Archive for the ‘Scripture’ Category

kia walaia

Tuesday, June 18th, 2019

I’ve reached page 179 of In Search of Robinson Crusoe and Tim Severin finally brings tears to my eyes with his description of Marco’s farewell (kia walaia, which translates from Miskiti as “to smell, to understand”). An adequate substitute for O’Brian this summer, I discovered this writer and true-life adventurer while cutting up an old Outside magazine. When I finish this, I must find his book on the North Atlantic voyage of Saint Brendan, a feat which Severin dangerously re-enacted with an authentic skin-covered boat.
• When I thought, “What is the purpose of all this?” as I was taking care of a completely disoriented and feeble Mombo, the only possible answer is what John Paul II called “the law of the gift” — the giving of oneself as the path to true happiness. It aligns with the single greatest of commandments, to love. But it also requires the conscious awareness, consent, and acceptance of the giver, or the gift becomes something else, and can be perverted so readily into resentment, or the sense of injustice. And so, it is not just the doing. It must be the mindfulness behind it, too.

Pick up where you left off

Tuesday, November 6th, 2012

Quoting Jesus of Nazareth, Abraham Lincoln told America, “A house divided against itself cannot stand.”

The election results are clear. Very little has changed, and all the deep division resumes again tomorrow. It looks as though the president has earned a second term with fewer electoral votes than he won the first time, and with a popular-vote margin that falls short of a mandate. Although the man has succeeded in putting together his “pied piper” coalition once again, he is not the unifying leader he claims to be, and, sadly, never was.
 

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Eulogy for Bruce Joel Willoughby

Saturday, January 8th, 2011

Bruce liked animals, games, martial arts, music, entertainment, and public policy, but he was first and foremost a voracious reader — went cover to cover through the Holy Bible at the age of nine, and figured he had read through it again at least ten more times. Beginning as a child, he consumed three to five books a week through much of his life. It was only natural that he would devote himself to writing. Keeping in mind his great love for dogs, here is something penned by his alter ego, Elbo C. Buckminster:

“I agree with whiners, of the last few generations at least, that life is a bitch. But I’m not whining when I say it. Maybe the first person to utter that phrase was misunderstood, maybe wasn’t whining either, maybe, as I, realized that the spark of physical in this plane is protected by Nature, the bitch-goddess, sharp-toothed and warm-teated. And, like any bitch, when her offspring are threatened, Nature doesn’t retreat. She bare her teeth, she threatens, she snarls — and she bites. She won’t give up, no matter how overmatched, until the threat leaves or until she is torn to bloody shreds. So count on Life, your bitch-mother, for she’ll not abandon you easily. But respect her. If you misbehave, she may snap your little puppy head off.”

As most of you know, Bruce lost his solitary kidney in his mid 20s and spent 71 months on hemodialysis before gaining a transplanted organ, which would serve him for eight years, until he lost it while battling the devastating inflammation of his pancreas that left him gravely ill, hospitalized, and clinging to life for nearly a year, during much of which he could take no food or water by mouth. By his own account, “I died a few times — three or four, I don’t know — and at least once they were ready to call the time of my death, but one of the ICU nurses refused to give up on me; I guess she felt I still has some fight in me, and she was right.”

Indeed. When he was finally released to tenuous home care, we were told that he was only the second patient in the 100-plus-year history of that Indianapolis medical center to survive such a severe pancreatic hemorrhage. We never learned anything about that other person, but we came to know a Kentucky man named Nathaniel who defied similar odds at UK Medical Center well below one percent, and he helped us preserve hope during Bruce’s darkest days. That was 2005. But even more significant to us than Nathaniel’s kindness — and, of course, the support and encouragement of so many friends and family — was Bruce’s own valiant, grinding effort to meet daily challenges more daunting than it seemed any human being should have to face.

