I took physics in eleventh grade. It’s hard to imagine, but fifty years ago, four-function (+, -, x, /) handheld calculators were new and an expensive luxury. So I learned how to use a slide rule.
My dad had a K&E slide rule he used through college and his early engineering days. I adopted it and took it to class every day to work through the math part of physics. I faintly remember getting pretty good at using a slide rule. Using logarithms, a slide rule enables you to turn a difficult multiplication or division problem into a simpler addition or subtraction problem.
In the movie Apollo 13, a whole room full of engineers pull out slide rules to figure out flight trajectories to get the three astronauts home when their capsule is damaged by an explosion.
After high school, programmable calculators became affordable, and by the time I started college in 1975, there wasn’t a slide rule to be found on campus.
I’ve done a lot of different exercising over the past fifty years. I played informal sports in my neighborhood growing up and some intramural sports in college. I didn’t truly get into fitness until my final year of college, when I decided to start running.
Some hate to run. I loved it. I liked competing with myself, to run farther or faster each time. The self-competiton made it fun. Along with the music that ran through my head in time with my footsteps. I never listened to music while I ran. My creative brain sprang to life about a mile into those long distance runs.
When I supplemented my running with weightlifting, I again loved the competitive nature of exercising. I carefully journaled everything, always pursuing another rep or a few more pounds.
I still find exercise fun. My feet hurt so I don’t do much running. I do a lot of walking with the dogs and a lot of bodyweight exercise routines in the garage. Every exercise is a variation of the basic movements of pulling, pushing, squatting, and standing. I love learning new movements from fitness professionals who produce exercise videos.
For me, the moving, breathing, pacing, and exertion are fun. It’s me against me, or the elements, or the two dogs on a leash. From the dog-smiles on their faces, I know they’re having fun, too.
I believe one thing that sets someone apart from most others is their willingness to listen.
I say that because the norm is a person who talks about themselves. They ask, “How are you?” But they won’t listen to your answer. Whether you reply, “Fine,” “Terrible,” or “Living the life,” they will launch into a monologue about themselves, their family, their projects and their problems.
What a difference when you encounter someone who responds, “What do you mean by that?” Or, “Tell me more about that.” Maybe a simple, “What else?” They show their willingness to listen with a nod and a smile. Nothing more. These people are few and far between.
Such a person is not afraid of silence. They know you need a moment to think about your feelings, shape an answer, and unravel your thoughts.
You can tell they are listening because they rephrase and repeat your thought, making sure they understand what you’ve said.
This person neither approves nor judges what you’ve shared. They do not talk about their similar experience. They don’t tell you what to do. Or what they would do if they were you.
I got up a little earlier this morning to walk our big dog (the Great Dane) before our three granddaughters, who spent the night with us, woke up. 5 am in Florida? Yep, still dark.
The big girl and I headed up a main thoroughfare before dawn. Much to my delight, there were no cars on the road. None. Zip. Nada.
I loved that moment.
Suddenly I felt like I was all alone in the world. Just me and my dog and a long, long line of street lights shrouded in a touch of fog.
That moment was surreal. What if it was just me and my dog alone in the world? What if we were the only ones left? What if everyone else somehow vanished?
I loved that aloneness. I wanted it to last. And I wanted it to be over. I wanted someone, anyone to drive by. But at the same time, I hoped they wouldn’t.
What should I do with that? I love being by myself, and yearn for the crowd. I crave solitude, and pursue the mob. I am so comfortable with just me, yet wonder when everyone else will arrive.
A recent WordPress prompt suggested I answer the question, “Who’s the most confident person you know?” After giving it some thought, I’m ready to respond.
Me.
I am the most confident person I know.
I am decisive. It doesn’t take me long to decide what I want to order at a restaurant or what I want to write about. At the library, I quickly pick out the book I want to read.
When asked, “Can you do this?” I typically say, “Yes.” I am confident of my ability to figure out a solution to a problem.
Can I learn how to use new technology? Can I speak in front of an audience? Will I try a new recipe? Can I cook for a crowd? Can I do that workout? Can I install that appliance, fix that leak, or patch that hole?
Of course. Let’s do it. Or at least, let’s give it a try. Confidence isn’t about getting it right or getting it done. It’s an attitude. I’ll figure it out. I’ll find a solution. There’s always a way.
What’s the source of my confidence? I don’t know. It’s probably a mix of influences, from being a first-born child who was raised to be independent, possessing a logical mind and a resilient spirit.
Confidence means you’re aren’t afraid to try. Confidence means you’re not competing with others. You’re just trying to be the best version of you. Confidence means there’s always a solution. Confidence see the possibilities.
The text came in the middle of my garage workout. Someone was in the hospital in hospice care, and I should go see them.
I’ve been retired from full-time ministry and the message came to me from someone I hadn’t seen in over a decade through another person I haven’t had contact with in over a year.
