Two Cottages

There were two identical cottages built beside one another, and an electrician was called to install light fixtures in one. After a day’s work, he was dismayed to find that none of the fixtures he installed worked. The developer assured him the electricity was on, but as it turned out, the electricity was turned on for the cottage with no fixtures and the one with fixtures had no electricity. In many ways, the two cottages are like you and me, and, if we are honest, we have a bit of each cottage in us.

First, there’s the cottage with all the fixtures but no electricity. How like us is such a place? With much time attention and money put toward having the right fixtures, it’s all for show because there’s no electricity. No matter how wonderful or fancy the fixture, without electricity it will not work. I think of the man I know who has all the right toys, a family worthy of a Christmas card, but is desperate for a life with meaning. He has the fixtures, just not the electricity.

Then there’s the cottage with electricity but no fixtures. Electricity without fixtures is as effective as fixtures without electricity.  One needs both, but to simply have electricity is like the man who feels the presence of God but does nothing with it. Endowed with many gifts and talents, he perpetually lives a cautious life. Moved by his minister’s recent sermon, he files it away with other “classics” before returning to his chair for a nap. He remains in darkness, but it’s not because of a lack of electricity.

I believe each of us is called to bring light into the world. To do so, one needs both fixtures and electricity. Alone, they offer only darkness. Together, they can light up the world.

Extreme Makeover

Although I am not a regular viewer, the idea behind “Extreme Makeover” is that they take an old house and completely restore it then give it to a deserving family. The show’s success is due not only to the extreme nature of what they do to the old place, but also to the joy it gives to others.

I recently heard of one such house in the Orlando area. Like all the others, the starting point was nothing but a shack, but through enormous creativity, money, and effort, the shack was transformed into a remarkable home. It was an extreme makeover celebrated by everyone involved, but when a friend was recently driven by the home she was shocked by what she found: the lawn was overgrown, part of the siding removed, and three windows were broken. “The neighborhood took it back,” said the woman driving the car. The moment was sad on countless levels, but it also speaks to our lives and the various “neighborhoods” that want to take them back. 

I recently attended a weekend-long retreat designed to awaken participants to the possibilities of life and many new ways to think, talk, and act. It was inspirational and caused many of us to leave with a renewed sense of optimism. I passed the hotel where the retreat took place on my way to work this morning and wondered what I could do to keep the “neighborhood” from taking back my new optimism.

One of the great blessings of life is that it offers new chapters and moments of renewed joy. Whether a new job, an honest conversation with a friend, a decision to get in shape or follow a spiritual path anew, we often find ourselves excited by possibilities. The home in Orlando, however, is a vivid reminder that no matter how extreme the makeover, the old neighborhood will want us back. We must remain awake and vigilant if we are to keep that from happening.

Walking into work this morning, there was ample evidence that the lawn had grown and a shingle had become loose over the weekend. Instead of panicking, or responding in my old way, I got the lawnmower and screwdriver out. The old neighborhood is no longer welcome.

(If you would like an extreme makeover, please explore: www.landmarkworldwide.com)

O Captain, My Captain . . .

The first time I heard Smokey Robinson’s “Tears of a Clown,” I was caught by the contradiction within the image. “Clowns don’t cry,” I thought as a young boy. “They have white faces, red noses, funny shoes and are always making people laugh.” Little did I understand then what I know now, that costumes hide as much as entertain.

The news of Robin Williams’ suicide only brings that truth to the forefront once again. He was one of the funniest actors I have ever watched. My love for him began with the silliness of Mork and Mindy, but grew in depth as he inspired everything I wanted to be as a teacher in Dead Poets Society. In Good Morning, Vietnam, he showed the need to make others laugh in awful times as well as reminded that well-intentioned defiance has its place. His role as the counselor in Good Will Hunting helped me want to do more with my life than paint-by-numbers, and, of course, the Genie in Aladdin still almost makes me wet my pants.

Behind it all was a comedic genius. Without a white face, red nose and funny shoes he made us laugh at our core (Actually in Patch Adams he used those things as well!), but now we know the clown had tears, deep tears, the kind that can’t find their way to the surface, the kind that eat their way deeper into one’s soul.

I appreciate all the costumes and performances, but I regret that he, like so many others, was performing all day long. How I wish he could have known the happiness and laughter he gave to us. Now, I pray, the masks and costumes can come off and he can rest in peace.

(When you are next in need of a comedic pick-me-up, search for and watch Robin Williams' description of the founding of golf.)