and the moment’s lesson applies far beyond my workplace.

The chilled crackers and warm water were reminders of life’s unrelenting unpredictability. They were also a call to release my grasp and open my hand to what life offers. In this case, crackers and water were an imperfect result from sincere hearts. Once seen as such, I accepted them like a parent receiving a child’s drawing. 

I have always appreciated a great moment. Fortunately, I grew up surrounded by many of them and was always quick to notice and point out something not to forget. As I grew up, I tried to create them for my friends, girlfriends, wife, and children. What began as a sincere appreciation for the wonders of life became an obsession of control. Everything had to be just so. Many times I pulled it off, but usually I was wound so tight I couldn’t enjoy the moment. When things did not go according to plan, the spiral down to the depths of what people in recovery call a “poo poo pity party” was sift and direct.

There are plenty of chilled crackers and warm water in my life:

* Arriving at a fancy dinner and climbing out of the car all dressed up, only to show my parents I was unable to find my shoes and thought coming without any shoes was better than confessing.

* Teaching my first class as a world-renowned school in white tie and tails only to see my fly unzipped.

* Making my parents a Christmas cracker-holder and incorrectly spelling Christmas.

* Arriving at a high school party, trying to look like I belonged, only to have someone point out the price tag still attached to my shirt.

The list if far longer than I would like, but accepting the moments listed is as freeing as it is humorous. Those moments are where true life is found. Standing at a graduation party, with parents dressed in their summer finest,  I wanted to share this important truth, but someone pointed out that, despite my Vinyard Vines shorts and tasseled loafers, I had something stuck in my teeth.

Shields

In a chapel where I used to work and preach, there were two medieval tapestries behind the altar. In them, were shields adorned with crests of one sort or another. Given the nature of the school, the crests probably belonged to royal or important families, but what struck me about the tapestries most was the fact that the shields were entwined in vines outside a gate. To whom did the shields belong? Why did they put their shields down? What lay beyond the gate?

The tapestries and the questions they stirred have haunted me ever since first seeing them. While working at the school, I even tried to preach a sermon about the shields, but, looking back, I was not wise enough to tell their tale. I may not be wise enough still, but I am traveling a spiritual path that has caused me to reflect of the shields I carry, the gates before me, and the question whether I am brave enough to put the shields down or not.

At a recent college graduation, a student arrived at the podium to speak only to reveal that she stutters. Awkwardly, she made it though her speech and invited all listening to do things not only despite our fears, but because of them. Her courage made me think of the shields.

Brene Brown has written many wonderful works on imperfection and vulnerability. She makes a compelling case for putting down the various shields we carry and walking through the gates that frighten us at our core.

In Christian circles, they speak of the “armor of Christ.” As I child, I liked the sound that and wanted to march onward as Christian soldiers, but I now believe such armor is not made of metal, nor protected with shields. It’s found only by removing the metal that surrounds us, by putting down the shields we use to defend ourselves.

Whether standing at a podium, unsure whether the words will come, presenting ourselves, completely exposed, to a teacher, boss, banker, spouse or child is when we will know if we have the courage to put down the shields of our making and walk through the gates before us dressed in the armor of a God.

 It’s wont feel like enough, but it’s will prove to be all that we need.