Thank you for reading my stories this year!
I’ve posted nearly 40 stories of my life in just three months time and have nearly 500 regular readers! Enjoy my two submissions for Christmastime and if you’d like to order a LifeMeansSoMuch.com T-shirt, email me at dondida180@gmail.com.
Here’s to a year of new stories in 2014 to make you laugh, cry and inspire you to live like life means so much!
LMSM,
Don
By now it’s possible you picture me in the early morning hours, clad in autumn cardigan, over an antique desk in a dimly lit room, peering through bifocals, gently tapping out stories of life between sips of chamomile tea and searching for words in glances over the sound of a crackling fireplace.
Actually, it’s 230am and I’m squatting over the coffee table in my boxers eating a leftover sandwich unshowered from last night, greasy fingers slipping on the keyboard between curses at my dog who wants a bite.
I will, however, turn on the fake fireplace to salvage a slightly better visual.
But Christmas is upon us, and I have something to say about it if I haven’t already ruined the romance.
I am a big fan of Christmas movies.
Each year, especially when my kids were younger, we endeavored to be the image of Christmas we all savor. A lovely little dinner, dad’s killer chex mix, the annual couch- cuddling, hot-chocolated viewing of Christmas In Connecticut and a sleigh ride in my little red car to see Christmas lights around town.
This year, the kids are, of course, older, busy with spouses, kids and work and general adulting and it’s clear the traditions which brought us close each winter may be slipping into memories as good things often do. I’m okay with it. My recollections of earlier years are still quite fond and full of life as I watch our movie alone, wishfully dreaming of the someday resurrection of our holiday tradition with my new granddaughter nestled warm in my arms. I still look a lot like Santa Claus these days and I’ll have a whole new generation to impress soon.
Thinking of small children, last night I again stayed up past my bedtime to watch Burl Ives’ classic animation “Rudolph.” I think I have watched it each December since I was a little one in my jammies on Christmas Eve before bed. There’s something about Rudolph that speaks to all generations. After all, he was different. Quite different.
The life and times of Rudolph narrated by the Burl Ives grampa voice assures us that while we are different, everything is going to be okay in the end. It has to be. It will be. That is the hope with which we both enter and exit this crazy world.
We meet other perfect reindeer along the way and somehow the sweetness of life gets burned. We find others who fortunately also don’t fit the mold and we call them friends. We set out on adventures together, meet abominable circumstances and push through with what we have, eventually to discover that what were once our misfittings, eventually become heroes of our own stories that will save the world.
In the land of the blind, the cross-eyed is king.
My own inner Rudolph lights up at this thought, reminding me of another misfit who was born to us we now call King. Okay, you say, he is NOT gonna compare Rudolph the Red-Nosed-Reindeer with Jesus.
Oh yes I am, right here in my boxers, I am.
Do you recall?
The most famous Savior of All?
I admit, that was pushing it.
But if you think about it, the entire story of the life of Christ was one big venture into a misfit world. Born of a virgin who traveled on a donkey for a hundred miles to be birthed in a manger among farm animals, he was all but banished to an unknown land, met with 30 some years of truly abominable circumstances…all of this so that he could be the salvation of misfits. He sees beyond our strangeness and provides love and a home for each of us in a non-conforming world.
Jesus is my inner Rudolph. He was different. Quite different. The light of the world for all misfits to follow, and for it, he went down in history.
Find your inner Rudolph this Christmas and your own happy ending story.
While strolling through the yard one day,
I veered a path just off the way.
There wedged amid three living greens
A dying lonely bush between.
And held within those vibrant plants
T’was there I glimpsed its noble stance.
First thought a weed but then beheld
The story told how it was felled.
How long ago it lost its way
But chance divine now helped it stay.
A mirrored image of our life,
And path we’ve journeyed pain and strife.
Now captured, held, and waiting there
This little bush received the care
Of three green friends who thought it best
To save and love him in their nest.
Their grasp held firm until this time
Released one winter morn I’d find
This weed was much more than it seemed,
I saw a noble fir redeemed.
Resurrected here in front of you,
A symbol of life was born anew.
