Stories from Common Ground

May 27, 2019

Greetings from the common ground,

The woman watched the two young men at the edge of her yard.  They were hippies, long hair, tattered clothes.  Probably smelled.  They would be begging or looking for something to steal. She shook her head at the state of the world today.  One of them walked up to her porch, he had a scruffy beard, a dirty t-shirt.  She thought about calling the police, and then decided she would get them off her property, she was capable of that. She called out to her husband and then opened the door.

He had been told that people from Maine were unfriendly, stoic, for some reason, stingy.  He was still forming his own opinion after a few days of being there.  He saw the woman look out the window, older, pinched face, unsmiling.  He sighed, not understanding why people had to be like this, especially the has-been generation.  He knew she would not be sympathetic, but he walked up to the door anyway.

A few days ago I heard a somewhat jaded airline attendant tell the story about how she finally stopped seeing people as ‘the public’, or ‘people from the south’ or ‘New Yorkers’.  She started off by saying that ‘People are awful, ugly’; a response to the flying customers who treat airline staff so poorly.  But eventually she said this: Serving people in a caring way means seeing them not as a collective but as individual stories.  She learned that once she knew their story, she could see the beauty in the individuals she crossed paths with.  It made it possible for to give the way she wanted to.  People are awful, ugly.  And wonderful and beautiful, she said.

For all of human history we have found ways of gathering into groups, sometimes for our own protection, or for more complex, and sometimes ridiculous, reasons.  We divide ourselves into Highlanders and Lowlanders, separate races, castes, languages, ethnicities, religions and on and on.  As the world advanced we made the divisions more complicated, invented more ways to categorize and separate.  Politics, sports teams, Mason Dixon line, generational differences, issues of the day like guns and environment and sexual orientation and gender bias and whatever our position is on high fructose corn syrup.

In the city where I grew up there was a tendency to talk about ‘Those People.’  Sometimes it was the Mexican neighborhood, or the poor, or the Protestants, or the Blacks, or some group that hadn’t learned English, or the families from a different parish.  Those People, I was told to understand, aren’t like us, and that was sometimes followed by some comparison about values or beliefs.  Which made sense until I found out Those People thought we were Those People. 

Through trial and error, all the while struggling with my own bias and racism and fear, I learned that once I knew a person from Those People, knew their story, it was impossible to make generalizations and assumptions about anyone ‘not like us’.

Years ago, someone said to me: “It’s harder to make cruel, uninformed comments about another race when your Asian daughter marries an African American man.  You consider Gay people differently when your own son comes out.”  It changes you when you know ‘Those People’ intimately, know their stories.

There is an organization called ‘Better Angels’ which was started with the hope of finding common ground for people with differing political positions.  They conduct forums around the country to create a place where people can respectfully discuss their beliefs and come to an understanding of the beliefs of those they disagree with.  What has happened is this; respect, empathy, friendships, and the realization that despite the rancor and divisiveness that seems to be the norm today, there is more that unites us than separates us. The truth of this is in our stories.

In a couple days I will be in Ann Arbor at a story telling event.  I’ve been to a few of these and they are always satisfying.  Some of the stories are wonderful, some are awful, some I care about others are forgettable.  But the reason I am drawn to them is that they provide insight into other people’s lives.  They create an understanding, a pact between me and the teller.  When I know their story, however it is told, it tears down some of what separates us and builds up what might bring us closer.

I am sharing this because I think that this may be the core of what will save us, or at least make our time here closer to what our Creator had in mind.  It takes time and attention and patience and the will to be open.  It will not eliminate all bias or preconceived notions or fear.  It is simply the beginning of what I think we are meant to be as humans.

Just so you understand, if I know your story, if I understand where you are coming from, that doesn’t mean I will agree with you.  It doesn’t automatically mean I like you as a person.  But the more I know of you, the less you can be dismissed as a Snowflake or a Socialist or a Muslim or a Gun Nut.  It is a path toward kindness, empathy, and I hope, peace between people who will always be different in some way.

Here is the hard part.  If it is true there is a growing divisiveness in the world, along any of the lines we are creating, it is up to us to change it.  We cannot blame the media or a political party or a religious group or Those People.  We are Those People.  I believe for all of us to live in peace, in spite of, and in glory of, our differences, we have to seek to understand through hearing the stories of others.