Later (this was 2006, April), to a standing-room-only group of us who met on Sundays to share silence, in perhaps the most awesome extemporaneous public commentary I’ve heard — one of those powerfully unique, you-had-to-be-there moments — Bruce told us that he made it through those grueling months by virtue of what might be understood, as he put it, “lying fallow,” a spontaneous, involuntary suppression of normal cognitive and emotional activity, and I have no reason to doubt it, since he retained only a partial memory of the ordeal. There were times he was so fragile that the doctors could give him no pain medication, even after major surgery. Dana and I will always remember that during the worst of his pain, he told us that he was able to endure it by reminding himself that Christ had suffered even more. Any faith in the future we managed to keep was inspired by this, Bruce’s own profound inner focus and his refusal to quit. Bruce wrote:

“Perhaps this is what Jesus meant when he said, ‘if you but had the faith of a mustard seed’—not belief, but faith. Faith doesn’t require belief, but a deeper knowledge, an intuitive awareness of possibility, even a denial of reality. Faith flies in the face of truth. So while I feel in my bones the existence of a being we, in our ignorance, call God, and the existence of an energy level beyond this lowly one of rock, flesh, and death, I refuse to qualify, quantify, or classify it, because to do so takes me further from the truth, not nearer.”

At long last, he was discharged to confront what he knew to be a difficult three-to-five-year recovery at best, with more surgeries and a relentless cycle of dialysis. Family and friends— that was five years ago. In fact, he went home after that first long hospitalization on Christmas Eve, and that was exactly five years ago this past Christmas Eve. Bruce had completed that journey of recovery, had made a transition, with his mother’s help, to a new, less debilitating method of in-home care, and was optimistic about his chances for another transplant, with a return to school to fulfill his original goal of becoming an English teacher. And then, after all that, the earthly saga of Bruce Joel Willoughby came to a close — when his soul abruptly flew from a physical organism compromised by so many years of precarious health.

We are here to comfort each other in sorrow, but more importantly, to celebrate Bruce’s life, to be inspired by it, as I have been, and to accept that some things can never be understood on this side of the curtain. It brings us once again to the words of Cockburn, who Bruce admired most as a musician and songwriter (and it went well beyond their sharing the name of Bruce):

An elegant song won’t hold up long
When the palace falls and the parlor’s gone.
We all must leave, but it’s not the end.
We’ll meet again at the festival of friends.

Smiles and laughter and pleasant times—
There’s love in the world, but it’s hard to find.
I’m so glad I found you; I’d just like to extend
An invitation to the festival of friends.

Some of us live and some of us die.
Someday God’s going to tell us why.
Open your heart and grow with what life sends.
That’s your ticket to the festival of friends.

Like an imitation of a good thing past,
These days of darkness surely will not last.
Jesus was here, and he’s coming again
To lead us to his festival of friends.

Bruce was troubled in body, but strong in spirit. One didn’t have the sense that he was in decline, but quietly fighting toward a crest, ever determined, never in retreat, but slowly gaining ground, inch-by-inch against insurmountable odds. Always the chess player, he would find a way to extend the end game one more move, one more cunning evasion against near-certain checkmate, yet unafraid of passing, if a stalemate was declared. I doubt if there was anyone except his mother who really understood how hard he tried, including me, but I never lost sight of how incredibly remarkable he was among everyone I’ve ever known. There were times when it seemed he held intact his presence here by sheer force of will. For me, he always will be the true “Impossible Missions Force of Nature.”

It is fitting that we close with Bruce’s re-creation of his summation from those memorable words he delivered in April of 2006, which he titled, “HAH! MISSED ME AGAIN.”

“I leave you with this thought: If you have unfinished business in your life, get to it. Be it mending relationships, expressing yourself creatively, getting involved in community service, going for your dream job, returning to school, or losing weight — get to it. You may not be rewarded with a better economic life, or a longer life, or a happier life, but I guarantee you will be rewarded with a worthwhile life, a satisfactory life, whether it end tomorrow or ninety years hence.”

Various & Sundry, part seventy-two

Saturday, March 1st, 2008

My log is currently suspended for the annual March Experiment.

— Month of February workout totals: Swim-3; Bike-2; Run-3; Lift-2; Yoga-0; Pilates-3; Lupus-1

— If I accomplish nothing else over the next 30 days, I must find “the means.” I won’t try to define exactly what that means (hey, is that a pun?), but most of you know what I’m talking about. It can look like ferocity, but mere ferocity is no match for the kind of unrelenting competitive intensity that Uncle Don held out as mark of the victorious spirit. Well, maybe I did just define it. All I know right now is that I need to regain the source of it, and the man who coined the term is in the hospital and probably dying. He is my Godfather, and from him I inherit the challenge of “the means.” James and I were talking about him this morning when we accompanied Joan to inspect Joe’s Riverland. It was a wonderful outing that combined the gentle Lamb of March and memories of our lost Clansmen with an enduring camaraderie that is too rarely enjoyed (and I don’t mean scarce, but rare). I’m so glad we did it.

