Beautiful Gratitude

I was recently asked to put together a few words to share at a company picnic – this is the result.  Our work involves the preparation of Structural Engineering plans and specifications. The mention of ‘Rhett’ in the text is to a new-born in our little group.  You can check us out here.  Happy Labor Day!

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

There are two words that of late I have been coming back to.  Or perhaps they are coming to me. They

are very familiar words – and you will immediately recognize both.  But unfortunately for you, you don’t know their meaning. As in fact neither do I.

The first word is beauty.

We have a common, Westernized interpretation of this word that what is pretty is beautiful. And that is true. Unsurprisingly when I Googled images for ‘pretty’ and ‘beautiful’, my screen was filled with models – mostly female – with perfect hair, makeup and attire. But that is the lesser form of beauty. It is indeed an exploitation of the idea – taking our predilection for the beautiful and turning it into a marketing ploy. We are called to higher things.

Higher things in this case are common things. Because beauty is in common things. It’s around us always – not just sometimes. Beauty is in the ordinary. Because there are no ordinary things. We are surrounded by the extraordinary. I was thinking about this idea when I left work one day this week.  As I topped the hill on the interstate, and glanced to the sunset in the west, I gazed upon a towering cloudbank with shafts of light piercing iridescent edges. It was truly magnificent. But it’s just airborne water vapor being highlighted in the visual spectrum by a ball of hydrogen fusion 93 million miles away. No – it was beautiful.

Take dandelions. If dandelions only appeared in our yards once every 25 years or so, we would have dandelion festivals. We would plan family events, vacations and work schedules around dandelions.  We wouldn’t mow the yard for weeks.  We would name our children ‘dandelion’.  But just because they grace us every spring, and dot an otherwise monochromatic green yard, we see them as common and a nuisance. See them for what they are – beautiful.

So is what we do beautiful? Is assembling drawings and plans, sections and details beautiful? I believe it is. Personally, I lament the loss of the hand drawing. Because in those cases, one could get a feel for the effort and craftmanship that it takes to assemble a great set of plans. I say ‘that it takes’ – rather than ‘what it took’ – because it still takes effort and care. It’s just displayed differently.  When our drawings are unrolled (or opened) 25, 50 or 100 years from now, someone (maybe Rhett’s children) will see our initials, our seals, our effort. Like it or not, they will make a measure of us based on what we produce – and the beauty of our work.

Roger Scruton puts it this way:

“beauty is an ultimate value—something that we pursue for its own sake, and for the pursuit of which no further reason need be given. Beauty should therefore be compared to truth and goodness, one member of a trio of ultimate values which justify our rational inclinations.”

At funerals, we are reminded that we are dust. But God makes beautiful things of dust.

The other word is Gratitude. I think that beauty and gratitude like to take long walks together and hold hands.  Gratitude opens the door for beauty.

Because deep seated gratitude has the power to transform our lives.

A while back I heard a terrific story.  A man who was suffering from depression had one of his physicians suggest that he write a thank you note to someone who had made a difference in his life.  He chose to write to one of his elementary school teachers, who had inspired his love of literature and writing. A week or so later he received a letter in response. The teacher, long retired, said that in her 30+ years of work, this was the only time anyone had taken the time to put their appreciation in writing. She said she would cherish the note until she died.

Gratitude has that power. And being grateful – even for difficulties or difficult times – is the key to happiness and a fulfilling life. It really is as simple and as difficult as that. Because true gratitude – like true beauty – takes opening our eyes wider and seeing what’s already there.

Today we live in a land that is free of the perils of warfare and hunger. You and I have been inoculated against Polio and measles, which struck genuine terror in parents for generations. Our water is clean, the lights turn on, the shelves are stocked (or largely so), and we live in a freedom and much of the world still envies.

And we can be grateful for good work. The work we do has a nobleness to it. I would encourage you to be grateful – not because you must – but out of a sincere desire to be a grateful person. That’s what I hope to be remembered as.  Life is too short to not be aware of the blessings and the beauty that all around.  And all around here now.

Walk the Way the Wind Blows

The old man leaned on his staff and placed his other hand on the walls of the building lining the the street. He walked alone, slowly and with purpose. His hip may be wasting away, but at least he could still see well enough in the dark to navigate this unfamiliar place. He could still hear the laughter, arguments and cries of children as he went. Thanks be to God that he could still do that.  

His colleagues were not all as fortunate. Some old ones were losing sight or hearing, but he was amazed at their still-nimble minds. Together they walked down familiar paths of memory with no staff to feel the way. Their heads would lean back and they would look heavenward as they recited verse upon verse. Tears would stream down as they recounted ancestors, persecutions, victory and betrayal. He had to laugh to himself recounting their endless circular arguments. Pointed fingers and raised voices, stroking beards and wagging heads. They were his friends and his life for so many, many years. They had helped shape his thoughts and find the way.

 The way. 