Now rooted deep, adorned and given
A Christmas tree and a life forgiven.
No matter what you do,
some people just won’t go away.
I tried. Believe me, I tried.
A decade ago, I sat him down in a camp bunkhouse in Prescott, Arizona, and took the better part of the afternoon to tell him just how I felt.
I was different. Things had changed. I was going to pursue other interests.
Remarkably, he didn’t flinch.
I spent the better part of the next several years avoiding him. Though he was always less than a mile away, I usually only saw him from a distance on holidays, keeping myself unnoticed, hidden in the crowd. I know he saw me on occasion but to avoid discussion, I always left early.
Still, he was there.
What kind of person still hangs around and waits for you, hopes in you, believes in you and still wants to be your friend when you offer nothing in return?
Some people just won’t go away.
I thank God.
I went off and did my own thing for many years, lost everything and don’t have much to show for the adventure but the adventure itself and the life lessons I learned. But at my lowest point, I remembered my faithful friend.
I called him up. And as I had done many years prior in that camp bunkhouse, I told him my story.
And once again, he didn’t flinch.
Sensing the prodigal son story embedded in my tale, he promised to never go away.
Today I work for him.
He gave me a job when no one else would.
An incredibly busy man, hundreds clamoring for just a moment with him each day,
he finds a moment to say hi and check in with me.
I have learned many lessons in my life,
but none so poignant about perseverance in friendship
as he has taught.
Today is his birthday.
I would love to be able to give him something as memorable as he has given me to thank him for his profound influence on my life. He met the depth of my depravity with a breadth of love I have experienced with just one Other.
Happy Birthday my friend.
And thank you for giving me reason to celebrate life again.
LMSM,
Don
A recent Facebook study reports a dramatic change in the connectedness of society. What used to be the proverbial “6 degrees of separation,” representing the number of people in a friendship chain, at least among the 1.2 billion Facebook users, is now 3.74 degrees. Essentially, this means “when considering another person in the world, a friend of your friend knows a friend of their friend.”
It’s a small world after all.
The mathematical change in the friendship factor, however, is also accompanied by a definitional change. We may, indeed, be closer in proximity to one another, at least in cyber terms, but are we also “friends” in the traditional sense of the word? I think not. I’ll be the first to admit that social media contacts are not necessarily as social as we perhaps would like.
In reality, we may be more acquainted with the world’s inhabitants, but we are no better connected in meaningful ways with people than a rogue bird joining a flock flying south for the winter.
“Meaningful ways.”
That kind of begs the question, doesn’t it?
What constitutes “friendship?” Certainly it’s more than acquaintance or a mathematically equated number. And if you’re on the internet, you’ve encountered thousands of memes, captioned in pretty pictures, describing traits of good friends. Yawn.
Once, in my own mini-experiment, I posted two back to back posts immediately following one another. The first was a simple request of anyone who might be nearby at some point in the day, to give me a lift to a destination not a mile away. The second was a funny kitten picture I had captioned. Now, I live immediately off the busiest part of the freeway where traffic is constant and I made it clear that the very short ride could be offered at any time of the day that might be convenient. My “friend list” on Facebook numbered about 600 at the time and it was a public post for widest possible reach to those who might make an offer, suggestion or even a good excuse why they could not.
On that first post for a ride, I received one “like” and no comments. The cute kitty got a whopping 36 likes and a dozen adorable comments. I can only presume that the same people who saw the first also saw the next.
Certainly, this was no scientific experiment nor did it prove much at all except maybe my original point…that friendship is redefined, like it or not.
I have always been an advocate of what I call “revelational friendship.” In my program of study for my graduate degree, we learned there are different levels of communication, with each successive level indicating a greater likelihood of commitment to a relationship. The first level, cliché communication included basic niceties like “Good morning,” “How are you?” and “Nice weather, eh?” Basically, stuff one says to acknowledge another but not commit to a conversation or, really, much more. The second level, “informational sharing,” would suggest a need to communicate a fact or notice to someone but without a need nor expectation for reciprocation. “The boss is out today,” “Joanie needs picked up after volleyball,” and “I’ll bring the main dish to the picnic.” The level of commitment to the receiver is minimal and no self disclosure beyond the facts is offered. The third level, includes the “sharing of ideas” which thrusts us into a potential for risk. “I like the Rolling Stones,” or “Green is my favorite color, “ or “Let’s do it this way,” are all simple statements which could be disagreed with or disapproved of. In this level, the communicator takes a calculated risk that the receiver will not attack with an opposite or condemning view.