The old couple stood at the door and listened to the tattered young man tell his story.  He and his long-haired partner were exploring the country on their bikes, and just wanted a place to rest.  He was polite, kind, respectful, and despite how he looked, they were curious now.  The young man was sincere; they simply needed a small patch of grass to sleep on, and would be gone in the morning.  They would leave no trace.  He stood well back from the door and waited for them to answer.

The young man stood on the porch and waited.  He was sick, trembling with fever.  He knew they were afraid of him, and he wanted them to understand there was no reason to fear.  He also saw compassion on their faces; they were someone’s grandparents, someone’s friend, someone’s brother or sister.  He saw them hesitate, and where once was stony firmness, there was a flicker of kindness.

In the days that followed the four people learned each other’s story.  The hardships of Maine winters, the culture of the Northeast, the history of the early part of this country, the family that grew from Kennebunkport.  The nearly limitless gracious hospitality of the people of the Pine Tree state.  The two travelers learned for the hundredth time that people are beautiful, once you get to know them.

The couple took the young men in.  They were someone’s son, someone’s brother.  They were good boys, hardworking, determined, so brave to be out in the world.  They fed them, took the one boy to the doctor, showed them the coastline, the history of the place they loved.  And when they wheeled their bikes to the street and waved goodbye, they were sorry to see them go.  Neither of them said the words, but they both stopped looking at those people with long hair in the same way.

Hope this finds you open,

David

Copyright © 2019 David Smith

DMV Hysteria

May 20, 2019

Greetings from the instigator,

The clerk behind the counter is watching us.  I can tell she does not like the fact that I turned my chair.  There is a transistor radio behind her.  She walks over to it and adjusts it a fraction to solve the static, paces back to the counter. She calls “Niney ONE!”  When no one moves there is a frank look of disapproval.  She tries again, and then, to show she will not be trifled with, moves on immediately.  “Niney TWO!”

We are waiting for her to call 94.  It is a strange decorum, hushed, like a lot of waiting places, public, but there is some unwritten rule about talking too loudly. Behaving.  We are sitting in plastic government issued chairs lined up in rows.  I turn mine so I can talk to Harrison. He’s my son; not like I just picked a stranger to talk to at the Secretary of State office.  Though I would. 

I ask Harrison how he got so engaged in cooking.  I can tell from our other conversations it has become a passion, and I am curious.  He thinks for a moment, which is a beautiful thing to watch.

Harrison had to work a couple part time jobs to make ends meet, which even with a pricey college degree is what you have to do.  Bike to the bus.  Bus across town.  Bike to the job.  Reverse the process.  For minimum wage.  Somehow, he eked out a living, scraping together what he needed for rent and food and the occasional movie.  In that process he took up cooking.  Creating his own recipes out of the most inexpensive content; cheaper than whatever you just imagined.  Dollar Store food.  He said that he had eaten ramen noodles long enough that he had to make them taste better.

“I started watching cooking shows on YouTube.  There was this one I like called ‘Cowboy Chef”.” he explained. 

“Why is he a cowboy?  Does he wear chaps while he cooks?” I am a smart aleck. So is Harry.

“Well, no,” he says, smiling, “but he has a handlebar moustache.  I like him because he uses sort of unconventional approach.”
“Like what?” I ask.

“Well, for instance he doesn’t believe you should have to truss a chicken.”

I look at him.  “Why would you have to trust a chicken?”

Harrison looks down, stifling a laugh.  Before he can reply I say: “Is there something in the cooking process that demands a certain level of confidence in the chicken’s integrity?”

Harrison is already losing the struggle with his laughter and cannot respond.   

“Are some of them not trustworthy because of their fowl personality?” I ask.

Now we are laughing so hard people are noticing.  I look up to see that the security guard has moved from the door so he can get a better look at us.  He looks like an underfed Barney Fife, and I feel confident that if it comes to it, I can take him out.

Harrison takes off his glasses and wipes the tears from his eyes and we both pause to catch our breath.  We agree we have to calm down.  People in other plastic chairs are looking at us out of the corner of their eyes.

“So,” he says, trying to control himself, “another example is that he says you don’t have to proof bread.”

I let that hang, and then say: “Why would you have to prove it’s bread?” Harrison is laughing into his hand. “Isn’t bread self evident?  Is there some existential question the bread must answer to?”

