intramuralist ™ – Page 92 – A Respectful Dialogue of Current Events

06/09/2016

raped

Perhaps by now you’ve read the story of the unconscious young woman who was raped by the college freshman. If you have not yet heard of it, let me start by saying it was awful. Awful… heartbreaking… heinous… disgusting. Pick whatever disturbing word you wish. It’s that bad.

20 year old Brock Turner went to Stanford on a swimming scholarship. Unrelated to this story, Turner was a three time All-American in high school. In January of 2015, he sexually assaulted an unconscious 23 year old. They were at a fraternity party. She was out of college and had a boyfriend, who was not in attendance; she had no intention of engaging physically with any other. Turner drank a lot; the young woman drank a lot — more liquor than her out-of-college body now tolerated, she stated. She did call her boyfriend during the evening, leaving an incomprehensible, slurred message. What ensued later that evening she does not remember in any capacity. It was relayed by a pair of graduate students who walked by, witnessed, and (thank God) stopped the horrific incident.

The woman was unconscious. She was totally out of it. She had been dragged behind a dumpster adjacent to the frat house, half of her clothes ripped off, with pine needles, etc. in multiple areas on and in her body. The witnesses shockingly saw Turner sexually violating a completely immobile, unresponsive, and clearly non-consenting woman.

12 jurors found Turner guilty on three felony counts, which are as follows (again, this is awful): (1) assault with intent to commit rape of an intoxicated or unconscious person, (2) sexual penetration of an intoxicated person, and (3) sexual penetration of an unconscious person. Note that “sexual penetration” is distinct from “rape,” as it involves any object or body part other than a sexual organ. Note, also, that Turner made no apology nor offered any admission of wrongdoing.

At sentencing last week, Turner faced 14 years in prison. Prosecutors had asked for 6. Guilty of three violent felonies, astonishingly, the judge gave him 6 months… (You read that correctly…) 6 months.

Please don’t mistake this as any race/privilege issue; no evidence suggests such. Allow me to instead return to the reference earlier identified as “unrelated” to this story. Truthfully, a more accurate phrasing is “should be unrelated”…

Brock Turner was a varsity swimmer — a reported Olympic hopeful. After Turner left the university and lost his scholarship, his father, Dan, who pleaded for leniency, responded: “His [Brock’s] life will never be the one that he dreamed about and worked so hard to achieve. That is a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action out of his 20 plus years of life.”

“20 minutes of action”… “a steep price to pay.” I agree… but a steep price to pay does not mean the wrong price to pay. There are serious consequences for serious sins.

The judge actually said a harsher sentence would “have a severe impact on him”… Him.

Let’s be clear: there was only one victim in this instance, and it was not Brock Turner. Yes, I believe in forgiveness. Yes, I believe in mercy and grace. I also believe in justice. This sentence does not in any way appear just. This shockingly light sentence, in fact — which only paves the perception that losing his scholarship and Olympic dream was somehow enough — indicates that the judge valued the impact of the rapist’s consequences more than the impact of the violation of the victim. It furthers the fictional, societal notion held by far too many that rape isn’t as violent or criminal as we think. These kind of judgments — sentencing profound minimums, forgiving an offense because it’s one’s first, and reducing rape to the absurd description of any “minutes of action” — disturbingly fuel the normalization of rape — again, in too many people’s minds. That’s awful.

Let me sensitively add that I am also hesitant to join some of the succeeding public protests demanding re-sentencing. I have no desire for the loudness of the people to dictate appropriate consequence (see Salem, 1878). I do, however, believe in justice, restitution, repentance, and forgiveness. I just don’t believe we’ve witnessed any of it here.

What we have witnessed, no less, is an amazingly articulate victim, who read her poignant, 12 page account in court and shared it publicly. She is both bold and sincere — and honest about her own strengths, weaknesses, fears and failures. As one empathetic friend said, “Her words speak powerfully of the brutality of rape, the imperfection of our justice system, and the strength of the human soul.”

Indeed they do… all in the face of something awful and unjust.