It’s at this point when I think friendship begins to emerge.
Now before I finish with the last two levels, think of the comments you observe on most social media posts you see. Exactly. With a few exceptions, this is where most end.
The fourth of five levels: “sharing emotions.” “I feel a little scared,” or “It’s just sad that this is happening,” or “I can’t take it any more,” would be indicators that either you or the other party is endeavoring to trust each other with a highly rejectable and risky statement of feeling. Remember, feelings, in and of themselves, are neither right nor wrong. They are, very simply, your own. Most won’t share much on this level unless it’s with someone they trust or at least, would like to trust. Have you ever seen a Facebook reply to someone’s emotional issue with “You shouldn’t feel that way!,” or “Don’t worry, be happy!” These are excellent examples of why social media, generally speaking, is no place for expectation of intimacy.
There are many “friends” who elect to remain behind their cyber walls and profiles, never to meet, never to offer any meaningful response or assistance and very likely, never to receive any.
Friends in deed
are friends, indeed.
Recently, my church ran a teaching series called Love Does, titled after the book by Bob Goff. The challenge was to reach beyond mere words of love to make them tangible demonstrations in our friendless world. As a culminating action, 2,000 of our men, women and children invaded our community with acts of caring, help and kindness.
Abraham Maslow proposed people can’t “hear” any bigger message than their current level of need allows. Those without a bed to sleep in or a meal to eat simply cannot hear any message beyond until those basic human needs are met and satisfied.
So as friends of the community, all 2,000 put in a long day of concentrated, hard labor at a few select locations in the valley in order to make a dramatic difference in the lives of needy people and a demonstration of the power of people who, together, put their friendship into action. Love does.
It’s a verb.
Let me summarize by suggesting a couple things.
First, lower your expectations for social media connections. It ain’t happening. Get out there and actually meet someone in person. Don’t expect social media friends to be a true reflection of your value, likeability or expectation of who will, indeed, come through at the toughest moments.
Second, invest most in those who invest most in you. This is not to suggest ignoring others, but if your money was time and you wanted to make the most of it, you’d put it where the best returns are most probable. Build a portfolio of friends at all levels and hold fast to those who take tangible emotional and behavioral risks to be there for you.
Finally, stop saying and start doing, regardless of reciprocation. The world is becoming an evermore connected place of people open to influence. If you have a message to share, first share yourself in deed to the other. They’ll be more apt to listen to your words as a result.
Indeed.
LMSM,
Don
I woke up this morning. And I smiled.
Not such a big deal when millions do it every morning.
But today was different.
If you can get past the embedded morbidity of my following thought, I believe you might just get the point.
You see, I had this not-so-fleeting sense upon waking. I know it’s not uncommon to have, and I’ve had it before. Only when it happened before, I cried.
I had a sense that I might just die today. Very seriously, die. Croak my last and keel over. Kick the bucket, take the big nose dive, whatever you want to call it.
No idea how or when. It could be in the middle of writing th
Okay, that was the extent of the morbid part, but it got me to thinking, as such things ought.
Statistically speaking, I have a 99.18% chance of surviving until tomorrow.
That means there is a high probability I will, indeed, finish this story and get it posted.
But I digress once again.
So why did I smile this morning when once before I cried?
I’m not looking forward to dying. I don’t do pain well, however, it’s an inevitability of living. I suppose the smile comes at this point in my life because I am quite happy with who I have become. Granted, it has taken nearly 53 years to arrive at this point but with most of my life behind me, I’m pretty set in my ways and I like the ways I am living now.
