Enough

I read an interesting anecdote the other day.

It seems the author Joseph Heller was invited to an exclusive party on the east coast by a multimillionaire investor. One of the guests pointed out that the host had made more money in a day than Heller had ever made on his very popular novel, Catch-22. Heller replied, “Yes, but I have something he will never have…enough.”

Now most of you are enlightened right now by two things…first, that I actually can read… and second, by the idea of having enough.

What is enough?

At Thanksgiving dinners in years past my grandmother would ask me if I “had enough.” When I was a kid the neighborhood boys would wrestle and fight in a vacant lot and eventually someone would get “enough” and go home. When my siblings and I would pick at each other and argue my Mom would threaten us with “enough is enough!”…

I think about a penny and wonder is it enough? I still remember when a penny would buy a piece of candy…it was enough. But when the price went to two cents and then five…it was inadequate.

Now I know that the penny has value. If you had two hundred, you could buy a cup of coffee; If you had two million, you could buy a decent car; if you had a hundred trillion of these you could pay off a handsome chunk of the national debt. It has value…but is it enough?

My dad had a funny habit: when he gave you a knife or scissors or any kind of cutting tool, it always had a penny taped to the box. He said that it was for payment… something about a knife had to be bought and not be given away or it would “cut” the relationship. When I was a boy I, thought it was odd, but I would dutifully admire the knife, use it to free the penny form the box and toss the copper back to my dad with a “thank you” for good measure.

As the years have passed, I am certain that my relationship with my father was strong enough to have survived if I had kept just one of those pennies...but I never did. It became sort of an inside joke, something that my brother, my sisters, my father and I knew, that no one else quite understood. It was our way of thanking each other and even though the penny on the box was insignificant…it was enough.

At my father’s funeral a couple of years ago, one of my brothers in law came up to me and pulled out a penny, and on it was a piece of tape with writing on it. It said: “Ray (my father’s name), Christmas 1999”. He thought it was a penny, a memory, and a keepsake…but I knew, it was enough.

Nowadays, when I stop by the cemetery where my father rests, I reflect, remember and sometimes cry. But when I go, I leave a penny on the head stone because it is my way of saying, I remember, and that is enough.

My wish for all of you this holiday season has nothing to do with turkey and dressing, Christmas presents, or New Year’s resolutions. I simply hope that you will have enough: Enough appreciation, enough love, enough joy…

enough.

An open letter to a special friend on the passing of his father...

I know I can talk to you this way because I have known you for so long, because I knew your father, and because I love you.

You must move on.

I can never see your father as you see him. There are so many wonderful things about him that only you can know. And, honestly, I have to admit that there are some things about him that I shared with him that you would never understand. We both knew the same person uniquely; His wry smile and his cutting looks of reprimand, a pat on the back and a swat on the behind. He taught you to be a man. He was one of a kind and there will never be another just like him…ever.

You must move on.

I know he was proud of you. He told me so. He enjoyed your smile your laugh and your daring spirit. I think that you feel like he took some of that with him when he died. He didn’t. He left those things to you as an inheritance. It was his gift to you. And no one can take that from you, or hide it from you or diminish it in any way…except you. It is your commitment to him to preserve that part of you that he thought was beautiful.

You must move on.

He knew what you feel. He lost his father when he was only a child and worried (you knew this) that he would not see you develop into the man that you have become. He was granted that wish. Don’t wish for a moment that you could join him so soon and deprive us of your gifts, your passion, the person who you are in the process of becoming.

You must move on.

I know you are a Christian and you were taught well (by your Daddy’s example) that we will all be together in the by-and-by. But it is not your time. You cannot do go to him. He taught you that life was precious and sacred. You will carry on for the next few, or many, years that our creator has assigned you. And in that moment when you are freed from this earthly body you will see him again, and time will be irrelevant. It will seem that you have only been apart for a moment. The days, weeks, months, and years will amount to no more than the batting of an eyelash but the homecoming will be so sweet. It will be joyous, not just because you will see him again, but because you will meet him in your perfection…in God’s time.

You must move on.

You visit his stone and imagine that he is there. He is not. The physical remains that are in that box buried below that black Texas dirt are poor replacements for the integrity, honesty, and beauty that he once was. The reality is that those qualities and a thousand more, each precious to us both, still exist in his eternal spirit and in our memories.

You must move on.