Respectfully…
AR

06/07/201606/07/2016

authenticity

One of our long time family traditions is that at the onset of any vacation or significant road trip, as soon as we hit the interstate, we pop in our fave Ricky Martin CD, skip to song #9, and blast it through the car speakers…

“Do you really want it?
Do you really want it?
Do you really want it?…”

And so begins Martin’s rousing “Cup of Life” rendition from 1999. After the bold question of whether we really want something, we are then encouraged to “go, go, go.” My question today is whether we really always want what we say we do.

Think about authenticity…

Authenticity is the respected trait of sincerity within existence, expression, or intention. It’s saying what you mean and meaning what you say. It’s getting what you paid for. It’s knowing what you hear, see, and sense is the real deal. It’s not fake. It’s synonymous with genuineness and bona fides. We say we really want it…

… or at least we think we do.

And yet as we continue to watch at least the vernacular of our current polarized, political climate seemingly spiral downward, we still cling to the perceived value of scripts.

Scripts are prepared texts of what a person will or will not say.

They are poll-tested, time-tested, and ensured as much as humanly possible to produce a specific outcome or emotion. They are often great speeches.

But… they are not written by the deliverer of the address. Scripts are typically written by screen writers, speech writers, or campaign staffers because they have the best education and experience aimed at eliciting the desired emotion. Scripts are not the authentic words of the one doing the delivery. The deliverer may pose that “this is exactly how I feel — thanks for writing this script” — but yet, it would be more accurately said that “this is better than I can say it” — meaning his or her actual own words may not produce the yearned for outcome or emotion.

Scripts are not authentic.

They are not genuine nor bona fide.

They are written for a reason.

But we say we want authenticity. In fact, while it’s no secret that this semi-humble current events observer has serious concerns about the economic effect of the advocated policies of a President Sanders, it seems that many are attracted to his perceived authenticity. Authenticity is refreshing… especially when too many others are so scripted.

But herein lies the problem; if a person’s authenticity leads them to say something that feels especially harsh or incorrect, we sometimes seem to prefer the scripting. We prefer the inauthenticity.

Really? Do we prefer a person who says what we want to hear? … one who knows what to share how, and with which particular audience — meaning they are utilizing their script especially well?

Or… do we prefer a person who is authentic? … transparent then, too?

My sense here is there’s a little bit of having our cake and eating it, too, as it’s not an easy choice. We want authenticity as long as we don’t disagree too much with what’s actually expressed; hence, we don’t always really want it. We aren’t quite ready to “go, go, go” and dispose of the long held script.

Respectfully…
AR

06/05/201606/05/2016

something new

Yesterday I did something I’ve never done before. It was one of a possible 25 things…

Voted for a Republican.
Voted for a Democrat.
Ran for elected office.
Whitewater rafted on class V-VI rapids.
Flew to France by myself.
Ate a pickle.
Got thrown out of a Major League Baseball game.
Sang with a top 40 band in a nightclub.
Hung out with Derek and Julianne Hough.
Shook a sitting president’s hand.
Lost my temper.
Got caught under a sinking sailboat.
Witnessed a boy hit on his bike.
Was on radio and TV.
Sat on the edge of the Rhein and the Thames.
Jumped off a cliff.
Emceed a hermit crab race.
Gave a speech.
Conducted a mediation.
Taught a class.
Wrestled a free t-shirt away from a group of ten year old boys.
Won at the blackjack table.
Cried.
Was judgmental.
Asked for forgiveness.

Ah, alas… while I have done all of the above (and some have been done or needed to do far more than once), yesterday, for the first time, my family brought home a dog.

With such a choice, I realize anew that we are a divided nation in far too many ways — in this case: pro-dog vs. no dog. We are — in my sincerely strong opinion — so good at finding things to fight about. We can — in my also sincerely strong opinion — do better at that… at giving grace to one another, to hold the opinions they hold, even when different than “mine.”

I’ve been told, no less, that what’s so beautiful about a dog is that they are often far better than the rest of us at unconditional love. They’re happy to see you. Our mood doesn’t matter. The differences of opinion we hold don’t matter. They are loyal. They love you no matter what. Differences and opinion and intellect and all the other earthly obstacles are removed.

So I’ll say what I’ve learned with most of the new things in life — more than the 25 moments listed above… I look forward not to what I will teach this pup…

But rather…

… what she will teach me.

