No, I don’t mean “time is hilarious.” Time is… peculiar.

This morning, as I was getting dressed, I looked at my forearm as it emerged from my sleeve and thought, “That looks like the forearm of an old man.” At 50, I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me to have revelations like this, but it honestly surprised me. I stared at my arm blankly for a minute, thinking of the inevitability of the aging process, and the peculiar manifestation of it in the texture of that region of skin.

You’re History

Ten years ago, in 2002, I was not yet writing this blog. My mom had passed away in 2000, but my dad was alive and living with my sister in Georgia. I think Mom’s passing was one of the milestones that caused me to look in the mirror and say, “You’re on your own now. You can’t go running to Mom anymore for advice about how to live your life.”

The truth is, I really had leaned on Mom for advice over the years. Most of what I know (or think I know) about parenting, came straight from Mom. (The rest of it came from watching Mom and Dad. Dad wasn’t particularly verbal about parenting issues, at least with me, until the last five or six months of his life.) In contrast, Dad was someone who I saw as a “meaning of life” counsellor. Back in 2002, I didn’t lean on him for that kind of advice nearly as much as I should have.

Now, as I look in the mirror, I see more of Dad in the various aging signs of my body. I see Crow’s Feet and age spots that resemble his, and occasionally telltale signs like the aforementioned wrinkles in the skin of my forearm. I also see signs of stress, the loss of naiveté’, thousands of lessons learned, and more than a few sleepless nights.

Your History

Five years ago, in 2007, I had just started blogging, perhaps out of feeling a sense of mortality. What drove me to do so? Was it the arrogance of thinking that I possessed some collection of wisdom or truth that had somehow escaped others?

Actually, I think it was a realization that I wished I had listened more to things that Dad had said (or wanted to say), but that I had never taken the time to hear. I felt the need to capture, if for nobody else than my sons, some of the things that I always wanted to discuss with my Mom and Dad. I wanted to put down, in as permanent a form as possible, stories and lessons, observations and ideas, and all manner of things that I felt my sons might one day want to read. I wanted to answer, in advance, some of the questions that they might wish they’d asked, at some future date when I might not be there (or might not be able) to answer.

In the (generally forgettable) “I, Robot” with Will Smith, there is an interesting scene where Spooner (Will Smith) holds a conversation with Dr. Alfred Lanning (James Cromwell). The device Spooner uses to carry on this conversation projects a hologram of Lanning, and can respond interactively in Lanning’s voice and with his gestures, but only with the relatively limited information that Lanning programmed in.

It occurred to me a few years ago that this is what this blog is. This blog is a device for communicating, to those who would ask, the various things I thought about and felt strongly enough about to capture within a post here.

To be sure, a blog like this is a redacted version of my thoughts and feelings. This may capture the “text of my life,” but it quite obviously doesn’t state the subtext. I suppose one could argue that, with this blog in-hand and a decent knowledge of my life, you could figure out much of the subtext.

Along the way, I met some new people (other bloggers), found an audience (on occasion), and have compiled enough of my thoughts here to fill a book or two. (At least one book, “Don’t Blink,” a compilation of parenting tips and advice, will result from this.)

In Passing

Since I’ve started blogging, I’ve also lost several friends (including a fellow blogger or two). Where possible, I’ve gone back to read their Facebook pages, or their blogs. Sometimes, it’s not possible to read my friends’ thoughts anymore. My hope is that anyone whose life I’ve touched will be able to, if they choose, retroactively hear from me. This form of communication isn’t immortality, but it remains a way for express and demonstrate my love long after my passing.

You see, communication is what takes us from singular, isolated beings and makes us part of something larger than ourselves. When we choose to not communicate, and intentionally isolate or hide our thoughts and feelings from others, we become less. To be certain, we are safer, and not at risk of the pain when we withdraw and exclude. We also lose our ability to love and be loved.

My passing may bring an end to my ability to receive love, but why should it bring an end to me expressing it?

We discussed a wide range of topics. Last night, while shopping, we’d discussed the design of intake systems for performance cars (the merits of hood scoops versus cold-air intakes). Today we talked of Facebook, parent-child relationships, and sexuality. In other words, just another typical conversation with one of my sons.

In the middle of his junior year of college and with his older brother married and living 90 miles East of us, you would think that I would be accustomed to my younger son being four hours-away. You would think that him being home for several weeks over the Christmas break wouldn’t create an intense sense of loss as I watched him drive away today. You would think I’d have seen this coming.

You would be wrong.