I have sort of a distinctive laugh, the one that I don’t always give in to.  It is why you don’t want to go to movies with me.  Or church with me.  Or sit in the library with me.  I let it out in the Secretary of State’s office and the woman behind the counter shoots me a look meant to enforce a number of laws and regulations.  Now the security guard is watching us, hands on his hips, where if he were a real cop there would be a gun, but in his case there is only empty belt loops.  This image does nothing to help the comic madness I am stifling behind my hand.

“Niney FAWR!” the counter woman calls out, and it reminds me of a scene from ‘Cool Hand Luke’.  I want to tell Harrison but it will be too much when we are already in this near hysterical state.  We snap out of our seats, I pause to straighten my chair, and fastwalk to the counter, not wanting to miss our place.  The woman behind the counter sees us.  She points past me: “Excuse me, please straighten that chair.”  I look back, tempted to find the humor in this moment, but resist. I go back and adjust my chair, and now I am thinking of ‘Rain Man’.  Definitely.

At the counter we explain our business and she efficiently reorganizes our paperwork and starts tapping things into the computer.  I apologize for our somewhat silly behavior, trying to reassert my mature demeanor.  I know she has the power to make our day more complicated.  To my surprise she asks what we were laughing about.  We do our best to recreate the moment, Harrison tracks it exactly, and she smiles.

“I’d rather hear that, I guess, than what I usually get from people here.”  She looks at me, a softer look on her face, and says “I’m used to people yelling at me.  Yesterday I had a guy here using all kinds of foul language…” she trails off, tapping whatever mystery morse code that transfers a title.

“We want to be the best part of your day.” I say.  And Harrison looks at me, and we both know we are.

Later, the two of us are settled in front of outrageously large hamburgers, sitting on the patio at Stella’s, enjoying the fresh air, the warming day.  We talk about a mishmash of things, the way people do who are trying to fit in things to catch up on with just a limited window of time.

Somehow I tell him I am proud of him.  Proud that he has managed his life his way, quietly, at his pace, in the manner that suits him.  Now a job that pays, a car that runs, a place to live that doesn’t require cardboard in the windows.  It doesn’t come out the way it feels in my heart, but he understands. 

He doesn’t hear that I respect his life, how he moves through the world, that I admire his resourcefulness, his calm persistence.  As we sit there, I remember when he took karate classes and everyone in the class was half his age and size and how kind he was with his classmates, never giving into self-conscious awkwardness.  Just doing what he wanted, doing it his way, and soaking the joy out of it.

He grew up to be this thoughtful, intelligent, creative young man, one who doesn’t take life so seriously that he can’t give in to his Dad’s ridiculous humor at the DMV.  And the kindness in him makes it possible for him to share the best part of my day with someone else who needed it.

When we hug good bye and I tell him I love him, and I watch him walk to the house, i

n his trademark outlandish shirt, which I also love.  I see his life stretching in front him, not the details, just the theme of it, and I am happy for him.  So happy I am smiling out loud.  I am still laughing when I drive home.  Trust the chicken.  Too funny.

 Hope this finds you in good company,

David

Copyright © 2019 David Smith

Never underestimate the day

May 13, 2019

Greetings from where we prepare,

Nearly twenty years ago I started sharing notes with you on Monday mornings.  The start of the week is often filled with a certain anxiety, maybe even soaking into Sunday night.  The challenges and responsibilities of the day loom large, and sometimes we have a hard time looking directly at them.  On this morning, and every one since I began, I have sought to find a better way to start our week than dreading it.

Four weeks ago, to the minute, I stood in a hotel room and looked out the window at the wind and rain punishing the city.  Trees pleaded for mercy, bent over sidewalks, shredded by the wind, and the few people on the sidewalk were soaked by the monsoon.  I watched with a cold lump in my chest, knowing I would be running in that weather, struggled not to let that image ruin my hope.  Not many hours later I would line up to run the Boston Marathon.  Not a drop of rain fell on me until the last mile, and then it was a welcome, refreshing shower.

Never underestimate the day.

It’s human nature to see what could be challenges ahead and try to plan for them.  It’s a mature reaction to expect that problems will arise and to brace yourself for them, to some degree.  If we don’t factor in for rain, bring the umbrella, we get soaked.  Ah, but life is not just umbrellas.  It is what we experience, and what we make of that experience.  The quality of our life is not determined by what the weather does, or what people say or the chaos that sometimes awaits.  The full potential of our lives comes from how we fill the moments in anticipation, and response, to what comes to us.