So if he knew his way, why was he meandering down this dark street on a summer night to meet with someone who turned another way? That was always a problem with him wasn’t it? Too quick to consider new ideas and leaving the door open a touch. Well, some wouldn’t say so. Some wanted him to bend much more. New wine in old wineskins. Still, he carried weight himself. He had convinced more than one or two. He was not without authority. 

Now his shuffling steps kicked up the dust and grime to leave it layered on his sandaled feet. A dog came yipping at him, then sniffing, then oblivious in predictable stages. The owner of the animal came out and the old man asked a couple questions for direction. “Just over there,” was the reply, “see the light?”. Yes – he smiled and replied he could and thanked the man before heading across the open and unbraced street. The man leaned against the door jamb and watched the old man teeter toward the light wondering what business his kind had in this neighborhood.

As the old man approached the doorway – he hesitated. Was this wise? What did he hope to gain? If his friends found out, he would be berated and endlessly questioned. It could get contentious even for a man in his position. He couldn’t reconcile it in his mind. He was compelled to come. For an instant he felt as though he would go; should all his mind and body resist and cry ‘no’. 

He knocked upon the door and waited. He could hear movement. He was about to knock once more just as the door opened and revealed the faces of two un-smiling young men. One towered over the old man. The shorter man was stripped to the waist and held a bowl. The larger man looking over and past the old man half expecting to see others. “Yes?”, questioned the younger.

“Ah – you see. I was in the temple yesterday morning. There was…”, he chose his words, “…a commotion.” The smaller man gave a knowing smile. “Yes – there was a commotion.” He said this directly – not with pride or sadness. Or even as a matter of fact. He said it as if it was inevitable. He might just easily have commented on the sun rising. “Why yes, the sun did rise…“. 

“Are you alone?”, asked the larger one. 

The old man replied that he was.

“And you want to know what happened – or why?”

The old man told the truth slowly. “Not exactly. But I won’t deny that’s one reason I’m here. Or the cause of it. I … I’ve heard things. Things that are as dangerous as they are intriguing to me – and to others.”. He paused, “I don’t know why I’m here. But here I am.”

With that he slouched a little. The walk had started to take a toll and the younger man could see the weariness. 

“Please Rabbi”, he said, “enter.” And Nicodemus walked inside. 

*****************************

Yesterday the man before him had been enraged. It was difficult to believe it they were the same. He had watched from behind the columns. The man had upended tables and pushed over tills of the moneychangers. The scramble for lose coins and free money drew the attention largely away from the man and his shouts – but Nicodemus had listened. In the commotion, the man had picked up a whip and started in on the proprietors. To Nicodemus what he was shouting was nearly as astounding as his actions.  He had seen false-messiahs in his time, but nothing like this. 

Now the same man leaned against the wall next to the window and smiled. He invited Nicodemus to sit; which he did with some difficulty. The space was small and their knees nearly touched as they looked one another over. The lamp light was pushed by the soft breeze through the open window between them. Perhaps the most extraordinary thing about the man was his lack of being extraordinary.  Nicodemus wasn’t afraid. But he certainly wasn’t at ease. It was like being in the presence of a mighty workhorse tied off with slender twine. The presence of the twine was only at the pleasure of the horse. 

The man said, “I will tell you the solemn truth Nicodemus, unless a man is born of water and spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Don’t be amazed that that I said, ‘You must all be born from above….'” and at this the summer air pushed the thin curtains. Nicodemus would remember that later – he would remember that always. The man turned his head to acknowledge the breeze, close his eyes and drink in its sweetness. 

“The wind blows wherever it will, and you hear the sound it makes – but you don’t know where it comes from….. or where it’s going.”  He smiled again and looked into Nicodemus. “So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit”. 

Their minds wrestled for more hours. Nicodemus wanted to understand. He needed to understand. But the man had parried each turn and with his questions, shaken Nicodemus. Perhaps like the wind, he did not where this came from or where it was going. But he knew that his imagination and heart were forever bound now. New things were expected of him. He had always been a man of hope – but now the hope burned.

Upon standing at last to leave, the overly large one who had so gruffly welcomed Nicodemus hours before, now insisted on walking him back to his house. During the long conversation, he had come and gone – finally staying for a long stretch as he could see the old man struggling in sincerity. Now morning was not that far off and the old man and the big man walked mostly in silence back into the better part of town. The big man could tell that Nicodemus was still deep in thought and so he kept silent.  Still, they covered the ground quickly. 

Eventually they arrived at the door and Nicodemus turned to say good night – or good morning which was closer to the truth. 

“Thank you for your hospitality. I must say I didn’t know what to expect – and I wasn’t disappointed.” 

The big man laughed and said, “Yes – I know what you mean. It is hard to resist. He does that.” And he turned to walk away.

“Oh – and Rabbi. I remembered you left your staff with us. I’ll bring it around later today…”, smiling he said, “…perhaps your need of it won’t be as great from now on.” 