I know you loved him. I did too. He wasn’t just your dad, he was mine. And while he is gone from this place, we are still here living his legacy. In heaven, things are eternal. Here on earth, everything will fade and crumble. Even his grave marker, decorated with our mementoes and bathed in our tears, will one day tumble over and turn to dust. It is inevitable. So what can we do? We can remember. We can laugh at what was funny and cry over what was tragic. But most of all, we can live the life that he imagined for us. We can be the people he thought we were. We can extend his love to those around us so that one day when it is our turn to join him, that our sons will pause and consider their mortality and wonder how they will carry on. But with grace, they will.

You must move on.

Leave the pain behind. Keep what is beautiful.

You must move on…and I will go with you.

I love you.

Listening to The Man?

Occasionally, when we get into the car in the morning my son, Spence, will ask me what many think is an unusual question. "Daddy, can we listen to the man today?"

Who is this man? Is it THE man or just any man? Why does it have to be a man...why not a woman?

Well the answer is much easier than all that. As a teacher and sometimes speaker, I listen to a lot of books on tape; Everything form Brian Tracy to George Orwell, and Zig Ziglar to Mark Twain. And admittedly, Spence is just as likely to get a snippet of a novel as he is a motivational or self help tape. It really just depends on what I have going on that day or what is up next on my iPod. I will admit that Ziglar is one of my favorites, He teaches that basic values are the key to success, he advocates helping yourself by helping others, and, yes, he sounds a lot like some of the preachers, salesmen, and old soothsayers I grew up with in rural Texas. But one of the main reasons, that I like him can be summed up best in an observation that my daughter made a few years ago while we were listening to one of Zig's tapes: " He sounds like he's smiling..."

Who doesn't like to listen to a voice that is encouraging and optimistic whenever they have the chance? Isn't it even better when what they have to say seems to be a personal prescription just for your current situation? I have a lot of recordings and I can honestly say that I have one for almost any mood that I might encounter.

However, my challenge on some days is that I don't want to listen...I want to talk. I talk about the challenges  I know are coming that day or the person that I think is an obstacle to me in completing a project. I complain about all kinds of things that may not be a problem yet but, by golly, I've got my stink eye on them, just in case. On these day's Ziglar is of no use. His wife told me so...and asked me to please stop calling!

It's on days like this that I need to listen to The Man. The big Man, the Man upstairs...the Man who created the universe Man. If I am considering His message for me and the way He defines my success, then I can turn a whole days worth of disasters into something wonderful...before they actually happen!

Now I know that in a metaphysical sense, God is not a man, anymore than he is a woman, a toadstool, or an aardvark. God has his own classification and justifiably so...because he is The Man! The Man is just a euphemism for "the one in charge", " the Big Kahuna", the "Grand Pubah". So forgive me when I say that my day is not complete without just a moment's acknowledgement to, and from, the Man.

Most days, I try to pause, just for a second, as I roll out of bed and ask for help as I start a new day. I might even try to throw in a bit of gratitude for the good fortune that I have enjoyed so far in my life. Now, that is no small feat when you haven't even brushed your teeth. But I try. What is amazing is that now that I have been at it a while, I find that I don't have to remember it anymore. It comes to me naturally...all I have to do is talk and then listen. I found out the old fashioned way, by experience, that if you say 'good morning' to someone early in the day (and mean it), they are a lot more likely  to talk to you the rest of the day. Its a good rule for the spouse, your boss, and The Man.

Maybe today, or tomorrow, Spence will ask me if we will listen to the Man. I hope that I can say "I have already talked with him personally and he has encouraged me, enlightened me, and given me direction!" Because who doesn't like to listen to a voice that is encouraging and optimistic whenever they have the chance? He might even have a personal prescription just for your current situation! 

And as Spence gives me that look of compassion mixed with confusion that indicates he believes I have lost my ever-lovin' mind, I will spin the dial on the iPod and see if I can find some Ziglar to get us started.

I think I'll have cake

Tonight, I think I'll have cake.

I know it is Halloween and all; Candy will by abundant. And while I am a bit old to go out and collect my own, I will send my two children out as my surrogates to make sure I'm stocked up on sweets until the first round of Christmas parties.

