The Chair

On my way to buy my morning coffee, I passed the local high school and saw a large wingback chair sitting regally on the fifty-yard line of the football (and Lacrosse and soccer) field. Having had a senior graduate the night before, I’d heard that many graduates went to the school after the graduation party to watch the sunrise. Obviously, the chair had been found and placed there to add significance to the moment.

Seeing the chair took me back to when I graduated from high school, and the all-nighter we pulled, but I soon thought about the most recent graduates and what they must have been thinking when they took turns sitting in the chair. Did they think about moments on this or other fields, the dramatic come from behind wins, successful catches or shots? Did they look over at the building and think of classes that stirred them, or ones they were relieved to survive? Did they think of teachers who made a difference, and ones who drove them crazy? Did they recall the moments when they met some of the friends surrounding them as they sat in the chair?

When no one was looking, did they think of the mistakes they made? Did they recall the failing grades, the painful breakups, the missed catches, and times they fell in front of the on-lookers?

From such a chair, it can all be seen, but it is not a chair you want to sit in for too long. Looking back and remembering the good and bad, as well as the stuff in between, is important, particularly before a new chapter begins. It is meaningful to sit and think about all that has happened, all the people we’ve known, and times we’ve shared, but eventually we need to get up from the chair. As the sun rises, we, too, need to stand, stretch our legs and walk into the new day.

It’s true for this year’s graduates, just as it is true for those of us who graduated long ago. 

Playground Gates

Driving from the airport, I knew I’d soon be juggling emotional hand grenades. I was on my way to a writer’s conference, located in the town in which I grew up, at a seminary located on the very street on which I lived. I was ready, or “all prayed up,” as they say in 12 step recovery circles, but the challenges came earlier than expected.

My mother, who’s 90, was unexpectedly admitted to the hospital, which was on my way as I approached town, so I paid her an early morning visit as I came into town. Hospitals are challenging places for my heart, given my history, and the smell of the halls and the sounds of the monitors brought me back to the summer I spent in such a hospital watching my father die. With a smile that I fear revealed a frightened child within, I pushed the door and entered my mother’s room. Fortunately, she was released a few days later.

I ended the day having dinner with my older brother. Such one-on-one time is practically non-existent now that we have families of our own. There was no reminiscing, only talk of today’s pressures and tomorrow’s challenges.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I began the conference the next morning. With remarkable speakers and provocative subjects, I was temporarily removed from the world outside the seminary gates. Looming larger than was comfortable, however, was the house down the street. It was an incredible house in which to grow up, and I knew I would need to make the short walk to see it. We sold it after my father died, but it remains the place I see when I close my eyes and think of “home.”

During one of our breaks, I made the short walk to the edge of the property and looked across the front lawn. The driveway was smaller than I remembered, and the new owners had changed the color and some of the architecture features. The three windows of my bedroom were still there, and I wondered if the room was the same. Around the side, I could see the office my father built to compose music and write sermons and books. Out of view was the backyard, the most sacred ground I knew as a child. It was there, along with my dog, I explored every inch, climbed every tree, and played until called in for bed. I wanted to go up and ring the doorbell to see how things looked from the inside, but I didn’t. I could tell it wasn't the place I remembered. I also knew I was no longer the child who once lived there.

Later at the conference, still holding thoughts and feelings about all I’d experienced, a speaker told of a trip to England he and his wife took recently. They made a point of visiting Kensington Gardens, the hometown of J.M. Barrie, creator of Peter Pan, and went to the park where he reportedly sat most afternoons. As the couple sat on his bench, taking it all in, they heard sounds of children playing coming from the other side of a nearby wall. A passer-by explained the Peter Pan Garden was on the other side, and directed them to the entrance gate around a nearby corner. With elated spirits, the couple walked toward the entrance holding hands. Turning the corner, however, a guard informed them they were not permitted in, and pointed to the sign: “No Grown Ups Allowed.” Of course, they thought, and walked away, deflated.

Lying in bed later that evening, I thought of the places I can no longer enter. Despite my most fervent prayers, time refuses to slow or, better yet, reverse. Loved ones age, concerns overwhelm, and childhood homes close their gates. Such thoughts made we want to go to the window and search for the second star on the right, and awaken in Neverland in the morning, but, instead, I gave thanks to for the days I’ve been given, and the adventures I’ve had. 

Recalibration

A garage is an unlikely place for a Sunday School lesson, but, long ago, I agreed to take them wherever and whenever they come. I was being given a tour of my friend’s three-car garage which he and his son had turned into a NASCAR pit stop. In the three bays were an MG he’s been restoring since before he got married, a BMW his son has transformed into a racecar for a local track, and a pristine restored Toyota SUV. With hydraulic lift and every tool you could imagine neatly displayed against the wall, I felt like even I could fix a car! Hearing about the work they’d done to each car, and learning the purpose of particular tools, I was struck by the time and patience required for such work, and how it seems to be a matter of constant recalibration. Adjust this, tighten that, and then see how she runs. Walking back to the house, I couldn’t help but see how much our lives are like what goes on in that garage.

Looking up at my bookshelves this morning, I see an entire section of books designed to help a person grow. Whether it’s to learn how to manage money, life-dreams, diet, relationships or some other aspect of one’s life, these books are designed to help one recalibrate his or her life. (Too often I have purchased the book and not done the recalibration, but that’s another Brushstroke.) It’s a wonderful gift to be able to change and adjust our lives, but such work takes much time and patience, and, like the three cars, is never done.

The reason for my visit to see my friend, however, was because he had just lost his father. Regardless of the fact that his father had lived a full life, and his son seemed to be handling his death as well as could be hoped for, I thought about the way life sometimes forces us to recalibrate. Through no desire on our part, things happen to us that demand we adjust and change the way we see and live our lives. Much more complicated than buying a book, or pulling a tool from the wall, the recalibrations needed to adjust to life without a father or mother, spouse, child, or beloved friend are immense. So are the ones required when going through a divorce, loss of a job, betrayal of a friend, or sudden financial turmoil. Such potholes will cause the strongest wheels to need alignment.  Business as usual will not do, our automatic pilot for living must be turned off, and taking the wheel and flying through such dark clouds is both disconcerting and frightening.

I suppose such moments are what caused me to first consider there might be a power greater than myself, someone who sees beyond my limited vision and holds me in the palm of his hand, no matter what I’m going through. It is my deepest and most sincere hope, for me and all my friends who struggle, and I must constantly recalibrate my faith to make sure my thoughts and actions are in keeping with the hope I hold deep in my heart. I’m embarrassed by how often recalibration is needed, but I celebrate it’s possible at all.

Like the work in the garage, such work requires not only time and patience, but also the right tools and the willingness and discipline to take them from the wall and put them to use.