Dear Dad, Happy Birthday
Dear Dad;
Sunday would have been your 93rd birthday; if you were still alive that is. Just so you know, I didn’t visit your grave this year, and don’t expect me to for the next for that matters. It is not out of disrespect; I haven’t been doing all that well with reminders that my day will come. You were gone before I got word that I would be joining a club. It is not much of an honor, really. In fact, it sucks. Sorry for the crass language but it’s the only word that I could think of that fits. What’s it like? I haven’t had to answer that question in a while.
At first, I could hide it from others, living in denial —you would be proud. But over time, that has changed. Now it’s obvious to most that I have a condition that sets me apart. I walk differently and my movements are rigid compared to most. My speech patterns are less fluid and more labored. I use a lot of props that help me get through the day. I lean against walls and sit in chairs — whatever it takes not to appear like I am wobbling. But I don’t think that is what you are asking, is it?
I don’t feel like I am a provider anymore, or won’t be for much longer. I’ve violated your cardinal rule; Work hard. I am working as hard as I can but I don’t think that it’s going to cut it much longer. I need to slow down but don’t know how. I’m like you, I never learned that lesson. Maybe you can talk to someone who can grant me a waiver— a release so I can leave work on time.
Lisa is doing well, but she looks at me much differently than she has in the past. Most mornings she is fighting back the tears as I struggle to stay vertical. When there are no tears, there is still a fear that won’t let up. For a long time, I was able to reassure her that everything was fine. That line wore thin. My girls don’t see me when I am at my worst, and I fear that what my son sees is all he will ever know. He doesn’t remember me healthy. Anyway, he spends very little time at home these days. Like father, like son. Right, dad?
My good days aren’t quite as good and my bad days are getting a little worse. What was once easy is getting a little harder each day. I don’t climb ladders much anymore. I shouldn’t walk on the ice but I still do.
The best way to explain it it’s like watching a part of you die a little every day.
No, I didn’t quit fighting, I still do because I must. I keep writing because I think I have a message that others need to hear.
I still have hope because you taught us that there are times when life will be hard and when it is, you know it’s time to sharpen your mower blades or shovel, keep your head down and get back to work.
Thanks for the lessons, Dad. I guess I was listening. Who would have thought? Maybe my kids are listening, too.
Ivy says Hi. Please don’t bring up Whitney. Ivy gets jealous. She thinks that she is the best dog in the whole world, and she just might be!
Al and his faithful, and mathematically astute sidekick, Ivy the Wonder Pup.
You’re right Ivy, he would be 651 in dog years. That is a lot of candles.
I’ll have my eggs ‘over ordinary.’
There is no such thing as an ordinary Man.”
C. S. Lewis ~ Athiest, Reluctant Convert, Apologist. above ordinary man.
Fly-over Country
It’s a daily occurrence; some where between the coasts, the left and the other left, most men attempt to answer a variation of this question, “Today how can I be special…build my empire…and leave my mark.” If simplified it loosely translates as, “Will my future be as exciting and consistent as a bowl of grits?”
Ordinarily, Ordinary
There are many, frozen in time or by circumstance, that think that touting their accomplishments borders on narcissism. They believe that they are, and are destined to be, ordinary.
Is it the limelight that people fear, or is it the notoriety that we wish to avoid? Apprehension is understandable. Once we commit to an ideology or worldview, or we set out on a course of action that has the power to change the world, we risk the ire of the thought-police and will be targeted and disparaged. The chances of getting our privacy back is nearly impossible. In the digital age in which we live, our actions and words are permanent and can be used in ways that we never imagined or intended. The tranquility and simplicity that we could once protect will be replaced by unwanted drama akin to a pimple on a teenager’s nose.
Unordinary
How can we push back against the apprehension? We are a product of intelligent design, breathed into existence by the creator of the universe. If we embrace the idea that the best we ever hope to be is ordinary; the work of our hand’s will be viewed in the same light, as ordinary; as ill our dreams, our calling and our uniqueness. Our greatest attributes will no longer be.
Would you reject your portion of your spiritual DNA, clinging to a narrative that will shape your identity as the byproduct of percolating for a few billion years in primordial ooze? Is it possible that we have been developmentally stunted due to the lies that we have been told? What could we have accomplished, what would we have done if we were immersed in a different message, one that we have value, an intrinsic worth not because what we have done or can do, but because of who we are?
Still an Egg
C. S. Lewis wrote, “It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.”
Will you be satisfied if you are good and decent, but still an egg; accomplishing little and impacting few?