Yet, I still need the cake. You see, It is my father's birthday. Seventy-three years ago Alton Ray Adams came bouncing into this world, not so much with a "Boo!" as much as a blood curdling scream. I am not sure that he had cake that night (I wasn't there.), but I will wager that even in the heart of the depression, such as it was, my Mammaw found a way to construct a chocolate cake. And with that, the die was cast: Chocolate cake from that point on and up to the time I left home to go to college. You may not see the importance of this but let me tell you, it was a good idea. It knocked the edge off of your sweet tooth, making it easier to avoid binging on chocolate and caramel corn, and, let us be clear...CAKE IS GOOD!

I have no idea why I got away from the habit. Sure, I left home and, after all, it was not my birthday. By why let a great tradition die for the lack of reason to celebrate? After all, my Dad was having a birthday somewhere, was he not?

I think I'll have cake tonight. It will be Chocolate, with vanilla ice cream, in order to celebrate a life. A life that ended peacefully just one year, three months, and fifteen days ago tonight. Don't misunderstand me, I am not looking to have a pity party here. Zig Ziglar says that the problem with pity parties is that you cant get any one to come and no one sends presents . He's right.

I miss my father all the time...not just on holidays where candy is served. I missed him yesterday and am fairly certain that some time this week some one will say something or look at me in some particular way and I will recall some slice of a memory that makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. You can sprain tear duct that way. No, that is not what I want tonight.

I think I will have cake tonight, chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream, and a glass of cold whole milk. I'll eat just enough to take the edge off my sweet tooth, and lets face it...old memories, just like cake, are good.

A Beautiful Ordeal: First Post

I have had this notion in my head for some time that life is a “beautiful ordeal”. It is troublesome and yet a treasure, irrational and irreplaceable. In my thoughts, relationships and experiences I am confronted with the idea that existing in this world is a messy business, punctuated by tears, disappointment, victories and laughter.

As I start this experience of sharing, I would be out of line to fail to mention a few things. I was raised in a very small town in North Central Texas, the third child of four, to the proprietor of the only grocery store in our little town. I was a chubby kid most of the time, and what I lacked in confidence and skill, I compensated for with volume and bravado. In a small town where everyone played sports, I was a fair athlete, not the best by far, but competent…usually. I was cavalier when we won (seldom) and heartbroken when we lost (often). Overall, I grew up happy and optimistic about life in a conservative, self sustaining, old fashioned little town. I still carry the values that I learned on the narrow streets and sun cracked vacant lots of that town. I have come to be quite proud of the way my father and mentors taught me to approach life.

Over the last forty some odd years I have experienced tragedy and victory, separately and simultaneously. Certainly, I didn’t know it at the time, but life has taught me that learning occurs in the valleys and wisdom is found on the peaks. The perfect example that I can share is the birth of my son. Born on a Sunday in 1992, he was to be my heir, my pride, and my key to an early retirement. But instead of the captain of the football team or the next Rhodes Scholar, I got Spence. Spence is a small but noisy seventeen year old boy, with a congenital heart defect, scoliosis, kidney disease, and moderate mental retardation. I remember vividly that on the day of my son’s birth I cried (literally) to my father that it was not supposed to be this way. And while I heaped scorn on God and the fates, Spence lay on the operating table enduring open heart surgery on his walnut sized newborn heart. Do I feel guilty about those selfish, stupid emotions? No, I was in learning mode. The next 17 years have provided me with the wisdom to know that this is what life is; a beautiful ordeal punctuated with tears and disappointment, victories and laughter.

I stumble through this life with my wife, Kim, and my children Spence and Annie. I miss my Dad, who is gone now, and yearn for the once special relationship I had with my mother, mutilated and faded following several small strokes and a failing memory. I cherish my brother and sisters for their companionship, affection, and commiseration.

Life is hard. I know that many others have received a considerably greater portion of misery than I have, but it is irrefutable: Life is a female dog…and she bites. But life is also beautiful. I have been fortunate enough to cry many more times due to happiness than to do the same for sorrow. I suppose that Lincoln was right when he said “most folks are just about as happy as they make up their mind to be.” I love my life’s ups and downs…in spite of them and because of them.

I know that I have not done anything to deserve the hardships of this world, but I am equally certain that I have done much less to deserve the joy of watching Spence grow, the memories of the best father a young man could want, or the smattering of talent that functions to provide me a livelihood.

God is good…and I know it.

He has given me a gift: a beautiful ordeal.