— Speaking of Joan: she uncovered this NPR feature that makes me think we might have been among the last of the “Oldenday Players.” This closing thought sums up the sad, ironic state of current affairs:

…in the rush to give children every advantage—to protect them, to stimulate them, to enrich them—our culture has unwittingly compromised one of the activities that helped children most. All that wasted time was not such a waste after all.

— Wow, did I ever miss the mark at the end of January when I failed to predict that the majority of Democrats were finally ready to kick their Clinton habit! Rather than Senator Obama’s campaign suffering from too many losses in too many states, it appears that the exact reverse has taken place, and now Hillary faces the need to complete an urgent end-zone bomb to stay in contention. Too bad that more conservative Republicans didn’t rally to Romney sooner and offer to the nation the kind of clear ideological choice that a Barack-vs-Mitt face-off would provide.

— Dadbo once gave us an item of firm advice: never work through a general contractor. He learned that lesson the hard way when he and Mombo built our house on the Shoop Road lot. The truth of his warning was born out last week by my experience with one of our clients who’s completing a new dental office. Due to the construction manager’s faulty information and his cover-my-butt attitude, what could have been a perfectly handsome interior wall treatment will fall short of what we worked to achieve on our client’s behalf. It makes me wonder how many other compromises they were forced to swallow in order to get the doors open on time. But maybe I’m missing the whole point—they did what they needed to do to achieve a massive relocation, with a net gain of significant improvement. What’s wrong with me? Done is better than perfect!

— On Saturday, March 8th, the Community Arts Center will hold its annual benefit and live art auction. According to the Center’s promotional material, the artwork is from some of the area’s top artists, and I can’t disagree with that, even if the list includes your humble correspondent. The online photo gallery offers sneak previews of artwork that will be on the block, and they did a good job of putting together that feature for the Website. The mixed-media collage I donated, Then Sings My Soul, was created nearly a year ago for KOSMOS: Discovery and Disclosure.

— Go back another year to the first March-X and that’s when I helped organize some local cyclists that would form the B.I.K.E. | Boyle County group. On March 11th, the local organization devoted to cleaning up and preserving Clark’s Run (C.R.E.E.C.) will host a community forum that will focus on trails and greenways. B.I.K.E. has not only promoted the idea of safer, more bicycle-friendly streets and roads in Boyle County, but has always hoped to collaborate with community partners as a catalyst for planning a network of shared-use byways and connecting trails.jadixonkbbc.jpg Yesterday I finished a draft of our comprehensive recommendations to kick-start the development of a community master plan that envisions much more than the construction of a few off-street recreational trails. The process will take leadership, commitment, and years of effort. Available funding will go to the localities which combine a strategic vision with constituent support. It’s a challenging goal, but many places have already done it. Some of you know that from your travels and vacations. Those communities improved the quality of life for their populations and, at the same time, attracted visitors, new residents, and employers. Can we do it here? Stay tuned. Bye, everybody!

For the despondent, every day brings trouble;
for the happy heart, life is a continual feast.
          —Proverbs 15:15 (New Living Translation)

V & S

Faithful stewards among us

Wednesday, February 6th, 2008

The new Salvation Army leaders, Chuck and Karin, are in town, so I met Chuck at the Advocate-Messenger for an introduction to the executive editor, a good friend of the local Corps. After that we met up with Karin, and the three of us had sandwiches at the deli on Fourth Street. I really like this young couple, recently arrived from Pittsburgh (not unlike most people with the Army, they’ve lived many places). Given the bizarre circumstances which caused the departure of our previous Captains, they had only 24 hours to decide whether or not to move to Danville last month. Unbelievable.

Earlier, while at the newspaper, we’d talked about a welcome interview that was supposed to take place today—before the deadly storms struck in the middle of the night. This morning they took off with the mobile canteen, headed for one of the disaster sites. What a way of life! I’ve met many caring people in my journey so far, but these extraordinary people who call themselves Salvationists are the most selfless servants I’ve encountered.