I finished my coffee hours ago, already thinking of a list of things that wait for me.  Some are less than pleasant.  What also crossed my mind are a host of possible problems hovering around in the days to come.  I’m betting many of you have already gone through this exercise.  I caught myself, and now I am reaching out to shake some sense into you.  Never underestimate the day.

Some weeks ago I spoke to a group of training leaders for the Crim, a festival of races in my town.  I was looking forward to it, felt like I was prepared, and that the message was one they would find value in.  That morning I saw the impact was bigger than expected.  A few weeks later I was still running into people who were touched by the message.  I had underestimated the day.  And me.  And them.

Yesterday I ran in the cool morning, feeling the potential in me, feeling it in the grey morning.  It reminded me of many other days started this way, immersed in nature, feeling my body work, and having the time to let my thoughts gather in their own way.

A few miles into the run I turned up a trail, scattering rabbits, a band of deer, and climbed up a small bluff that overlooked the river there.  I stood in the slanted morning light there and felt my breath, the pounding of my heart and the stillness of the forest.  A few birds seasoned the moment, and then two woodpeckers added their percussion.  The beauty caught me by surprise, and I felt tears sting my eyes. 

I left home knowing, expecting an awesome morning, and even so, even feeling the potential, it took me being there to realize I had underestimated what the day held for me. 

What I know just from just the slightest reflection, the bit of perspective of a few days of experience, is that we will see the beauty and richness of every day if we expect to see it.  We will know the kindness and generosity of people if we expect to see it.  We will understand that even in rain or wind, even in the exchange with a stranger, or the unknown of the next moment, there is the potential for great things.  This color and flavor and power and love await in every day and we only risk missing it if we underestimate the possibilities.

Prepare for the best.  There are a few of you who will look askance at this, rolling your eyes at the naïve notion that what we expect has anything to do with reality, with what is given to us.  Yes, life happens to us in ways we can’t control. It’s still our choice where we put ourselves on the spectrum.  We don’t have to live in fear, we don’t have to simply accept that the worst is coming. 

The truth is we are going to have problems today, and tomorrow.  What we do with them is up to us, and that will be how we measure the day when we think about it next week.  Think about that as you process each challenge.  Expect that you will handle it the best you can, expect a good outcome, expect that others will be good humans.  You can see a rainstorm on the horizon and not agonize over it.  Otherwise you get wet twice.

I’ll admit my selfishness here; I’m writing this all for me, really.  I have to arm myself with these reminders or I will fall prey to the same angst that waited for me yesterday and last week and twenty years ago.  What I really want for myself, and for you, is to experience all that waits for me today, rain or shine, with the same spirit of high expectation that has always left me most satisfied in my life.  I know I am going to be closest to my best self if I never underestimate the day.

Hope this finds you leaning into the possible,

David

Copyright © 2019 David Smith

Possessions

May 6, 2019

Greetings from the collection,

You have seen these people, pushing a grocery cart down an alley, piled high with what seems to be random collection of trash.  Or perhaps sitting in a doorway, a cardboard box next to them, a plastic bag, a lumpy uneven outline of their belongings.  Maybe they are hovering at one of the tables at McDonald’s, wearing way too many clothes, a battered vinyl suitcase at their feet.

Got that impression?

Some of what they gather is for survival.  Blankets and clothing and paper to sleep on.  Often it is other things that matter.  This is my home.  This rock, this empty pill bottle, this broken cup, this bundle of keys, this mitten. This is what I have to take comfort in. This thing matters to me.  This holds a memory for me, or reminds me of who I am, or was. 

Now we have just looked past the impression and sampled the understanding.

I would tell you my possessions don’t define me.  I don’t think about what things I own very much.  I go past them throughout the day, not considering their value in any way.  Most of the stuff is just that; stuff.  I don’t consider this or that a source of pride or a thing I particularly care about.  There are a few exceptions; this book, that painting, a table I built, those bike gloves, a t shirt I like.  Some have sentimental value, some are things I use regularly and would miss them if they were gone. 

If you asked me if my possessions defined me my reaction would be “No, of course not. I am deeper than that, I am far more significant than the things I own.”  I’m sure you’d respond the same way.  See? We have that in common.