Respectfully (with a faint bark from a back room)…
AR

06/02/2016

grateful for every step

It’s an excellent annual quest to find wisdom embedded in the collection of commencement speeches. This year — from Apple CEO Tim Cook encouraging George Washington U. grads to find “work that’s infused with moral purpose” — to Hank Azaria delivering advice in the varied voices of “The Simpsons” characters Chief Wiggum, Moe Szyslak, and Apu Nahasapeemapetilon at Tufts — there was yet one address I found myself returning to repeatedly. It was delivered by Sheryl Sandberg, the COO of Facebook, at the University of California-Berkeley two and a half weeks ago. I started by liking part of her intro…

“… Today is a day of thanks. A day to thank those who helped you get here — nurtured you, taught you, cheered you on, and dried your tears. Or at least the ones who didn’t draw on you with a Sharpie when you fell asleep at a party…”

She was also, wisely reflective…

“… A commencement address is meant to be a dance between youth and wisdom. You have the youth. Someone comes in to be the voice of wisdom — that’s supposed to be me. I stand up here and tell you all the things I have learned in life, you throw your cap in the air, you let your family take a million photos – don’t forget to post them on Instagram — and everyone goes home happy…”

She was bold…

“… Today will be a bit different. We will still do the caps and you still have to do the photos. But I am not here to tell you all the things I’ve learned in life. Today I will try to tell you what I learned in death…”

And then in a seemingly unprecedented message, Sandberg was transparent. She shared the story of losing her husband only a year ago. He was young; it was sudden and unexpected. She talked about being “swallowed up in the deep fog of grief — what I think of as the void — an emptiness that fills your heart, your lungs, constricts your ability to think or even to breathe.” And instead of pouring into these brand new adults by imploring them to “be all they can be” in all “the places they’ll go,” she shared with them an empowering reality. She shared with us… a deep truth — a lesson in death…

“Last month, eleven days before the anniversary of Dave’s death, I broke down crying to a friend of mine. We were sitting — of all places — on a bathroom floor. I said: ‘Eleven days. One year ago, he had eleven days left. And we had no idea.’ We looked at each other through tears, and asked how we would live if we knew we had eleven days left.

… Can you ask yourselves to live as if you had eleven days left? I don’t mean blow everything off and party all the time… I mean live with the understanding of how precious every single day would be. How precious every day actually is.

A few years ago, my mom had to have her hip replaced. When she was younger, she always walked without pain. But as her hip disintegrated, each step became painful. Now, even years after her operation, she is grateful for every step she takes without pain — something that never would have occurred to her before.

As I stand here today, a year after the worst day of my life, two things are true. I have a huge reservoir of sadness that is with me always — right here where I can touch it. I never knew I could cry so often — or so much.

But I am also aware that I am walking without pain. For the first time, I am grateful for each breath in and out — grateful for the gift of life itself. I used to celebrate my birthday every five years and friends’ birthdays sometimes. Now I celebrate always. I used to go to sleep worrying about all the things I messed up that day — and trust me that list was often quite long. Now I try really hard to focus on each day’s moments of joy.

It is the greatest irony of my life that losing my husband helped me find deeper gratitude — gratitude for the kindness of my friends, the love of my family, the laughter of my children. My hope for you is that you can find that gratitude — not just on the good days, like today, but on the hard ones, when you will really need it.”

Sandberg makes me think. About being grateful. For every step.

Respectfully…
AR

05/31/2016

who do we blame?

When bad things happen, it often seems our instant reaction is to blame… Who’s at fault?! … Someone must pay for this!… Someone is in the wrong!

We then spend significant energy and time targeting the person(s) we have so omnisciently, judiciously determined to be responsible for what happened. We assign blame.

We seem unwilling to acknowledge the prudence of recognizing our perspective may be limited. We ignore that perhaps time will tell more of the story; maybe it won’t. But we are somehow lured into thinking we are experts at things we are not — and that takes the place of extending most mercy and grace. We feel emboldened in assigning blame.

On Saturday, a four year old boy fell into the gorilla enclosure at the Cincinnati Zoo. One 17 year old gorilla — named “Harambe” — was then shot and killed, after rapidly dragging the boy through the waters edging the habitat. Zoo officials called it “a life-threatening situation” for the boy. Note, also, the decision was made to shoot and kill the animal, as opposed to tranquilizing him, because the boy was in danger and the tranquilizer would not have taken effect immediately. Also, the tranquilizer could have potentially, further agitated the gorilla.