Blessed are the pure in heart;
for they shall see God.
                  —Matthew 5:8
 

Premature farewell

Monday, January 7th, 2008

We knew it would happen eventually, but none of us expected the abrupt reassignment of our local Salvation Army officers at year’s end.

Our good-byes were said after today’s worship service, and I tried to contain my personal sadness at the departure of a young man who I’ve grown to admire greatly, and who became a true friend over the past four years. Zach was the first person who believed I could do some of the things I’ve done, as I helped provide leadership to the Advisory Board. I shall always remember his maturity, compassion, dedication, and strong faith.

“And when they had brought their boats to land, they forsook all, and followed him.”
      —Luke 5:11

Ten “Favorite Books”

Monday, July 2nd, 2007

When Cheryl Truman of the Lexington Herald-Leader published her ten all-time favorite books and invited readers to submit their lists, it got me contemplating my bookshelf. It makes for tough culling, like picking your favorite foods or motion pictures, but it was an interesting activity for me, and—surprise—she included my choices in the ARTS & LIFE section on June 24th. (The lists were originally available at Kentucky.com for a time, but now one has to pay to see the archives.)

Unfortunately, there always seems to be a sour note in these things, and somebody took it upon himself to cite the wrong translation of the I Ching. It may not seem like a big deal, but I’ve never heard of Brian Browne Walker, and I’m not at all convinced his name deserves to appear in this context. I made plain to Ms Truman that the Wilhelm-Baynes translation is my preference. I’ve never seen another to compare, and it’s a big deal to me, because there have been far too many mediocre, commercially oriented versions of this classic of Chinese thought. Thank Goodness we have English as our native tongue, so we don’t have to face sorting out the various translations of Shakespeare or Emerson. Think about it. That’s why correctly making the Wilhelm-Baynes distinction is a BIG deal. You might ask yourself, is Shakespeare worth reading, except in English? Well, sure—that would be like saying one must learn Greek to read The Odyssey. One doesn’t, of course, because there was a Robert Fitzgerald. That’s why getting the Wilhelm-Baynes thing right is a FREAKIN’ HUGE deal!

SixWriters.jpg

The Creative Habit
Twyla Tharp’s thoughtful guide to artistic traction is the most practical book on creativity that I’ve yet encountered. The acclaimed choreographer reaches beyond her own craft to provide powerful keys to any dedicated artist.

Harlan Hubbard: Life and Work
Wendell Berry’s biography of the legendary individualist reveals much about himself, and therefore it offers penetrating insights for two of Kentucky’s most extraordinary artistic pioneers. This “double treasure” has made it one of my favorite companions for contemplative moments.

Stand Before Your God
Although Paul Watkins is clearly one of the most gifted novelists of his generation, my favorite among his books is this memoir about coming of age in English boarding schools, a pearl of introspection in today’s miasma of literary narcissism.

Drawing Life: Surviving the Unabomber
I’ll admit that, for various reasons, I’ve wept at the end of other books, but relinquishing my connection to David Gelernter’s mind and heart was an intense, unprecedented experience.

Shogun
I understood more about Islam after reading Whirlwind than from any nonfiction book, but his skill as a storyteller is what continues to set James Clavell apart for me. His “Asian Saga” is the benchmark achievement by which any series of historical novels can be compared, and this massive narrative of 17th-century Japan is his masterpiece.

Huckleberry Finn
The legacy of controversy shrivels when laid against its core of creative genius. I remain astonished each time I realize that no American had ever written fiction so modern. But even if someone had, I think Mark Twain’s towering novel would still have the power to stagger my imagination.

Invisible Man
More than a riveting story and keen take on American society, I think Ralph Ellison’s masterwork is perhaps the most prophetic piece of fiction in the past sixty years.

The Conduct of Life
For any American, this collection of essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson is a rich vein of intellectual ore that’s impossible to exhaust.

I Ching or Book of Changes
Who can deny 3,000 years of Chinese wisdom? It may well be the most profound distillation of human perception that exists. The Wilhelm-Baynes translation is my favorite, and its foreword by Carl Jung is the best essay about the Book of Changes I’ve ever read.

The Holy Bible
Beyond any doubt, it enshrines the greatest and most meaningful stories in world literature.