Mirror, mirror…

Both of my sons, for good or bad, look quite a bit like me. Just yesterday, when my younger son went to get his license renewed, someone who didn’t know him said, “Are you Tim’s son?” The family resemblance is strong enough that a friend of mine from high school, not having seen me for over twenty years, met my older son and immediately asked the same question. Both of my sons have heard “You look so much like your dad” that they’ve long since started to expect to hear it.

Today, as we sat and talked, I noticed that he was briefly distracted, watching someone intently as they walked from the drink dispenser back toward the counter. I turned to look. My son had been distracted by seeing a toddler step away from her mother at the drink dispenser, and wander off looking for her father.

I smiled to myself. The boys don’t just look like me.

“Pass the changing roles please…”

Several years ago, just prior to my father’s death, Dad came to live in our house. During those all-too-short months, some of the most remarkable experiences I had were our late-night conversations about theology. Dad, having been formally trained at a Southern Baptist Seminary, took great joy in wandering down lesser-travelled conversational paths in his search for the truth, and this became even more evident late at night when he would suddenly become unusually talkative.

During one of our more memorable conversations, we were discussing the Biblical story of Jesus and the woman caught in adultery (John 8:1-11). Dad looked at me thoughtfully and said, “Did you ever wonder what Jesus wrote on the ground?” He was speaking of verse 8, where Jesus writes something in the dirt with his finger, prompting the religious leaders that were about to stone the woman to drop the stones and walk away. Dad continued by saying, “I wonder if he wrote the name of a mistress of one of the men about to stone her, or maybe some other shameful secret that all of them knew.” We never came to any solid conclusions, but I loved having this kind of conversation with him.

Today, sitting across the table from my son, I asked him for his opinion of a project that I was considering. I asked because the project might be considered controversial to some of my theologically conservative friends, and I was concerned about the potential reflection it might have on our church, and who people perceive me to be.

He looked at me and said, “Well, I don’t remember Jesus worrying about spending too much time around prostitutes and tax collectors. It seems to me that he hung around with all sorts of people, and not just the religious ones.” The people in question aren’t prostitutes or tax collectors, but they’re definitely a group that most Christians spend little time on or with. As of now, I haven’t yet decided whether or not to take on the project, but I found my son’s comments thought-provoking, to say the least.

Life Shared vs Barter-dom

As I sat in my car, watching him drive away, I suddenly realized why my own father took such joy in such conversations. It wasn’t because he wanted to pass along some grand theological truth to me. In fact, I doubt that it mattered too much to Dad what it was we talked about.

Dad knew, as I’m beginning to understand, that being intimately connected to someone has little to do with the exchange of favors. We don’t create intimacy and love by saying “If you’ll do ____ for me, I’ll do _____ for you.” Sadly, many relationships are built on such bartering. I know of at least one couple that treats sex this way: “We can have sex if you’ll take out the garbage this week and help me get the house clean.”

Last weekend, my younger son turned 21, and I joked that now my parenting duties were complete. My friends reminded me that there were many more things left for me to take care of, not the least of which would be grandchildren. Even so, him reaching this age does mark an important milestone, and it caught me a bit off guard. He’s on a different road now.

Perhaps it’s my own feelings of mortality, but I was struck by wondering how many more of his birthdays would I be blessed to enjoy? How many more casual lunches would we have where we could pick and choose the topics randomly, completely unconcerned with the need to discuss a particular subject? How much more life would we share?

Road Scholar

Just before I backed out of the parking space and started to drive home, I posted on Facebook, “And just like that, he’s gone again.” I don’t know, as my son officially gets on this particular road, what lies ahead of him, but I feel quite confident of his ability to navigate it well.

As I made my turn and went the other way, I did so with caution, blinking hard. For some reason, my vision had just become quite blurry.

This particular morning was different though. This morning, for the first time in twenty years, there were three people in the house on Christmas morning, and not four. Now the old question goes: when your son gets married, are you losing a son, or gaining a daughter? As I sat in the stillness of Christmas morning, it didn’t seem like a rhetorical question.

Lost & Found

On Christmast Eve, as we exchanged gifts at my older son’s house, it seemed clear that I had gained a daughter. We had transparently added her to all of our traditions: we now had a stocking for her hanging from the mantle, we had shopped for presents for her with the same sense of joy that had filled us when shopping for the boys, and she now found herself the victim of the friendly razzing that goes on in a close-knit family.

However, the feeling on Christmas morning was more somber. With nobody else awake and stirring around, I was alone with my thoughts, and suddenly acutely aware of the change.

“This is how it begins, I suppose…” I mumbled to myself. Soon enough, everyone would be up, the traditional chocolate-chip pancakes would be cooking, and we would (since Christmas fell on a Sunday this year) get ready for church.