An Exceptional America

Alabama Auburn - Stephen Fry

A few years ago, Stephen Frye toured America and produced an Englishman’s guide to the States. Perhaps sometimes we think that America influences the cultures of other countries to their deficit. Or at least that is what we are told to believe. And yes, like all neighbors, we have dirty laundry on the line. But this little clip is priceless. Frye, who I suspect has pretty much seen it all, is dumbstruck. He is left grasping for words to describe what’s taking place around him. We are ridiculous – and wonderful. What a great country. Hope abides.

Please stick through the ‘circus’ music toward the middle and get to the money shot near the end. It’s priceless with a flyover that really delivers.

No fan of the SEC (Go Hokies!), but our southern brethren delivered the goods on this one.

Citizen Trump

This is a fascinating video of Donald Trump critiquing Citizen Kane – the iconic film on wealth and moral corruption.  It’s a little surreal watching a much younger Trump wrestle with the meaning of the movie. Even his body language seems to pull the curtain back a little. “Perhaps I can understand that…” when talking about the distance growing between a husband and wife. Sad — and I mean that in the most sincere way.

The President is a lightning rod for all sorts of commentary.  Friends have been lost and families upended over his administration.  But lost in the media maelstrom is the simple fact that Donald Trump is a man like any other. He does terrific things — he does reckless things. He talks about being isolated and the need to “have your guard up, more so than if your didn’t have wealth.” He’s a man that understands walls.

Like us all.

Born That Man No More May Die

“I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year” ~ E. Scrooge

 

We have arrived at December at last; I trust we can all agree that Christmas music is at now acceptable. For me it started in the summer. My Pandora commonly shuffles over to ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’ station and I find myself humming ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ in July. My long-suffering family must bear with ‘Silent Night’ and ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ on long car trips to the beach.

Thus it is and thus it shall ever be.

I am not ignorant to the excesses of Christmas. Nor to its sometimes pettiness. But in the main, it is the Best Time of the Year. If the malls are packed – what of it? Those folks are shopping for others. The neighbor strings those gaudy lights? He’s engaging his community on some level. There’s something to be said for that. Stressed about giving the right gift? Hug ‘em and tell them you love them and mean every word. We need that every day. Screw the gifts.

As a boy of 10 or 11, I remember clearly the thought that my favorite thing about Christmas was having family pile into our house. I wasn’t too interested in gifts – but games, and football, and jokes and fun. Just pour it on.

Easter it seems to me is about Victory. Christ steps triumphant from the tomb. Spring has arrived and we are reminded that God reigns forever. But Christmas is about Hope. For a world that was (and is) impossibly mangled, Hope is found in the most unexpected of places. Wrapped in rags in a barn. Tears spring to my eyes at the thought. How fragile is Hope – how mighty is Love.

25 days – count them down. Then only 365 more.

The Good, the Better and the Best

The Danish Symphony Orchestra _ The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

Sometimes we run across a little slice of art that bridges cultures while at the same time defining culture. Music has that power. Sounds can be defined drearily by the engineer as waves and pulses (see ‘yanni vs. laurel’). But no scientist can explain what’s going on in the heart by great music. How the heartbeat can quicken or tears spring to the eyes with just a few evocative notes. Like smell, one may be transported to another time and place in an instant.

I wish I knew more about music – but I don’t. I joke that I can barely play the radio. And I never had a music appreciation course – the engineering curriculum didn’t really encourage that unless (as mentioned above) it involved frequencies and amplitudes. I look at guitars and violins and wonder why they are called ‘instruments’. The ought to be called ‘magic’ – because that’s a lot closer to the mark.

Still I listen to magical music – this piece written by an Italian and performed by a Danish Orchestra about a time in America over a hundred years ago using ‘waa – waa – waa’s’ and whistles and it works. It’s freakish. When the soprano comes in around 3:40 you think this can’t get any marvelously weird and wonderful. The whole thing builds to a feverish set of sounds that defines the American west. I love it. When my daughter and I started our podcast, we selected Yo-Yo Ma’s version of this same music – since we were talking mostly movies. It was perfect.

I believe that God in His grace provides us all with gifts. We call it a tragedy when we see those gifts wasted. That’s exactly what it is – tragic. I hope that heaven makes up for that. That we will spring forth with gifts of music – or art – or words – that give rise to the soul. And honors Him from whom all blessings flow.

P.S. – and check out the ear rings!

Writer's Block

“This is how you do it: you sit down at the keyboard and you put one word after another until its done. It's that easy, and that hard.”   ~ Neil Gaiman 


Here’s a secret about me; when I get those annoying security questions that are intended to protect my digital footprint, I always answer the favorite teacher with the same name. Chapman.

In the early 1980s, I was a nondescript and thoroughly uninteresting teenager. Lacking any vision or, in my defense, any encouragement, I bounced from class to class equally happy and unhappy with mediocrity. Yes, I was on the college path – but I found that path to be as dry as I was.  In the absence of a better plan, it at least provided a path. Our high school was large by Southwest Virginia standards. As I would find out later, it paled in comparison to the classes and resources of our northern Virginian cousins.