That wasn’t always the case
I’m far from having the most toys. I own very little and I earn even less. I’m not well traveled. The most crucial part of my life’s education has only just begun. I have my childrens’ weddings to attend, grandbabies to hold and very likely, many more sad moments of losing ones I have loved who will pass before my time. My bucket list, I am quite certain, will receive fewer check marks than I will ever hope to give.
But I pause to consider what I have.
If I were to beat the odds and die today, I would die with optimism, hope and vision. I would die running with my life in hand and very little else, tangibly speaking.
I believe life is more than acquisition.
The gathering of experiences, things and moments make for great memories and fun. We all will continue this gathering until we can gather no more, and that’s expected.
The difference for me is not a tally of these things but a knowledge I am firmly on the path to receive them should they come my way. The path.
The path IS the destination.
There will always be one better toy, one better time, one better moment to be experienced. But if you set your sights on these peripherals, you will die with regrets and an insatiable hunger for that one last whatever.
I now know my God when I once did not.
I’m reminded of the story about how His lamp illuminates only the ground underneath our feet as we walk through life. Rarely does He shine a flashlight into the distance along our path as we may become afraid to take the next step, fear the duration of our journey or retreat from what lies up ahead.
The path. That’s it. Period.
When you emerge from the underbrush and find that path, it is immediately apparent. It’s what you have sought because you know where it leads. There is a peace and a calming pace. You enjoy what’s under your feet each moment. No concern for anything out of the light He provides you. No preoccupation with arriving.
Because you know you’ll wake up with a smile when you do.
LMSM,
Don
One of the most powerful statements I have heard in my life was this:
Hurt people
hurt people.
We may never fully understand why bullies do the things they do.
We may never get our apologies.
Perhaps our only consolation will be the knowledge of this fact.
It is not a defense of their actions nor an excuse for their behaviors
but it may help us gain perspective and engage us in prayer for those who are now or have ever been bullies in hopes that they will pause, if just for a moment, to think before they act.
LMSM,
Don
| The recent engagement of my daughter has caused me to reflect on many things. Nodal moments in our lives often do. My own failed marriage was, in large part, my fault. This story was something I came upon in its original publishing in Reader’s Digest in 1988. I often referred to it in marriage therapy when couples in my office were at their most broken point. It became a significant turning point for change in their relationship. Because my musings of late have been about relationship, I decided I could write no better story to illustrate such a point. I wish I had done things different in my own life but that is now in the past. Perhaps this short story will help you at such a crossroads. If so, it would also be redemptive for my own conscience. Enjoy. LMSM, Don
The Eight-Cow Wife by Patricia McGerr, Reader’s Digest, February 1988, pp138-141 “Get Johnny Lingo to help you find what you want and then let him do the bargaining,” advised Shenkin as I sat on the veranda of his guest house and wondered whether to visit Nurabandi. “He’ll earn his commission four times over. Johnny knows values and how to make a deal.” “Johnny Lingo.” The chubby boy on the veranda steps hooted the name, then hugged his knees and rocked with shrill laughter. “Be quiet,” said his father and the laughter grew silent. “Johnny Lingo’s the sharpest trader in this part of the Pacific.” The simple statement made the boy choke and almost roll off the steps. Smiles broadened on the faces of the villagers standing nearby. “What goes on?” I demanded. “Everybody around here tells me to get in touch with Johnny Lingo and then breaks up. It is some kind of trick, a wild-goose chase, like sending someone for a left-handed wrench? I there no such person or is he the village idiot or what? Let me in on the joke.” “Not idiot,” said Shenkin. “Only one thing. Five months ago, at festival time, Johnny came to Kiniwata and found himself a wife. He paid her father eight cows!” He spoke the last words with great solemnity and I knew enough about island customs to be thorougly impressed. Two or three cows would buy a fair-to-middling wife, four or five a highly satisfactory one. “Eight cows!” I said. “She must have been a beauty that takes your breath away.” “That’s why they laugh,” my guest said. “It would be kindness to call her plain. She was little and skinny with no–ah–endowments. She walked with her shoulders hunched and her head ducked, as if she was trying to hide behind herself. Her cheeks had no color, her eyes never opened beyond a slit and her hair was a tangled mop half over her face. She was scared of her own shadow, frightened by her own voice. She was afraid to laugh in public. She never romped with the girls, so how could she attract the boys?” “But she attracted Johnny?” This is the story Shenkin told me: “All the way to the council tent the cousins were urging Sam to try for a good settlement. Ask