I stopped and thought about this. Since my older son wouldn’t be here to eat his share of the pancakes, there might be some extra for me. Rather than taking joy in this, I felt a twinge that accompanied the thought.

Christmas Passed

Thankfully, the melancholy didn’t last long. As I sat, I suddenly remembered a similar morning 28 years ago: my first Christmas morning away from Mom & Dad, celebrating it instead with my wife of (at that time) six months.

Suddenly, the melancholy was replaced with an onslaught of memories of the intervening years, and how traditions began in our house to replace and supplant the ones I’d shared with my parents. In a few years, my younger son would be following suit, celebrating Christmas in his home, and not mine.

Sooner than I’m probably prepared for, both of the boys may be blessed with children. If so, then the traditions they forge with their families will become something precious for them to enjoy, though for a shorter time than they expect, and then someday look back on as I do now.

If only they can be so lucky.

Merry Christmas!

What Kind of Love?

What kind of love did this man have, that he would go down to the end of the road, every day, and watch for the son who had scorned his love and provision? What kind of love compels someone to wait patiently, even when love isn’t reciprocated, on the outside chance that someday, they will return?

Depending on the day, the father probably started doubting himself. “What did I do?” he must have asked, or perhaps “What did I say that drove my son to leave me this way?”

Can you imagine how, with each passing day, he might have been more and more discouraged? Did he ask about his son in town, or pester his son’s friends about his whereabouts? Did he go roaming through the countryside, searching high and low? Was he endlessly chasing after his son, never truly letting him go? Perhaps the father had an even greater love than that.

What if the father loved the son so much, that he hoped for the son to find the desire of his heart, no matter what that might be? Is it possible that the father loved the son enough to say “goodbye,” knowing that the son’s pursuit of his dream might never lead him home? What if the son said, “I never want to hear from you, ever again.” Did he love his son enough to honor the desire of his son’s heart this way?

With no way to know if his son was alive or dead, the father did the only thing he knew to do: wait.

Prodigal People

It’s been my experience that most of us have “prodigal people” in our lives. Sometimes, they “go to a far country” without leaving our house. Sometimes, they spurn our affection and provision. Sometimes, they must say “goodbye” to us in some way, so they can pursue the desire of their heart.

How will you respond? Will you arrogantly and smugly give them up for dead? Will you hope for them to suffer, and come crawling back to your door? Will you sit and dwell on the many ways of saying “I told you so” or something similarly caustic, should they ever darken your door?

(By no means am I suggesting that we should martyr ourselves for those we love, and let them be abusive toward us. Those we love clearly must understand that words and actions have consequences, even in the midst of love. Those consequences, however, should not include witholding love.)

What then, from their perspective, would they expect to hear upon their return? Based on how you’ve behaved in the past, would they expect to be welcomed home, as the father welcomed his long, lost son? Or, will they expect to hear indignant, selfish words (however justified) of your pain?

Selfish or Selfless?

What if they are unsure? What if, as they approach the house (metaphorically speaking), they are too frightened to walk up to the front door and knock? Is it possible that the only way they will summon the courage to “come home” is if they see you, standing at the end of the road, waiting for them?

It’s true that if you do this, you may wait forever, and feel the emptiness of uncertainty. But then, who wants to be loved with a love that risks nothing? Who wants a love that costs nothing? Wouldn’t each of us, if we are wearing the Prodigal’s shoes, want to be loved with a love that waits patiently, forever? Wouldn’t each of us want to be loved with a love that selflessly sends us off to pursue what we desire, instead of selfishly holding onto us for themselves?

Stand. Watch. Wait.

Forever.

Having had a variety of relationships, both great and horrible, this breakup might not seem like the kind of thing that would impact me deeply. Hadn’t I, going from one relationship to another, and sometimes being in more than one at a time, become a “player”? Such types don’t get deeply or emotionally involved, but instead use their partners for selfish and self-serving motives, and tend to move on to greener pastures with little thought to those they leave in their dust.

Why then, has this been such an emotional thing for me? Why did I delay the last moments in this relationship, dragging them on for as long as possible? Why was I feeling so… defeated by this?

The “No Commitment” Relationship

The relationship began the way many do, as a by-product of a deep friendship. We have known each other, in many ways intimately, for several years. Over time, that knowledge led to each of us leaning on our friendship at one point or another, but never in a manipulative or hurtful way. Both of us had wondered, from time-to-time, if we might be taking advantage of this friendship, but it never felt that way.

As the relationship took a new turn, into something deeper than just casual communication, we were both unsure if it would work. After all, it was understood from the beginning that my time would not be focused 100% on her. I had, and was going to maintain, a previous relationship. This was an unspoken, but fairly obvious element of the trust we shared. The relationship, from the start, was rooted in division of my attention and… incompleteness.