Are you called to be a peace-maker but overwhelmed by what you see and hear? Do you try to speak into the brokenness that is encircling us; a brokenness that permeates lives, families and communities? Does it have to be like this? Does the future belong to those that have the loudest message, the largest distribution and greatest amplification?
Survivalists
We are conditioned to be combative, Darwinian if you will, determined to be the toughest and the most resilient. From the womb to the tomb, we fight the battles that we must with the tenacity of Mr. T., pitying the fools who underestimate our resolve. We fight to regain dignity and decorum, faith and freedom of thought and speech. Our intuition is sitting on our shoulder, reminding us how the world is meant to be. How will we know?
In the still of the night, when the voices are hushed, when the Wonder Pup is taking up more than her share of the couch, it is in the silence of the early morning hours he heals and restores. When we realize who it is that calls us by name, we can change. We can seek mercy and work to restore our families, our neighborhoods and our country to who and what we were intended to be.
Then we will learn we are no longer eggs, encircled by a shell of protection.
Then we will know that we can be free to be ordinary and so much more.
Thanks for reading, liking and sharing.
“You can holster your Super Soaker, Ivy. I found out that a CPL isn’t necessary for a water pistol. By the way, how did you got wet. I see that it’s ooze.”
Al and his faithful, but over zealous sidekick, Ivy the Wonder Pup?
Remorse ~ the Cost of Thanksgiving
” I swear on my Mother’s grave that I thought turkeys could fly.”
~Mr. Carlson – WKRP in Cincinnati
Going Rogue
Are you looking forward to getting together with family and friends to give thanks but lament that the voice of reason in public discourse is all but gone? Are subjects that were once fair game and fodder for small talk, now taboo? Has your desire to connect with family and community been impeded by the actions of rogue bureaucrats, administrators and elected officials that neither respect our boarders, language and culture, the laws of the land, nor the will of the people?
Sorry for that momentary lapse. For a brief moment, I though we still lived in a free society.
Some memories have a way of casting aside thoughts of gratitude or of thanksgiving and replacing them with pangs of remorse. Whether we are demoralized or euphoric at the outcome of the previous election debacle, it’s difficult to deny that the information, feelings or prejudices, that some may have used to make their decision was incomplete, inaccurate, biased or otherwise flawed. Whether it was conscious or unintended, some may have ignored that which they knew to be true, and acted on a wish and a prayer.
What happens in Cincinnati
There is a tragic lesson that Mr. Carlson, along with the traumatized shoppers in a plaza in Cincinnati, painfully learned; domesticated turkeys, can’t fly. Their physique has been altered to meet a need; that is to be consumed. They are the main course for a holiday meal, bringing with it a food-coma, lethargy and unwelcome “leftovers” that are neither as satisfying nor as fulfilling.
In contrast, wild turkeys can fly, they are cunning, illusive and protective of their flock. Ben Franklin described them as “a much more respectable bird, a true original to native America, a bird of courage.” Mr. Franklin understood the threats of his time and felt the wild turkey symbolized characteristics indigenous to the surroundings that a fledgling nation to replicate .
Freedom Ain’t Free
Actions have consequences, and as a free people, we have a unique privilege unimaginable to most of the world. However, with rights come responsibility, with responsibility the inevitable consequences, and with consequences the horrors of well intentions and naiveté gone bad. Sadly, nothing short of a scraper and a fire hose can rid the landscape of the effects of a feckless leader, however, the memories will foster remorse in a way that only reality can.
This Thanksgiving, do you carry the burden of disillusionment or shame? Are you now overcome with a sense of hopeless and despair, uncertain if there is anything for which to give thanks? Maybe the root cause isn’t from our emotional baggage, maybe it stems from our political leanings.
Maybe we our ballot for the wrong damn bird.
[Gobble…Gobble]
About the author:
I am an accountant by vocation, a contractor, and an entrepreneur at heart. After I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease, I took to writing to process my thoughts with no intentions that any of it would ever see the light of day. After some prodding, I was encouraged to open my world to yours. Please feel free to follow my story at alvandyk.com.
Who are You…Who?
Tell me, who are you…I really want to know.
R. Daltery, P. Townsend, J Entwistle. ~ pinball wizards.
Shifts in the stages and the onslaught of corresponding major interruptions that follow, can entice us to pause and re-think the stuff we hoard and the relationships we maintain. Recently, my attentions have turned towards my friendships. I am not referring to the Facebook variety; even Ivy knows that they’re not real. I am referring to the kind that C . S. Lewis describes as necessary to make life worth living
Before, I continue, I want you to consider this simple question. I need to know, who are you? It might be easier to answer if I were to restate the question, Who do you want to be…?