What has actually taken effect immediately, however, is the assigning of blame. It has been fast and furious…

The parents are negligent…
You need to keep an eye on your kids…
They shouldn’t have killed the gorilla…
Justice for Harambe…
Protest! Protest!…
People do not come above animals…
Parents need to do their job…
That dumb bi*** should have kept her kid closer…

Ugh. There’s a proverbial pit in my stomach. I feel bad. I feel bad for the gorilla; it’s awful his life was lost. I feel bad for the parents; the shock of seeing their kid in danger and wondering if they could have prevented it. I feel bad for the zoo officials; I’m not sure I could have pulled that trigger. But is feeling bad for all of them not possible? Can we only empathize with one? Can we not have empathy or compassion for more than a single side?

And by feeling bad for only one, is that what allows us to assign blame to another?

I’m beginning to ponder if the assignment of blame equates to an absence of empathy. I will have to think on that more…

In the meantime, I wonder if one of the justifications for our blame assignment is that we too often convince ourselves that “we would never do that” or “we are incapable.” I get that; we all do it. But I’m not sure it’s accurate. I’ve made some mistakes in this life that I never imagined. I’ve seen dear friends make other poor decisions. And but by the grace of God, I think I’m unfortunately capable of too much more; hence, thank God for that grace! I’m thus uncomfortable that our belief of being incapable of similar screw ups provides justification for the lack of empathy and the assignment of blame.

As a semi-humble current events observer, let me also add that here exists an avenue in which I perceive social media having evolved into an illegitimate license to spew — to spew an opinion when perhaps patience, silence, and compassion would be more sensible. Social media is not a conversation; a tweet or snap or status update does not qualify as dialogue. And so we are lured into spewing opinion, forgetting our limited perspective, our lack of expertise, and that time and increased investigation may be prudent to the truth. Instead of actually taking that time, instead of waiting and saying prayers for the persons most affected by the situation, we instead assign blame.

I am saddened that the animal was killed. But I am more saddened by our lack of generous grace.

Bad things happen to good people. I’m not sure we’re ever going to be ok with that. I’m not sure assigning blame helps either.

Respectfully…
AR

05/29/201605/29/2016

note to the graduate ’16

[I wrote this a year ago, when my oldest was graduating from high school. I felt it was worthy of revisiting now…]

For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven.
A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest.
A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to build up.
A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance.
A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones. A time to embrace and a time to turn away.
A time to search and a time to quit searching. A time to keep and a time to throw away.
A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to be quiet and a time to speak.
A time to love and a time to hate. A time for war and a time for peace.

As we pen a final post to those now formally entering adulthood, allow us to address a few more brief truths as you take these next few, albeit humongous steps…

First, there is a time for everything — every activity under heaven, every season under the sun. Hear me now: you will not enjoy nor desire each of these times. Every activity will not be wonderful nor every season incredibly joyous and fun. Don’t let me discourage you; that’s not my intent. My intent is to wrestle with reality.

Remember that enjoying and embracing are not the same thing. As you face life’s next chapters, the truth is that there will be seasons and chapters that stretch you beyond your wildest imagination — beyond where you ever thought you’d go or perhaps ever wanted. You have a choice in how to react. When the time comes to tear down or turn away, embrace the time; when the time comes to speak, speak — or be quiet, be quiet. Enjoying the season is less important than learning from the experience. The wise man learns and grows from the seasons that are hard.

Second — and don’t let me shock you — but contrary to perhaps your long-held belief (or some printed fictional, parenting mantra) — you cannot be whatever you want to be. I’m sorry; remember… we are wrestling with reality. Similar to the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, and that jolly old St. Nicholas, there are a few things we’ve told you that aren’t actually true.

It is true that you cannot be whatever or whoever you want to be (… just ask all those who are running for President). You can, however, be all that God created you to be. Embrace your gifts. Utilize the unique wiring within you — the wiring that makes you distinctly and beautifully, uniquely you! Don’t compare yourself to another, falling prey to society’s hollow teaching that another person’s wiring or set up is somehow better or worse than yours. Simply embrace your own strengths and grow from your own weaknesses. Seek God first; seek his intention for your life. Then be who he created you to be, and do what he created you to do. Don’t compare your calling to any other.