Even so, I jumped in with both feet, at least while I was giving her my time. When moments came and my attention had to go to my previous relationship, I made sure she knew when it was going to happen. When the relationship had my attention, I was focused, intent, and determined to make it work.

And work, it did.

I blazed new trails, learned new things, and we engaged in a storybook, problem-free romance. In sharp contrast to almost any relationship I’d been in before, this one held healthy conflict, on those rare moments that conflict arose. We talked, openly, about everything under the sun. When problems came up, as they do, we addressed them directly. Every morning, I woke to the knowledge that, no matter what else might not be perfect in my life, the security (though unspoken and clearly not committed) was there. It was energizing and made every aspect of my life seem more successful.

Unfortunately, one of the sad aspects about commitment, is that it is a fickle and misleading thing. We all say that we want commitment from someone else, but at some level, a formal commitment from the other party can often be a way to let us off the hook. After all, if the other party is free to walk at any moment, we really need to “up our game” and make sure that we are attentive to their needs. If we “mail it in” on a regular basis, and don’t give it our best, there is the underlying knowledge that nothing is keeping them from severing the relationship.

Another word comes to mind here: Obligation. On a daily basis, we all create obligations, but what about when that feeling of obligation creates a situation that’s no longer healthy for one or the other? Is it good for her to stay in a relationship with me, even if it’s to her detriment? On the other hand, if we’ve made no obligations, but are both present, daily because we choose to be present, daily, doesn’t that paint a very different picture of waking up one day and that person is still there?

From the start, that caused me to see this relationship as something, higher, perhaps more pure, than any that I had experienced before. Here we were, voluntarily together, with no vows or ties to keep us that way. In the same way that I felt that I had to bring my best, every day, she felt the same way, and I received regular praise and compliments. I had a constant barrage of positive feedback.

This was working, somehow, for both of us. This was good, somehow, for both of us. In spite of everything we had both been taught, and thought we “knew,” this seemed to be working.

Somehow, this relationship, perhaps because of the lack of formal commitment, seemed to have  depth and satisfaction that I’d never found before. Had I inadvertently stumbled upon something better than what I had been taught was “right” all my life? Was this commitment thing dramatically overrated?

The Breakup

The day the breakup came, I felt something was up, from the very start. Everything about our communication that day seemed to be sparse and relatively meaningless conversation dominating the early part of the day. Late that day, when I heard “can we talk?”, somewhere inside of me, I knew what I was about to hear.

Now, the details of why we needed to end our relationship aren’t really pertinent. As I sat and listened, I nodded, added affirmation, and smiled as much as I could. It was difficult to smile, but I could look across and see the face breaking the bad news to me, and knew that my anxiety was much less. I knew that pain, because I had been the one to begin such a conversation before. I knew how it felt.

You see, I’ve ended relationships before, so I know how it feels to try to choose the right words. I know how it feels to be the bad guy… the bearer of bad news. I know how it feels to share what will be, no matter how we paint it, devastating news. Even when I’ve known it’s necessary, and beneficial to both of us to go our separate ways, it is soul-crushing and difficult to actually find the words.

Burning Bridges and Remaining Friends

Another friend of mine once told me about the end of a business relationship where he “burned the bridge to the ground, torched the sucker, and made sure every smoldering bit was gone.” To put it mildly, this has never been my style.

Yes, I have had my share of outbursts, and on more than one occasion, I’ve said and done things that have hurt others, sometimes deeply. Even so, I’ve tried to never completely sever a relationship, in spite of how difficult this can be to do. I’m happy to say that I have generally found a way to remain friends after relationships have ended, regardless of who ended it.

I wish I could say that I have always been successful at this, but I haven’t. Sometimes, things have ended with raw, hurt feelings, and no path to reconciliation. At least once, the hurt was completely my fault.

You see, part of the problem with staying friends is, there was an underlying reason that the relationship wasn’t working, or had issues that just couldn’t continue. No matter how hard you try, when the break-ee looks the break-er in the eye again, even if they are smiling and being friendly, the knowledge remains of the break-er being the one who chose to end things.

That choice is an initial blow to one’s self-esteem: “What is wrong with me? Why wasn’t I enough? What could I have done to have kept this from happening?”

If the breakup gets ugly, then things are even worse. Not only are bridges burned, but feelings are hurt and much is lost.

That day, I heard, without me asking, the answers: “There isn’t anything ‘wrong’ with you. On the contrary, you are an amazing guy. You’ve enriched things in my life in ways that I just can’t express. This isn’t about you. This isn’t personal. This is just one of those things where the circumstances won’t allow us to keep on this path.”