Many years ago, I was on the Pine Ridge reservation in South Dakota, a witness to a host of stark differences in culture from my life.  One afternoon we were driving across the plains there and I pointed to a mobile home, the most common structure on the rez, surrounded by all manner of abandoned things.  Washing machines, bicycles, car tires, the husk of a car, already resting on its wheels, settled into the dirt up to the rocker panels.  I asked my friend; “Why do they let all this trash pile up around their houses?” 

My friend tried to explain but even after a week of paying attention I felt the same question.  I wanted the Oglala to behave like me, to take pride in where they lived, to care for their environment, to show respect for their things.  I wanted to understand, as long as it was an understanding from my perspective.

Last year I read the book ‘Factfulness’ and one obscure story leapt out at me.  Hans Rosling was asked by a visitor to this small village in Africa: “Why are there so many half-built walls?  Don’t these people ever finish anything?”  The author explained that there were no banks and so when the people earned any money that was not committed to survival, they bought bricks.  Then they put them into walls so they would not be stolen. 

It was what my friend in South Dakota had tried to tell me.  The people on the rez would never throw way an old bicycle, even if there was a place to take it.  It had value to them, even if I didn’t see it because it wasn’t hanging neatly on hooks in a garage.

Up and down the spectrum of wealth, people collect things around them, sometimes from need, or for enjoyment, or for no definable reason, they just want.  Many of us accumulate with almost no thought to it, and no memory of the decision.  When we have a little money that is not committed to something, we buy something we want or need.  I’d say I fall into that category at times, but just so you know, I am not defined by my possessions.

I know people who work hard to make an average living, who live in safe places, drive reliable cars, make careful choices in their purchases, are generous to those in need.  They may own RV’s or snowmobiles or above ground pools.  Maybe they have a collection of Disney souvenirs.  I know it’s not fair to define them by their possessions, with so little information.  But it’s tempting.

There is a movement of awareness about what we own, the whole Marie Kondo philosophy.  She would have us ‘confront’ our possessions, and keep only those that spark joy, and show them gratitude.  Maybe you know someone who is trying to tidy up this way.  And probably have formed an opinion about it.  Personally, I see the value in the process, but I haven’t felt a strong enough pull to confront the pile of sweaters in my closet.                 

There are the extremes in every culture when it comes to owning things; the insanely obvious wealthy people, the collectors who arbitrarily stockpile the obscure or rare,  the hoarders, maybe trying to fulfill some need or battling an obsession, or the minimalists, seeking to live out a philosophy in the things they choose to own or not.  You’ve seen those people, right?  Got that impression?

See, all these examples of people and their things, we can see who they are at a glance.  The homeless fringe people, the unemployed alcoholic on the rez, the wealthy woman trying to impress us with her jewelry, the hipster who only buys repurposed clothing, the old man who lives alone surrounded by stacks of Reader’s Digests and socks full of 1972 quarters, the simplicity expert who keeps telling us he won’t be controlled by what he owns.  We have an impression, and we have an opinion.

Our possessions don’t define us.  On the other hand, they define everyone else, don’t they?

Hope this finds you seeking to understand,

David

Copyright © 2019 David Smith

Guatape

April 29, 2019

Greetings from The Rock,

In the movie ‘The Princess Bride’ there is a character who is repeatedly amazed by various circumstances and describes them as ‘inconceivable.’  At one point, Inigo Montoya says to him, “You keep using that word.  I do not think it means what you think it does.”

It is a two hour drive outside of Medellin, along winding two lane roads, dodging oncoming traffic, the pervasive scooters weaving among the death-defying maneuvers.  The megalopolis gives way, finally, to rolling country side, open space, some sky to go with it.  There are farms right down to the road, and up the sides of hills so steep we wonder how the people keep from falling off while they harvest.

We wound around a curve and came up a small rise and then I saw El Penon de Guatape.  I think I was the only person in the car who didn’t know what we were going to see.  I had somehow skipped the tourist brochure, or maybe my nascent Spanish had not prepared me amply for what we were traveling to. 

Inconceivable.  I admit here that I may not have used that word out loud, but I definitely thought it. Imagine going out into your backyard, (those of you living in mountainous states are exempt from this exercise) and there is your lawn and a maybe a few trees and then, over there by the posies there is a 600 foot tall granite monolith, big enough to host a small town on its peak.  Bang.  Just woke up and there it was.  That’s how sudden and strange and powerful this struck me.