And third (because this proud, reflective parent still has seemingly much to say), let me offer a brief rapid fire of final encouragement…

Love deeply. Offer grace generously. Never view grace and truth as opposites, as each can be applied in full measure. Wash your sheets. Don’t be selfish. Resist being quick to anger. Be fast to forgive. Be humble. Forgive again. And again. Pursue wisdom. Consider coffee. Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too. Separate the reds from the whites. Be charitable. Save some; spend some; and give some away. Don’t be afraid of sorrow. Turn off the XBOX. Chew with your mouth closed. Don’t think of equality with God as something to be grasped. Listen to the elderly; invest in the young. Bow and curtsy when appropriate. Show respect — in what you say and how you think. Remember that respect does not mean accepting as equally good and true. Remember that all things are not equally good and true. Know when to say that; know when to not. Open doors for other people. Look another in the eye. Use your napkin. Be discerning. Be aware that just because something feels good, it might not be wise. Be prayerful. Figure the faith thing out. And embrace each and every season shared above… embracing the time to laugh… the time to cry… the time to grieve… and yes, the time to dance.

There is a time for everything. God has made everything beautiful for its own time. Graduates, without a doubt, now is your time to dance. Enjoy… how beautiful…

With a special salute to those grads…
AR

05/26/201605/26/2016

pickles & redskins & a little bit more

Not too long ago, an un-intending server failed to omit the pickles on my sandwich. As my deep loathing of the brine-infused condiment has long been known to Intramuralist readers, one can imagine my reaction. Better yet, picture taking that first bite. Yes, it is true. I hate pickles. While one of my desires is to only hate what God hates, I must admit, I still hate pickles. And to actually leave them on my sandwich? Oh, no… there are few words. To say I was offended is satirically close to true.

I’m wondering this day on a bit of a broader scale; what do we do when we’re offended? Is my offense enough? I mean… is it enough that the offense is mine? … or does it need to be shared? I can’t stand those slimy green things, but in all honesty, that’s between me and my pickle. Is it important to ensure a majority of others agree with me? — that they should be offended, too?

Last weekend The Washington Post released some polling data that seemed to fly semi-below the radar (… perhaps because the polls seem sadly inundated with everything Clinton and Trump). A brief, edited summary is as follows:

“Nine in 10 Native Americans say they are not offended by the Washington Redskins name, according to a new Washington Post poll that shows how few ordinary Indians have been persuaded by a national movement to change the football team’s moniker.

… Responses to The Post’s questions about the issue were broadly consistent regardless of age, income, education, political party or proximity to reservations.

Among the Native Americans reached over a five-month period ending in April, more than 7 in 10 said they did not feel the word ‘Redskin’ was disrespectful to Indians. An even higher number — 8 in 10 — said they would not be offended if a non-native called them that name.”

In other words, a majority of the persons most affected by the use of the word “Redskin” are not offended by the reference.

Yet three years ago, we witnessed a rather significant, stentorian bandwagon — the “national movement” as identified by The Post. There began a barrage of pointed, public criticism…

50 U.S. senators signed a letter asking the NFL team to change their name.
The New York Daily News, San Francisco Chronicle, Slate, and Post editorial board among with multiple other news outlets, each discontinued using the nickname. So did several prominent broadcasters, including Bob Costas and Phil Simms.
A board within the U.S. Patent & Trademark Office ruled that the use of “Redskins” violated federal trademark law.
The U.S. Justice Dept. intervened to defend the Patent & Trademark Office.
A smaller group of senators then introduced legislation aimed at revoking the NFL’s tax-exempt status — that was, if the league failed to force the Washington owner to stop using the term “Redskins.”

Friends, this is a healthy debate and one that should be had. Is the use of the word “Redskins” a derogatory term? To some people, it definitely is. To others — and potentially to a majority of those who most identify with the term — at least according to The Washington Post — it is not. So how do we honor all people? And how do we refrain from projecting our offense onto another?

Almost as if on some sort of expected cue, no less, in this increasingly contentious society we seem to live in, several immediately, emphatically rejected the results of The Post’s poll. Some simply declared the results to be untrue.

I get it. It’s tough. And when we’re offended, it’s hard to comprehend how others are not.

I just wish we were better about not projecting our offense upon a majority of others.