I heard the words, but was a bit numb at that point. It was sort of like watching a Charlie Brown special, where the teacher is speaking but all you hear is “wah waah wa wahh…” instead of actual words.

The Future of Two Boats

In my case, the circumstances couldn’t be denied, and we both agreed that we needed to bring things to an end. In the following days and weeks, we would have additional conversations about her life moving forward, and after we had those, that was that. There was no way to deny anything that was said. This was the right path to take… the best path to take, for her, and for me. I knew that my lack of focus on my previous relationship was putting it at risk, and had even verbalized this along the way. If I was going to make the previous relationship work, it was going to have to have my complete attention. It was going to have to fly or flop on its own merits, and not be kept artificially alive by me finding what I needed elsewhere.

I needed to focus.

Now, for good or bad, the breakup has forced me to focus. I have no safety net of this now-past relationship to keep me safe. Like a man who has been standing between adjacent boats, one foot in each and forcing them to run alongside. I need to let the boats go on different paths, but to do that (and not fall into the water and drown), I have to plant both feet firmly in the boat that I had chosen before.

The boats are now separate, and in standing here on the deck, I can look at and appreciate the vessel that has borne part of my weight for some time now. I can stand here, waving goodbye, and watching as she turns and charts a course, now unknown, by necessity, to me. It’s unlikely that she will be on a course that will be alongside mine in the future, and if not, that’s OK. She is seaworthy and sound, and is now headed to new places she needs to go, that I’ll not see.

I wish her well.

Epilogue

This past week, I came to the end of a long-term contract, working for a Fortune 100 company, and I was a contract employee–a “gun for hire” that does not have (or in my case, want) full-time (i.e. “committed”) status. Recently, a friend of mine compared the heartache and pain of job-loss with the breakup of a romantic relationship, and we discussed the nature of business today, and how employee-employer relationships are now taking on the same kind of short-term prospects that many marriages are. I don’t know if this is part of a larger social issue or not, but I found it an interesting paradigm to use. This entry was written with that parallel in mind, and many of my friends who have recently lost their jobs.

If you are, should you be the subject of envy, or pity?

A picture postcard, a folded stub
A program… from the play
File away… the photograph
From your holiday
But your mementos, will turn to dust
For that’s the price you pay
Every year, is a souvenir
That slowly fades… away

I’m a big fan of mementos and souvenirs, but not so much in the traditional sense. Yes, I buy t-shirts and hats when I visit a new place, and I tend to snap a picture here and there when I travel. My favorites though, remind me of people.

Memories…
Below are a handful of the mementos that I have on my shelves, in my desk drawers, and scattered around my office.

The top drawer of my dresser has even more. What is it about such things that compels me to keep them?

In the picture above, each item represents a person (or a couple of people) that have touched my life. They represent family and best friends. There are more things that I’ve kept, of course, representing other friends and family, and these aren’t necessarily the most important items I’ve kept as memories of someone.

…of Touch
For example, at my home, I have a wooden boat that my father hand-carved. It’s extremely simple, but looking carefully at it I’m reminded of his love for simple engineering, attention to detail, and his willingness to stay up all night, helping one of his sons with a “build a boat” project that was due for school the following morning. I have kept that boat as a reminder of the sacrifices that Dad made, as well as a reminder of sacrifices that I need to make as well.

I keep pictures of people, as we all do, but for me, it’s the things that people have touched and used that I want to keep. Things that were handed to me, in person, and things that were given to me as gifts. Things that, even now, as I pick them up, I know that the other person once held.

The boat that Dad carved, for instance, was in his hands for hours. I’ve often wondered if, in the intervening years, I have held it in admiration longer than he held it in creation.

Likewise, one of my favorite drink containers was a hospital-issue, insulated ice jug. Mom brought it home after one of her stays, and then continued to use for years after. I can’t pick it up or hold it without a flood of memories of her, and the various times and places where she held it.

The Touch Box
Jerry Seinfeld used to do a comedy bit about looking for the perfect box. All of us were looking for a box to hold this or hold that. When we die, maybe our coffin is that perfect box.

I noted, with a bit of amusement, that I have maintained a box of stuff as I’ve changed jobs over the years. Not content with keeping memorabilia around the house, I’ve now got a cardboard box full of stuff that reminds me, not of the places that I’ve worked, but of the people I’ve worked with.

Hopefully, each of you have a box, filled with tangible things you can put your hands on, each of which will remind you of someone who touched your life. I wouldn’t trade the items in this box for anything… except maybe a few more minutes with each of the people who touched the items before I did.