I didn’t respond.
More texts followed. “It’s not going to be long.” “They wanted you to know.” “You have to hurry, they are 100% going to pass.” “We’re going up there now.”
My wife was in the text group, and when poked she her head into the garage, I said, “Yeah, I saw it. Where are they?” We glanced through the texts until we found a location mentioned that doesn’t even exist. Hmm. Not helpful.
Feeling a bit convicted, I texted the current pastor and found out where she was. She was in a hospice care facility, not a hospital. I knew exactly where it was.
But I didn’t rush down. I know from experience that dying in palliative care often takes time. The dying will be comfortable but unconscious, and I will spend time talking with the family. Which in this case, were some who weren’t fond of me in the past. So I confess, I dragged my feet a little.
When I arrived, I greeted a daughter and her husband, a stepson and his wife, a couple of grandchildren and a great grandson. The husband was not there. They told me, “He just couldn’t do it.”
I understand, but I don’t understand. They had thirty-plus years of marriage behind them. Wouldn’t this be the “worse” that goes along with the “better?” But, I reminded myself, everyone deals with this differently.
The visit went okay. I said a prayer, chatted with the family a little, and left them to be with each other. My old friend wasn’t conscious, was comfortable, breathing slowly, and not yet close to death. She would receive good care for another day or two from amazing caretakers.
I glad I went. I’ve heard that the last sense we lose is hearing, so the person dying can hear and be comforted by those talking to them. So I’m glad I got to talk to her one last time. The folks who texted me? I don’t think they ever got there.
My body usually wakes me up around 6 am every morning. I don’t even have to set an alarm.
After I pull on some pants and a t-shirt, I hit the bathroom, wash my hands and face, and wander out to the kitchen to start the coffee maker that I set up the night before. It takes about five minutes to brew the pot. I drink a big glass of water and wait to hear five beeps from the coffee maker. It’s ready!
I drink my coffee black, so I fill up my favorite mug and sit at the dining room table with my bible, journal, and a pen, and do my morning reading and writing. I’ve been reading straight through the bible for years. I read a chapter or two and write down my thoughts, which may be the start of a devotion I’ll write for my blog. I also write what I did the previous day and the things I need to do today.
Sometime during those quiet moments, I’ll hear the big dog (our Great Dane) stirring in the back bedroom. So I let her out of her cage and take her out into the back yard. When she’s done doing what she needs to do, I fill her bowl with food for her breakfast and another bowl with water. She’ll usually lie down for a few moments after she eats, giving me a little more time to write.
And that’s my routine just about every morning. In the summer when the sun rises early, I’ll sit outside on the back patio. It’s so nice to be out there as the sky slowly brightens with all sorts of colors. It’s an amazing moment when the birds suddenly all start singing.
My secret weapon is the ability to remember names.
I didn’t even know I had this ability until people responded with surprise, “You remembered my name!” It might have been someone I talked with yesterday or someone I met a year ago. For some reason, names stick with me. I don’t have any mnemonic tricks. I don’t consciously work on it. Names lodge in accessible places in my brain.
I read somewhere that the most important word you can say to someone is their name. You notice them. You connect with them. You care about them. They are somebody.
Some lament, “I’m no good with names.” They can’t make the connection. Names don’t stick anywhere in their minds. It’s a real struggle for them.
Once in a while, someone’s name won’t click for me. That’s rare. I remember the names of all the dogs I meet at the dog park. All the people I meet at church on a Sunday morning. The techs and nurses and doctors who treat me in the emergency room. The players on my grandson’s baseball team.
Sometime in the future, I might forget. I might not be able to recall a name. It might be a friend. Or family. So for now I am thankful for my ability to astonish people – and sometimes myself – by remembering their names.
The list of things that people don’t understand is long. But for the purpose of this post, I’ll propose that most people don’t understand that everyone has a story. And chances are, you don’t know their story. Just as they don’t know yours.
What’s behind a person’s rude comment? Or impatient remark? What happened that morning to cause someone to cut ahead of you in line, lean on their car horn, look at you like they wanted to shove a knife in your gut, or suddenly push you out of the way.
I have no idea. I don’t know what the doctor just told them. I don’t know what just broke on their car. What’s leaking in their house? I don’t know what kind of trouble their child just got into. Maybe they just their job. Or a close friend.
I think most people don’t understand that we all have a story. Very few care about how my day went. Or what my struggles are. And to be honest, I don’t care about you and your problems either. It’s strange. We tend to be wrapped up in our own little world.
What if? What if I paused for a moment and listened? What if I simply asked, “What’s going on?” What if I cared?
I hate those questions. They are haunting and convicting. I know I should seek to understand. I too often forget. Be patient. Show some grace. It’s ok.
Waite for it... 