(Otherwise — with a little bit of tongue in my cheek — a lot more people need to start hating pickles.)

Respectfully…
AR

05/24/201605/24/2016

where’s the line?

Lately I’ve been hearing much about the need to rally around one another — to come together as one, “because we’re all __________.”

It’s the call to unify.

Such seems more pronounced and proclaimed as the presidential primaries come to a close — and each party is attempting to get “their people” to rally behind a candidate that is far less popular nationally than the party would obviously prefer. That’s an observation — not a criticism. Each of the three remaining, mainstream presidential candidates has serious, perceived flaws; this will be a “slam dunk” election for no one… hence, the call to unify.

That call, no less, got me thinking…

We are to rally around one another… to come together… to let our voices be heard as one. Why? Because we are all “__________.”

But what goes in the blank?

Seriously.

What goes in the blank?

Who are the so-called “their people”?

Is it us? Is it not? Do we know when it actually is us?

It seems to me that individuals subjectively draw a dividing line…

They suggest we need to come together… because we’re all Republicans… we need to come together because we’re all Democrats… we need to come together because we’re all black… white… gay… straight… yada, yada, yada…

Please don’t perceive my “yada’s” or “yada’s” as any intended form of disrespect; they are not. My point is simply that people draw the dividing line — the proverbial boundary which supposedly establishes unity — in different places. I have challenges with that.

I mean, I have friends who are Republicans and friends who are Democrats. I have friends who are black and friends who are white. I have friends who are gay and friends who are straight. And I have friends who fit into none of the above and friends who are yada, yada, yada. Am I not to be included in their circle? Is the circle around them — separating them from the rest of us — impenetrable?

Friends, I think some people are selling us short. These so-called rallies to come together are not unifying; rather, they seem more a desire to isolate and ensure no one thinks any differently.

Why aren’t we drawing the line more broadly? Why aren’t we encouraged to more generously and extensively fill in the blank?

What about…

Because we’re all Ohioans… Iowans… or Floridians…

Because we’re all Americans.

Or what about… because we’re all people who live on the same planet.

Better still…

Because each of us was created by something bigger than self… by the great big God of the universe… divinely and magnificently made.

Can we draw the line around that?

Respectfully…
AR

05/22/201605/22/2016

working out the right way

“Vengeance is mine.” It has been written.

The question is the meaning of “mine.” (Note: pronouns indeed make a difference.)

Let’s be honest; we aren’t all that good at allowing vengeance or revenge or any sense of justice be in the hands of someone else; we aren’t all that good at allowing at-first-unfair circumstances to simply play themselves out. My sense is such stems from three reasons. One, that means we would have to be patient, waiting for another judicial order to act on a timetable which they deem appropriate; two, justice in unfair circumstances may be perceived to never come; and three, different people have different perceptions of what justice actually looks like. What’s just to one may not be just to another. The specifics of appropriate restitution look different to different people.

And so, we are tempted to take justice into our own hands.

It’s the motive behind multiple movements. You know the ones… the “I’m-mad-as-hell-and-not-going-to-take-it-any-more” ones… the ones that cheer when perceived opposition finally gets their due… the ones that declare any other outcome as bad, wrong, foolish, evil, you-name-it.

“Well, it’s about time,” we like to say… “It’s about time this all worked out in the right way.”

Yes, it’s true; we aren’t very good at allowing justice to be any other than “mine.” (Pronouns make a difference.)

A little over a year ago, my second son, who had become a legal, teenage driver, welcomed a summer day long anticipated. You see, at his high school there are a limited number of student parking spots. In fact, there are not enough spots for all who desire to drive (as opposed to a respected upperclassman being spotted on the dreaded school bus… egad…).

The existing process, therefore, in regard to parking pass distribution, is that on a designated morning, the week prior to the onset of the new year, student classes individually line up with their $100 checks in order to participate in a random drawing. Be sure to take note of the word “random.” When the morning drawing commences, each class member blindly draws their specified spot from a so-called hat.

My eager teen, finally a junior, had long desired this day. “Finally,” he must have thought. And so on said morning, he was in line two hours earlier than the start time… all for a random drawing.

Much to his glee, JT was one of the first students in line. He paid his $100. Then he drew.