It is inconceivable.  That should be a word that you save for circumstances like this.  Not just toss it around like when you get a really good piece of chocolate cake.  We have already worn off the meaning of the word ‘awesome’.   We have to start saving words for special occasions.

We parked at the bottom and began climbing the 740 steps to the top, presented in an impossible stitch of lattice up the side of the rock.  740 doesn’t seem all that challenging until you get to about 200.  Of course, just for perspective, there are these old guys carrying freight, literally, piled high on their shoulders, up to the café’s and shops on the top, passing you on the steps as you lean on your knees and gasp for air.

When we finally reached the top the vista there took what little breath we had left.  The world, green and blue panorama, spilled out all around us, a view that no one in thousands of miles could have, unless they climbed the steps.  And so the rock, unbelievable as it was from one perspective, delivered an inconceivable gift from another.

Many years ago the towns that lay claim to this rock had a little tiff, and Guatape determined to make a stand.  They sent painters up the side to write the name of their town in bold graffiti.  The other town, El Penol, took issue and sent an angry mob, in those days equal to a sternly worded email.  And so Guatape relented. 

Imagine that you and your buddy are hanging from the side of a ten million ton granite rock, tacked to the sheer sides by a primitive wooden scaffold, just finished painting a 100 ft tall letter ‘G’.  Someone is shouting to you, some 400 feet below. 

“Never mind!  Stop painting.”

“What?”

“Yah, we are going to go a different way.”

“But I already started the ‘U’, I mean what …”

“It’s a long story.  Come on down and we’ll have coffee.”

“You want me to wipe it off?”

“No, it’s ok.  We’ll get it later.”

“Inconceivable!”

The best/worst part of this story is the letters are still there.  I don’t know what font it is but if it needed a name it would be ‘Inconceivable’.

We sat at a small table, tucked under a fragile umbrella out of the sun, drinking fresh fruit juice, hauled up 740 steps by a man old enough to be my father, with a resting heart rate half my own.  Our friend, and guide, Duviere, is quiet.  Then he says: “All the time we have been together you have been the minority.  For the first time I am the minority.”  We looked around and nearly everyone near us were European tourists.  He shrugged and smiled.  I wrote in my journal: ‘Duviere is a good friend to Carson.  I think he is a good friend to everyone he meets.’

It was one of many vignettes I have tucked away, part of the mosaic of those days that I am holding under a scrawled heading of ‘inconceivable’.

Nearly a year has passed since we visited my son Carson in Colombia, months filled with all kinds of other living that might conspire to dim that moment of awe I experienced as the rock came into view.  Except yesterday morning came, with its own nuance and subtle beauty, and then suddenly, on a path in the woods, the day exploded on me.

I stood on the damp carpet of leaves, panting from my run, the only sound in those woods.  The sun found its way around a cloud and filled the place with its perfect light, still low in the morning sky, but determined to show me its passion.  It spilled between the trees, created shadow and color and warmed me. And I was breathless again. In. Con. Ceivable.

There are moments and moments and moments and we see the mundane and the ordinary and all along, there is the inconceivable.  I do not think it means what you think it does.

Hope this finds you rocked,

David

Father O'Malley

April 22, 2019

Greetings from the rookie,

It was about half a mile from the church to Hall Flats, the nearest green space to us where we could practice the various school sports.  Hall Flats became either a football field or a baseball field, depending on the season.  It was a low place that often flooded, and the houses on the few streets that bordered it were occupied by people who had no other choice.

I was in grade school at St. Matthews Catholic school, a cluster of a few buildings wedged into the downtown city streets where I grew up.  There was the church, still a beautiful creation of its sort, now over 100 years old, the rectory, a convent, and the school and gymnasium.  What little space was left over on the block it occupied was left as a playground for the students to skin their knees on.

I can still see the high school football players making their way to scrimmage, walking through the busy streets in helmets and pads, clacking their cleats on the sidewalks as Coach Pratt herded them across intersections and past the flower store and the liquor store and down the steps from the bridge into the low field that waited for their blood and sweat.

I know very little about Father J.J. O’Malley.  The priests that staffed our church were enigmas, set aside from the daily activities of the school and the cafeteria.  They were specters that would be referred to occasionally by Sister Mary Edwin, usually as she administered some corrective advice.  We would see them at church services and at sporting events.

