A Poem for Today

This morning, the sky in York was bright and blue and beautiful. No sight of rain. With an early cup of coffee, I climbed the stairs to our tiny study, opened my old blue pad, and wrote the following poem.

The things that cannot shake
Do not speak in our currency.
Their exchange rate mocks our money--
Of what value is paper, gold, or worry?

The things that cannot shake
Enter through holes we have not plugged;
They surface on the wounds we forsake;
They stand on the moments we might begrudge.

The things that cannot shake
Make love real--
Where the soul, in passion, refuses to break,
When the heart, in humility, will kneel.

The Keeper of the Bowls

Yesterday evening, I walked alongside David towards St. Oswald's Church Hall for our third Thursday night of the bowls. It's no exaggeration to admit that I've come to love the soft, slow pace of the game, the smiles delivered in pure authenticity from a league of grandfathers towards the lone, wet-behond-the-ears American new to the game.

One man, particularly, stood out to me last night. His name is Brian, and we sat next to one another during the tea break. While we muched on biscuits (cookies!) and sipped tea, I peppered Brian with questions about his life, and each of his responses only gave way to more questions on my end.

Brian is 90 years old. He is the Keeper of the Bowls. He rents the hall; he keeps the books (it costs £2 per person per night to attend); he ensures proper storing of the mats and other such essentials.

I shared with Brian the story of why Jennifer and I and Tyler are here in York, England rather than continuing life near Boston, trying to get a mortgage and a fence as most families our age are doing. As I spoke about Jennifer and Tyler, I watched Brian's eyes fill with soemthing like joy.

Really.

So Iasked him, "How many children do you have?" I figured it was an approproate question, since I read his eyes as saying, I love my wife, I love my kids as I spoke about my own family.

But I was wrong.

Brian: "I never married."

Me: "Did you ever come close?"

Brian looked up at me and now the joy tipped into that sorrowful kind of acceptance. I saw my mistake. The happiness that danced, previously, in his eyes was happiness for what I am able to enjoy now, not what he had or has.

Brian shared with that he had proposed once, but that it didn't work it. He had almost proposed to a second woman years later, but never got down on his knee and asked. He spent his life working as a bookkeeper, and he said his moments of greatest happiness were when he worked in the living rooms and studies of the hoems where his clients lived--doing their books, yes, but also soaking up the playfulness of family that he watched.

Now, the only night of the week that Brian gets out is Thursday--the night of the bowls.

My heart felt drawn to his for some reason, and there was a certain rightness about the man himself--that kind of rightness whereby you instantly know, this is a good person; he has a good heart.

And so, I invited Brian to join Jennifer and I for dinner one evening at our little home on Lesley.

He smiled, but the wistfulness of days long since passed was no longer there.

"Oh, oh, that's so very kind of you, but...well, Thursday is my only night out, you see."

I accepted Brian's declining of my offer, but before we ended tea to return to bowls, I rpmised him that I would continue to invite him each week until he agreed to come.

He smiled, and said that would be fine.

Growing...Well, Growing...Old? (!?@#)

After a month in York, we're starting to feel a lot more comfortable with our little home, and our new little life. We even recently got some new things up on the walls which were bare for so long. We were at the Newgate Market in the city center this past Sunday, and we saw a guy selling posters.

Laminated posters!

For a couple who rejoices anytime we're able to manage a trip to any kind of store where home furnishings can be purchased--it's amazing how much becomes miraculous without a car--we were overjoyed to see posters for sale. Only a couple of miles from our home.

Laminated posters!

These babies were some serious goods, so we ended up choosing four large posters with which to decorate our home: one copy of Martin Luther King, Jr. giving his "I have a Dream" speech, with the entire speech in text below the image; one copy of some semi-motivational poster featuring a person dressed in a thick red coat climbing a huge, snowy mountain; one copy of Churchill's war slogan, "Keep Calm and Carry On"; and one copy of the original Casablanca movie poster.

After hanging them around our home later that night (eventually using tiny nails and a hammer that we got for a pound at a store called Poundworld--the UK equivalent to the Dollar Store or Family Dollar in the US), we felt like a King and a Queen in our little place.

It doesn't take much.

(Did I mention that these posters are laminated?)

After Tyler had practiced using his own Bob the Builder plastic hammer in the same spots where I used my Poundworld hammer moments earlier, and we had gotten him down to bed for the night, we breathed a sigh and sat down in our living room.

Then, we got up.

We washed the dishes, cleaned up the fake hammers, screwdrivers, saws, Bob the Builder trucks, diggers, excavators (you get the picture), and threw a load of laundry in.

And this is the interesting part. As I was throwing some clothes into the washing machine, I noticed my pant cuffs dragging along the floor. My shoes were off, and I thought, Hey, these pants need to last me three years, I don't want the cuffs to get all worn out already, etc...

So, what did I do? I did what anyone in my place would probably do: I bent down and rolled up the bottoms of my pant cuffs.

I rolled up my trousers, you might say.

I was wearing--to articulate it a bit differently--the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

And in a little more than one month, I am going to turn 30 years old.

So: I'm not even kidding when I tell you that this line flashed into my mind like a flashy flash: I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Turning around to see if the ghost of T.S. Eliot was, in fact, standing behind me in the kitchen, whispering his old poem as he watched me throw in in this load of laundry (he did, after all, emigrate to Britain, right?), I felt a little silly.