for three cows, they told him, and hold out for two until you’re sure he’ll pay one. But Sam was in such a stew and so afraid there’d be some slip in this marriage chance for Sarita that they knew he wouldn’t hold out for anything. So while they waited they resigned themselves to accepting one cow, and thought, instead, of their luck in getting such a good husband for Sarita. Then Johnny came into the tent and, without waiting for a word from any of them, went straight up to Sam Karoo, grasped his hand and said, “Father of Sarita, I offer eight cows for your daughter.” And he delivered the cows. “As soon as it was over Johnny took Sarita to the island of Cho for the first week of marriage. Then they went home to Narabundi and we haven’t seen them since. Except at festival time, there’s not much travel between the islands.” This story interested me so I decided to investigate. The next day I reached the island where Johnny lived. When I met the slim, serious man, he welcomed me to his home with a grace that made me feel like the owner. I was glad that from his own people he had respect unmingled with mockery. I told him that his people had told me about him. “They speak much of me on that island? What do they say?” “They say you are a sharp trader,” I said. “They also say the marriage settlement that you made for your wife was eight cows.” I paused, then went on, coming as close to a direct question as I could. “They wonder why.” “They say that?” His eyes lighted with pleasure. He seemed not to have noticed the question. “Everyone in Kiniwata knows about the eight cows?” I nodded. “And in Narabundi everyone knows it, too.” His chest expanded with satisfaction. “Always and forever, when they speak of marriage settlements, it will be remembered that Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for Sarita.” So that’s the anwer, I thought with disappointment. All this mystery and wonder and the explanation’s only vanity. It’s not enough for his ego to be known as the smartest, the strongest, the quickest. He had to make himself famous for his way of buying a wife. I was tempted to deflate him by reporting that in Kiniwata he was laughed at for a fool. As we spoke a woman entered the adjoining room and placed a bowl of blossoms on the dining table. She stood still a moment to smile with sweet gravity at the young man beside me. Then she went swiftly out again. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. This girl had an ethereal loveliness. The dew-fresh flowers with which she’d pinned back her lustrous black hair accented the glow of her cheeks. The lift of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin, the sparkle of her eyes all spelled a pride to which no one could deny her the right. And as she turned to leave she moved with grace that made her look like a queen. When she was out of sight I turned back to Jonny Lingo and found him looking at me with eyes that reflected the pride of the girl’s. “You admire her?” he murmured. “She–she’s glorious. Who is she?” (I couldn’t help, but think — if she was a servant, how difficult it must be for homely Sarita, having to daily be in the presence of such a beautiful woman. And what a temptation for Mr. Lingo!) I stared at him blankly. Was this some custom I had not heard about? Do they practice polygamy here? He, for his eight cows, bought both Sarita and this other? Before I could form a question he spoke again. “This is the only one — Sarita.” His way of saying the words gave them a special significance. “Perhaps you wish to say she does not look the way they say she looked in Kiniwata.” “She doesn’t.” The impact of the girl’s appearance made me forget tact. “I heard she was homely. They all make fun of you because you let yourself be cheated by Sam Karoo.” “You think he cheated me? You think eight cows were too many?” A slow smile slid over his lips as I shook my head. “She can see her father and her friends again. And they can see her. Do you think anyone will make fun of us then? Much has happened to change her. Much in particular happened the day she went away.” “You mean she married you?” “That, yes. But most of all, I mean the arrangements for the marriage.” “Arrangements?” “Do you ever think,” he asked reflectively, “what it does to a woman when she knows that the price her husband has paid is the lowest price for which she can be bought? And then later, when all the women talk, as women do, they boast of what their husbands paid for them. One says four cows, another maybe six. How does she feel–the woman who was sold for one or two? This could not happen to my Sarita.” “Then you paid that unprecedented number of cows just to make your wife happy?” “Happy?” He seemed to turn the word over on his tongue, as if to test its meaning. “I wanted Sarita to be happy, yes, but I wanted more than that. You say she’s different from the way they remember her in Kiniwata. This is true. Many things can change a woman. Things that happen inside, things that happen outside. But the thing that matters most is what she thinks about herself. In Kiniwata, Sarita believed she was worth nothing. Now she knows that she is worth more than any other woman on the islands.” “Then you wanted…” “I wanted to marry Sarita. I loved her and no other woman.” “But–” I was close to understanding. “But,” he finished softly, “I wanted an eight-cow wife.” |
All things considered, she should have said no.