Father O’Malley was a compact man, older, whose cleric robes seemed out of place, as if he were a short order cook disguising himself as a priest.  His hair was white and stuck out from under the ball cap he preferred, and tufts of it sprung out from the edge of his t-shirt and at his ears.  He was irascible, or at least that was his temperment when he coached the younger teams in basketball and baseball.  He was known for his direct language, delivered in short barks, usually seasoned with phrases unlikely common among the clergy.

In church he was a priest, performed his mass with perfunctory form, delivering communion like a blackjack dealer at the edge of the altar.  He heard our confessions, (sighing at our lack of inspired transgressions, I think) and prescribed our penance with the same lack of inspiration.

Sometimes I would see him behind the rectory, smoking, in his dingy white t shirt, ill fitting trousers, scuffed shoes, hunched against a wind, or leaning under the small roof out of the rain, a man waiting for his shift to begin. 

Occasionally after basketball practice, he would take a few of us stragglers a couple blocks over to Kewpies where in those days there was a ‘Day Old’ bakery, and we would be treated to a donut.  It was a gentle gesture in contrast to his impatience with us running ‘lines’ in the gym, or our failure to do the three-man-weave effectively.  It was hard to believe it was the same man who would rage at us if we dared walk in street shoes onto the sacred maple court of the St. Matthew’s Panthers. 

Nearly all of my time spent in the company of Father O’Malley was disappointing him, as I was an athlete who did not live up to my potential.  In truth I was comfortable with the arrangement, since in addition to being a lackadaisical competitor, I was a sinner with little success toward redemption.  And yet, the one most lasting memory of him was an act of kindness and encouragement.  And a lesson in profanity.

We were at Hall Flats practicing baseball.  If we ever competed, I don’t remember, it seemed all we did was make our way to the Flats, frustrate poor J.J. O’Malley, and then walk back, dirty and discouraged, which quickly led to horseplay in the streets, further raising the ire of the priest.

I was up to bat.  I was told to get the bat off my shoulder, to stand in the correct crouch, to keep my eye on the ball.  The players in the outfield all moved in, knowing my lack of batting prowess shouting ‘Easy out!’ and less complimentary commentary about my abilities.

Father O’Malley, pitching at the moment, turned and roared at the outfield, told them they should be ashamed, that this man was a member of their team, and he was going to shear the leather off the ball and they would be looking for it for a week.  He told them to get to their positions and shut their pie holes.  And then he turned to me.  If I could have read his mind, I think I would have seen that this is not what he signed up for when he took his vows.  If he prayed, it would be for reassignment.

I remember feeling encouraged but still wondering what the hell he was thinking, since I was more likely to hit myself than the ball.  When Father O’Malley delivered the pitch I swung as hard, and wildly, as my disinterested body would allow. 

There are few things as satisfying as the crack of a wooden bat against a baseball, the solid feeling that the connection just made was as God would have wanted it, if He cared about sports.  I did not watch the ball for long because my pitcher was telling me to run, Smith, run, and so I did and before the outfield could recover from watching the ball arc over them, I was on third base.  As it happens, I can run.

Father O’Malley walked to third base and clapped me on the shoulder and offer me a word of congratulations.  I don’t remember what he said exactly because what happened next was more unforgettable.  Someone in the outfield had sent the ball back, an impressive throw from right field, perhaps thinking that the third baseman should be in on the play.  Which he might have been, had the ball not hit Father J.J. O’Malley squarely in the head, instead.

And that’s how I learned the F-word.

If I were writing a screenplay instead of my version of truth, this vignette might be the turning point for our hero.  Where, perhaps, because someone saw the natural talent hidden in the young athlete, he gains the confidence to go on to great success in sports, perhaps one day dedicating a home run at Yankee Stadium to the priest who had faith in him.  But no.  My trajectory in organized sports continued the same uninspired arc downward until I was old enough for people to stop expecting me to play for any other reason than play. 

I am grateful to have been involved as I was, and for the enthusiastic, (and futile) coaching of people like Father O’Malley.  When he finally left our church, for wherever old coach-clerics go when they are put out to pasture, I missed him. I imagine when J.J. made it to his ultimate reward, there was a small celebration for moments like that day on Hall Flats.  When I see him again, I’m going to thank him, and let him know I learned more from him than just cussing.