• • • • • •

March 6, 2017 — I am adding q note today after reading this page again. It would be difficult to take Shogun out of my top ten, but I no longer would cite James Clavell as the gold standard for historical fiction. Patrick O’Brian has recently eclipse his status in my regard, and that is saying a lot.

Various & Sundry, part fifty-three

Friday, June 1st, 2007

— Month of May workout totals: Swim-0; Bike-6; Run-1; Lift-0; Yoga-0

— Unimpressed by my exercise stats, I have to remind myself that it’s a big improvement over my uncharacteristically sedentary April, and that my workout log doesn’t include things like hauling truckloads of crumbled blacktop out to the asphalt plant. Well, I’m still blessed with excellent health, my weight is under 160, and I’ve got a 17.4 bmi. With everything going on around me, I have to be very, very thankful for that. So, now that it’s summer, it’s time to ratchet up the physical activity and get in shape. Muscle Club, anyone?

— If you aren’t reading Peat’s European journal, you’re really missing out. She calls it “The End of Fear is Where We Begin,” and it’s classic Peat. Her smile shines right through every word on the screen. And how about that KK? Can’t wait to see the BIG BLADE!

— On a recent solo trip to Louisville and back, I finally broke into the “Zero Hour” tapes that Joan loaned me a long time ago. Who knew at the time that Rod Serling had hosted radio dramas for talents like Jessica Walter, Richard Crenna, Keenan Wynn, Joseph Campenella, Brock Peters, and Earl Holliman? Apparently, over 55 hours of drama were produced, and, like so many things these days, it’s also available on CDs or as MP3 files. I still don’t mind listening to audio cassettes, but, come to think of it, if I don’t copy my tape of Heston reading the Psalms I’m likely to wear it out before long.

— I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited about an upcoming Brass Band Festival weekend, but I’ve never been the featured artist before. It helps to be enormously pleased with how my highly visible contributions turned out. I can go into the whole thing knowing that it’s my best effort on display. On the other hand, I seem to be feeling more and more awkward being in a position to take credit for things that come from the Source of all constructive influence, creativity, imagination, and beauty. I feel like I’m merely the object of good fortune, and, at the same time, I know well the moments of struggle, and the “means” it took to find my way over obstacles I wasn’t sure I could surmount. I well remember Danny D’s remark to me that “God doesn’t write songs or make movies.” Sorting all this out is why I continue to do it, I suppose, but it’s a bit of a roller-coaster at times. It felt like I could finally catch my breath this week, with Mombo home from the hospital, and supervision of the poster printing behind me. Some kind of balance has returned to daily life, deadlines are being met, and the outlook in the studio hasn’t been this bright for many, many moons. I’m not saying that Graybeard is dancing around his campfire, mind you. Things could always be better, but the worst is definitely in the past. In other words, I shouldn’t need to sell any more mediocre cartoons to a nephew any time soon. And I’m writing this with a calm heart, even though I didn’t sell a single collage from my KOSMOS exhibition. Well, enough of that. Onward and upward, as they say.

V & S

Blood and Fire

Friday, April 28th, 2006

There are flaws in all events, and the time will come soon enough for our annual “post-mortem” evaluation, but overall, The Salvation Army Appreciation Dinner was a great success. I can’t describe the sense of relief and satisfaction that today brings, other than to state that those are the feelings dominating my mood. I sense perfect timing for the new cycle that arrives tomorrow—a cycle of change and new projects.

It was good to see my sister Jeanne at the dinner, representing the 10th Planet, one of the new “Business Partners in HOPE.” Cliff was torn between being there and attending Hayley’s Boyle-Danville softball matchup, and he decided to wear the Dad cap. That’s just fine—there will be more Salvation Army goings-on for the rest of our lives, but children have fleeting intervals that are quickly gone forever.

I missed my chance to personally invite Seth at Easter, but there he was with his mentor, Mr. Durham! A superb opportunity for him to learn more about the Army and solidify his sense of achievement in Liberty last Christmas season. I also heard the good news that he’ll be attending the Governor’s Scholars Program this summer.