JT drew the second farthest away spot in the entire parking lot. Only one car would park farther away for the rest of the year.

When JT arrived back home that morning, I could tell it was one of those teenage issues that we wouldn’t be immediately discussing. He was mad — livid, arguably. Here was this day he had longed for, planned, arrived at early, and his efforts were not rewarded in any way, shape or form… how unfair!

That’s it. When a circumstance is perceived to be unfair, we lose all patience. I remember many days this past year (especially those rainy, cold ones) when JT could be heard grumbling about that stupid, unfair spot.

It’s a year later, though, and now JT is set to be a senior. This year’s graduating class has left the building, and all fun, memory-making festivities are in full swing. Last weekend, in fact, was the junior/senior prom.

Funny thing happened there, by the way… Amid all the joy and fancy dresses and dances, there are also all sorts of prizes and creative give-aways. Young JT won one thing…

A free parking pass for his senior year. “Pick Your Spot,” read the certificate.

One year later, it is his.

Respectfully…
AR

05/19/2016

celebrating greatness

It’s true; when I love a good book, I love that good book; and I tend to read or reference it repeatedly. It’s why you may ever so often hear me mention “To Kill a Mockingbird,” “A Thousand Splendid Suns,” the Bible, “Sneetches,” or “When Character Was King.”

One book that has been clearly instrumental in my thinking is “Raising Kids for True Greatness” by Dr. Tim Kimmel. It’s about redefining what success looks like… for our kids… for us. When first read as a far more inexperienced parent (even though I daily find myself having so much more to learn!), I found Kimmel’s truths to be eye-opening…

… What are we raising our kids for? … to be rich? … wealthy? … marry well or get the best job? … how about getting the most “re-tweets” or “likes” in social media?

All are understandable ambitions, but let me be honest; I want something more for my kids. I want them to be great.

Not just successful, but great.

What we witnessed in Mother Teresa was greatness — same as in Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Anne Frank, and Billy Graham. It’s what stood out about teacher-turned-astronaut Christa McAuliffe and cancer-stricken, college basketball player Lauren Hill. It’s not about being famous; it’s about maximizing our gifts and utilizing our God-given potential with whom and how we spend our lives. That, my friends, is far more than success; that is greatness.

One of the concepts, no less, that stands out in how we instill in our kids the idea of pursuing actual greatness is how we view opportunity. Do I look at opportunity as finite and limited? … and there are only so many job opportunities and so many roster spots and so many scholarships available? And that means that if your kid wins any of the above, I can’t be genuinely happy for you. Why? Because there’s now one less for me.

Or… do I look at opportunity as divinely provided and thus infinite or limitless? In other words, each of us is wired completely differently. None of us have identical DNA. We have different gifts.

Think I’m wrong?

Spend an afternoon with my youngest son, Josh, a thriving teen born with Down syndrome. Josh scores a little lower than most on those old IQ tests. But test his emotional intelligence. You will quickly see that while I like to believe I’m a fairly empathetic individual, Josh’s empathy for the well-being of other people far surpasses mine. That’s not a criticism or any selling of self short; that’s an acknowledgement of the nothing less than unique, amazing, divine gifting of my youngest son.

The reason I raise this issue this day, is because all around us, there seems a flurry of activity. It’s the month of May! That means graduations, proms, and parties… sectionals, playoffs, and district finals… scholarships, awards, and all sorts of public acknowledgements surround us. There are a plethora of — shall we say — selfie kind of moments.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could each celebrate them all? The ones we’re involved in and the ones we’re not?

… as opposed to… sitting back, allowing any ounce of comparison to permeate our thinking, comparing one kid’s plight to another… as opposed to ever thinking, “That’s one less opportunity for me or my kid.”

The beauty in the recognition that opportunity is infinite is that it frees us up to genuinely celebrate and support one another. Perhaps my kid didn’t win that scholarship, but that means there’s a better fit for him elsewhere — a fit more in line with his unique, amazing gifting. My desire is to never look at the accomplishment of another and think of myself at the same time.

Ok, off ’til the weekend, friends. First, though, I plan on hanging out on social media for a bit. Some awesome kids are experiencing all sorts of monumental moments; they have multiple individual honors coming their way. I’m so excited for them.

Can’t wait to celebrate… each and every one.

Respectfully…
AR