Hope this finds you with your head in the game,

David

Copyright © 2019 David Smith

Boston Light

April 15, 2019

Greetings from the brilliance,

I am sitting in a dark room, muscles twitching, my mind already flying over roads that wait for my feet.  I am on the edge of a day filled with possibilities, both challenge and triumph.  There will be moments, soon, when the excitement will be so powerful that smiling will not be enough, the emotions will roar out of me.  Even now I can feel it building, and the light is already shining out of me into the morning.

There was a time when people would gather around a fire, a brightness in dark or cold, and take comfort in each other’s company.  The light shone in their eyes and it created kinship, a bond that multiplied through all of human experience. 

There was a time that runners would travel between towns, messengers, bringing news from one place to the next.  They connected the places, the people, with the words they brought. They would go great distances, often alone, often in the dark.  But they carried the light.

Time thinned the connection between us all.  The world has changed, the light gets pushed away for some, forgotten, because we have all of this other stuff to keep our attention.  Too often we see the light and we don’t even recognize it.  More often all we see is the absence of light in the world.

Saturday, I was in a sea of people, high octane athletes, people who generate gigawatts, people who carry on a tradition that is thousands of years old.  They carry the light.  The man behind me in line was from Kent, England.  He wore a shirt that said he finished a triathlon in Paris.  He had a mischievous look on his face, someone who was looking for fun.  We struck up a conversation that I have had with hundreds like him.  This guy, he had the light in his eyes. 

Yesterday morning I sat in the hotel lobby before dawn, thinking about this, about you, wondering how to tell you any of this.  A man walked in, searching for coffee.  He was from Denmark.  We talked for fifteen minutes but I knew in the first second that he had the light.  It is more than the smile, or the anticipation, or excitement.  It was in his eyes, this focus that was just beyond the two of us, something that made him shine.

For all of us there are gifts, or strengths, that we uncover during our life that we know we were meant to tap into.  It can be creating something, or helping someone, or satisfying work, or loving someone.  It may be an expression of you in motion, being, as our friend Emerson said, ‘a good animal’.  Sometimes you spot it in elite athletes who get paid, or get Gold, or get records.

I see it in people who have found their passion.  I’ll admit I am a little envious sometimes, to see someone connect with the light, the thing they were created to do or be.  Then I remember; I carry the light too.

I am in Boston, a city of incredible energy and varied experiences and such beautiful texture and sound I sometimes don’t know where to look.  The architecture, the history, the vibrance of its people, rich in diversity and mashed cultures.  Boston, our host for this weekend for the oldest and most prestigious marathon in our country, has thrown open its arms, as it has for generations, and made us welcome.

Yesterday morning I went to Old South Church, just a few feet from the Boston finish line, and sat with hundreds of other runners for the Blessing of the Athletes.  It was a moving and inspiring message that began with a welcome which, in essence, said this: You have come to our city with your power and your positivity and your possibilities, and we needed you.  He described this thing we do, that outstrips ethnicity and culture and politics and gender.  Beyond the things that may divide us, or the daily dross that seeks to chew us into something smaller than we are meant to be.  He said, in my words, ‘I see your light, and I am grateful for it.’

Just a week ago I spoke to a group of runners back in my hometown, and reminded them of the light they bring.  The light they share with other runners they will help train, and in turn, the light we show the rest of the world.  I said it because I believed it, but then I came to Boston.  Now, tears in my eyes, my friends, I am telling you, we paint the world with this light.

This morning the sky is grey, the rain is coming at us with intention, as if it had a chance to dim what we carry.  The light is in us.  We carry it today, a flame in two cupped hands, this passion we connected with and made stronger with our will.  We surge into this day, each of us carrying what we brought.  And when we are together, it is brilliant. 

In just a few hours, we will wait in Hopkinton to be released into the day.  The rain will not dim the light.  The wind will not cause it to flicker.  It is a light made from what our Creator poured into us, forged with our work, our courage, our determination.  And now we will sear the road from that start down the winding road to Boston, bring the light to a million witnesses who will be changed for the better for having seen it.  ‘To change the world, it starts with one step…’

We bring the light not because we have an agenda or want to recruit others, or to sell something or change people who don’t care.  We bring it because that’s us at our best, it is what we were born to do, an expression of one of the gifts we have been given.  The great news is that everyone, every single soul, has the light in them.  It is just waiting to be uncovered and shone on the rest of us.  I say, bring it.  We need you.

Hope this finds you feeling the fire,

David