After all, that’s essentially what I trained her to do.
My oldest daughter got engaged last night.
She has fallen deeply and passionately in love with a man who did everything I never did.
Born in 1985, by the look on her face lately, you’d think her life began only a couple years ago.
I don’t know all the circumstances about how they met, how their relationship progressed or how he proposed to her last night, but I knew she’d begun getting past her past when she first called to introduce me to him several months ago.
“Hi Dad, are you gonna be home Monday?”
“Yeah honey, what’s up?”
“We wanted to come over and see you.”
“We? Who’s ‘we?’”
“Me and the man I’m probably gonna marry.”
Since then, I knew my time to pass the baton was coming.
You see, I didn’t run my part of the relay very well.
I provided her with many things she needed. I always loved her and I did a reasonably good job to instill in her a few good things as she grew up. Regretfully though, I also dished out betrayal, disloyalty and pain in doses that should have killed her.
How she could ever trust another man again after the beating she took from me has, for many years, been perhaps my single biggest concern as an old and graying father.
A diet of lies and deceit, my contributions to her young life have been poisonous to her soul. The one who was supposed to have modeled what to look for in a man who could take her from my arms and into the rest of her life intact, was nothing short of tragic.
But God.
It would take a miracle to undo all those obstacles I had erected.
But God.
And a guy named Ryan.
Redemption is an amazing thing. It beats all odds. It defies logic. It crosses lines no one else can and slips through when nobody is watching. Then suddenly, it appears and presents itself for the taking…or leaving.
My daughter is a remarkable woman. Against the odds, she has emerged resilient, tender and everything a dad like me could ever hope for in a daughter.
It’s the final leg.
I have since picked up the pace as best as an old man can to make up for lost time.
“Hi Don.”
“Hey Ryan, how’s it goin.”
“It’s good. I’m not sure of how to do this, though. I don’t know the protocol and such, but I love your daughter and I want to marry her. I really would like to have your blessing, though.”
“Ryan, any man who can put a smile back on her face after what I’ve done…and keep it there this long… deserves the prize. You have my blessing.”
I’m glad she could say yes.
I’m passing it on to you, Ryan.
Make her happy for the rest of her life.
Because life means so much.
LMSM,
Don
Consider the geode, a hollow mass of mineral matter made from gas bubbles and water-deposited minerals which, over time, create the sparkling array of crystals deep inside. They are present at its formation and leach inside for thousands of years underground. After rock around the cavity hardens, dissolved minerals are deposited on the inside surface. Over time, this slow feed of mineral constituents allows crystals to form inside the hollow chamber.
Beauty is only skin deep.
Daily, we encounter truly attractive people. Those with perfectly symmetrical features, great genes, sculptured faces and curves in all the right places. Our society idolizes them. Some, in efforts to be more physically attractive, use botox, reconstructive surgeries, implants and other medical and cosmetic procedures to get that “born this way” look.
The truly attractive person, however, is like a geode.
While they may or may not be among the more beautiful earthly creatures, they possess inner virtues at conception Over time, a slow, steady seepage of the dissipating outer beauty moves inward to the soul. Their most sparkling physical features fade with age but are not lost at all. They are richly transformed.
What may have once been young and beautiful on the outside,,
over time and with virtuous ingredients,
makes truly handsome young people absolutely gorgeous old people.
And when you get close enough to look inside, you see it.
LMSM,
Don