Seldom do I verbalize how I see my self. I used to think of myself based on what I had to do to bring home some bacon, instead of something in which I had a passion, or dare I say, a calling. I was a contractor, then an accountant. A few zigs and a zag, a few desert adventures, looking for an oasis, or purpose. Now I see myself as a writer. If you have been reading for any length of time, I frequently refer to my ability to write as a gift, as “…something generously given to someone undeserving…so that I can be a blessing to others.” At the risk of sounding pretentious, I write because I have a story to tell and I want “to be a blessing to others.”
It was my lovely wife who first noticed that my storytelling was unique and worthy of sharing. It was because of her prodding, I have connected my world with yours. If it were not for her I would still be in [de-Nile], still suffering in silence, and believing the lie that our story, and ultimately our lives, didn’t really matter.
As the saying goes, we don’t get to pick our family. My family is my “why”. They are the reason that I strive to get vertical each morning. For the past half a decade, my three children, Kelsey, Taylor, and Ian, have watched my heart soften as my limbs grew increasingly rigid and stiff.
Everybody wants to protect their children. It is for that reason, that I seldom “write them into my world,” naively thinking that I can protect them from seeing me in mine. Hopefully, the change from a “mean old man who didn’t like kids” to a “mean old man who thinks the world of each of them” was noticed.
I want to extend my heartfelt gratitude to all those who are instrumental in my care. For the better part of the last decade, I have been treated by the best of the best the world has to offer. They see me not as a billing unit but a real person, with dreams worthy of all those who are members in the club.
Additionally, In my corner, is an eclectic mix of business leaders, entrepreneurs, computer geeks, and artists that lent me their expertise and insights to help me add polish and credibility to my message. They were able to look beyond the occasional dyskinesia and gate disturbance, typing errors, and awkward silence, while I had to search for the perfect word or attempt to recall the name of a comrade. Still, they saw me as vibrant and capable with a brilliant mind — only slightly encumbered by a glaringly obvious physical impairment.
These are just some of the people with whom I now share a bond; an irredeemable debt of gratitude. They treat me as human, as one of their own.
To Hudson and Hank who fix what I manage to break, or tend to my lawn giving the casual gawker the illusion that all is as it was; and now it is as it should be.
To the Bob’s, who were mindful of my condition and felt compelled to make a difference.
To my anchor group, Todd, Joel, Matt, Kevin, and Paul, you have been my well, my anchor, giving me a safe place and the freedom to be me, to value my contribution to our collective spiritual development. We can make a difference.
Then there are saints, I doubt if you even know who you are. You always have the perfect words of encouragement on the tip of your tongue. You showered my family and me with prayers, mercy, and compassion. You hold me accountable and accept nothing less than the best. My thanks go out to Ben and Steve, to Randy and his better half Bonnie, and to Craig and a different Bonnie, to Merlin and of course Ken.
My world is much bigger than I thought it would be and could be. Individually and collectively, you enabled me to have a life that is too big to live alone. I wonder how many of the people that I mentioned set out to change someone’s life, to make others more complete.
With that, I will leave you with the question that I started with; “Who are you? Are you somebody or are you nobody? Are you bent on holding down the fort, protecting the status quo, or do you want to drive change making a difference in the lives of those who cross your path?
Again, quoting Lewis, “There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”
There will be times that we want everything around us to stop so that we can relax, regroup, and reclaim normalcy by taking in the sights, the scenery or the sounds. But stagnation is not our friend; whatever it was that we want to hold on to tightly, will soon lose its apDo you have a sense of purpose that makes you feel you are unstoppable? Or are you convinced it’s your destiny to claim the bottom rung of the social order as your domain?
Tell me, who are you?
Are you a nobody, striving to be somebody? Or are you somebody, fighting fatigue, failure, or fatty foods that serve to push you below the line into a world ruled by nobodies? Do you represent the best that we can be or the worst that we are; the most that we can contribute or the least that we can accomplish, my noteworthy aspirations or my least draining expectations? Who are you? Unsure, it might help if you take a mirror with you when you hit the voting booth.
Who are you..who, who?
The wizards are waiting. We better not make them wait too long, they have been known to be pretty hard on their musical instruments and hotel rooms when they get bored.
Thanks for reading and Liking; sharing it if clears your conscience.
Al Van Dyk
Sorry, Ivy,
Lastly, I owe a debt of gratitude to Ivy the Wonder pup. You are more than just an ordinary sidekick. You are my scapegoat…my walking dictionary…and my source of unconditional acceptance. If you feel like what I ask you is unreasonable and that I, too often, exploit your companionship, I probably do. Speak up if it happens again. You’re a dog; you do know how to speak, don’t you?