David and Lee were there, plus all the great friends of the Army’s mission in our five-county area. Divisional Commander Major Howell was a fantastic guest speaker and his address was a tough act for me to follow, since, as Vice Chair of the Advisory Board, I was to give the closing remarks and prayer. The Spirit was right there to boost my delivery, and I did as well as I think I’ve ever done in front of a large group. I’d gone with my intuition when I developed my speech, but wasn’t entirely confident of its appropriateness until Major Howell spoke, and then I knew that everything dovetailed with precision. Divine design? Amazing…

Love one another

Tuesday, December 27th, 2005

I generally don’t pay much attention to the calendar that honors the saints, but I always take special note of the “feast day” that falls on this date. This holy person, familiar to all Christians, is referred to as “John the Apostle” or “John the Evangelist,” but I know him as “John the Beloved.” The only one of the Twelve to endure his Master’s passion until the end, the well-being of the Blessed Mother was entrusted to his guardianship, and, perhaps less obvious, Jesus also committed his mother to caring for John as her son (John 19:27). How singular his role! The Father would preserve his life to an advanced age after all the other Apostles were long slain.

Why do I regard John so highly? Yes, my name is John and have held this attachment since childhood, plus I’ve always taken pleasure in the Easter moment when John wins the footrace to the tomb against Peter. I also like how he comes to our attention as a seeker, transferring his interest (with Andrew!) from the Baptist (another John) to Jesus—hey, gimme a break, I’m named after two guys who weren’t against going where the path took them. But I know myself well enough to see that it’s the sacred personality of John that holds deep spiritual appeal for me. His fundamental message of love is more powerful than intellectual arguments, and he influences my conviction that love in action may be the only true religion. He was also the strongest—before the Holy Spirt came into the picture.

There are times when I think that there are two kinds of Christians, those that say to themselves, “I’d have been scared, too, and stayed away,” and those who say to themselves, “I’d have stayed with Jesus and let the chips fall.” For those of us who believe we might have had the courage to stand there and watch, the “disciple whom Jesus loved” is our saint. But I’m a man, and must now remind myself that Mary Magdalene also kept the vigil with Mother Mary. And then there are times when I think that this notion is flawed, for, as Robert Benchley wrote, “There are two kinds of people in the world: those who divide the world into two kinds of people, and those who don’t.”

Christmas musings

Sunday, December 25th, 2005

• Nobody can recite the Holy Bible like Charlton Heston, and I do mean nobody. Christmas morning isn’t set until I watch his performance of the Nativity verses, filmed at the ruins of a Roman amphitheater. Sometimes I just want to shut my eyes and listen to the masterful shift of his voice characterization from Angel to Blessed Virgin to Shepherd to Magi to the 12-year-old Jesus in the temple doing “my father’s business.” And I always enjoy how he portrays the angel telling Joseph that Herod “is dead,” almost as if the heavenly being takes grim satisfaction in the opportune demise.

• My TV-Show Fantasy Wish List for Santa: I want a sprawling hacienda like Big John Cannon’s, on a ranch like The Yellow Rose, with a horse just like Jason McCord’s, and a fully stocked pull-down gun panel like the one James West had. When I need to be in the city, I’d like a Robin Masters Ferrari so I can commute to my urban pad, just like the apartment Jim Phelps lived in, with a big John Gnagy studio attached, plus a closet with an Alexander Mundy wardrobe. I suppose that’ll do for this year, Santa, unless you want to toss in a hovercraft, custom-built by Benton Quest. I’ve been really, really nice.

• I don’t know how long ago the “Oyster-Stew Eve” tradition began, but now it wouldn’t be Christmas for me without it. We gathered once again last night at Mombo’s, and it was a full house with all the Hellyers in attendance. Bubb played the temperamental stew chef, but his main course was superb as usual. I could have done without the bizarre homily that gushed on about everyone’s favorite computer racketeer earning his media sainthood. Oh well, there’s got to be a reason church hierarchs would exile a pastor to the boondocks of rural Kentucky. After what I’ve learned about the downfall of the precious parish in Richmond, nothing is going to surprise me about the bewildering judgments of those running an institutional religion that long ago lost its way. Give me a simple family Christmas Eve, with loving hugs, wall-to-wall cousins, Yorkies under foot, Jaybon’s vino, mud room goodbyes, and the lasting brilliance of a Dadbo who combined the sleep-inducing benefits of warm milk for the kiddoes, with a dose of aphrodisiac for Mr. and Mrs. Claus.