And a little old.

But then, I took solace. Because in that same poem, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,"--which I still remember vividly from Mrs. Ferrero's 11th grade English class at Windsor High School--Eliot also asks "Do I dare disturb the universe?"

Now, that sounds like a question I still want to answer.

(Instead of the latter question he asks, "Do I dare to eat a peach?")

Whew.

So, I'm okay, right? I'm not already starting to think that I'm old. I still want to disturb the universe a little, right?

After all, I was just rolling up my pant cuffs because hey, these pants have got to last three years.

As long as the laminated posters will.

On Doing Without

I knew this move to the UK would involve giving up a few material possessions which I've come to hearitly enjoy: the car, the drying machine, the huge collection of books, the nice apartment 40 minutes west of Boston. What I didn't expect was to have to work at doing without something else.

Praise.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a teacher. In high school, when we had to fill out the endless numbers of "What profession do you hope to join...?" forms for colleges, our guidance department, teachers, or scholarships, I always felt lucky to have an immediate response: High school English teacher and basketball coach.

And I lived that dream for a while. (Well, I coached girls' Lacrosse and was the newspaper Advisor for a bit while I taught...close enough, right?)

But after we had our son, that dream wasn't what my heart thirsted for anymore. Don't get me wrong, I still love teaching, and some days as a stay-at-home-dad I do wake up and think, If I could just get back into that classroom with my 7th graders and talk about Deborah Ellis's The Breadwinner, or do a poetry project with them, or just be silly as we learn... 

But what I realized after my latest post as a 7th grade teacher in Hudson was that I just wanted more time with my son. I wanted to be more a part of his life, more a teacher to him.

And after a month in York, no part of me regrets the change.

What I have been realizing, however, is that being a teacher involves a lot of encouragement and praise. I loved the students I have taught, and I enjoy keeping in touch with many of them over e-mail. I tried to care for them the way I would want to care for my own son if he was in the 7th grade. And my students cared for me, too. They would make these splendid cards, tell me nice things, and generally give me a feel-good boost.

So while the move to England has involved dealing with some withdrawal from our material do-withouts, it has also involved learning to do without the same kinds of praise. Indeed, after I make Tyler a pretty darn good grilled cheese sandwich, or successfully quell the rising tide of a tantrum (I'm batting maybe .375 on that front...okay, maybe .275), he doesn't write me a thank-you note or tell me that I have inspired him to go out and change the world.

Indeed, I relish and thank God for Tyler's reckless hugs, his wild leaps into my arms or catapults onto my stomach-area-ish, but largely being a stay-at-home parent is about learning how to work without the praise and recognition that a teacher receives.

Having done both, I realize now that I stand in the midst of a great opportunity. It's a chance to throw off my ego, my pride, my insecurities which often sought others to confirm that I am doing something well. Instead, it's a chance to begin to hear the quiet voice of God, whispering those encouragments on a hard morning when Tyler wakes up at 5am with a massive poop; it's the soft encouragment of God telling me to continue trying to get Tyler to nap well, even as the screams erupt from the room over; and it's the heart of God encouraging my own heart as I am reminded that nothing worth doing in this life can be done with the puspose of only doing it to please others.

There is a higher level to love than that.

I have a heck of a lot to learn about what it means to live a life of doing without. I am still going through the ups and downs of realizing that anytime Tyler and I want to go somewhere, we've got to walk.

And I certainly have a heck of a lot to learn about living without pats on the back. As a teacher, I learned to enjoy and thrive on those pats. As a stay-at-home-dad, I am learning to work hard for the sake of love alone--love for my wife, love for my son, and love for the characters I craft through fiction.

Doing without praise is hard for me--I'll confess. But it's also rewarding in a new kind of way. After all, the praise and encouragment of others always ends, and then we're left standing there, the same as before. Perhaps the most concise and poignant way to state the process I am learning to love is a line from a favorite movie of mine, Cool Runnings.

John Candy, who plays the coach of an olympic Jamaican Bobsled team, imparts to one of his athletes the following truth: "If you're not enough without the gold medal, you'll never be enough with it."

It reminds me that praise never creates anything--and it can never substitute for what matters most: our hearts. And so doing without is really about learning to be comfortable in our own skins, all things (literally) aside.

Broken Bananas

A lot of things can be fixed after they've broken.

Bananas aren't included.

Tyler has ripped pages out of his colorful books; he's torn posters off the wall in his excitement to see them in closer view; he's enjoyed tearing off the various trucks from the Bob the Builder magazines. And with all of these mishaps, tape can provide a glorious solution.

But a few days ago, after we had peeled a banana for Tyler to eat, the thing just broke right in half.

"Fix it, please, Mommy Daddy, fix it," came Tyler's assured voice.

And of course, nothing worked. We didn't stoop so low as to try actually taping the banana, but I will I admit I held the broken top of the banana onto the bottom half and said, "All better!"

(I'm not proud of my attempt at ease here, but I have to confess that I tried the above method.)

Tyler was onto me right away. "No! Fix it, please, Daddy Mommy, fix it! Fix it!"

As his cries began to escalate into teary-eyed confusion as to what kind of world we live in where everything can't be fixed, it was hard to explain that this is, indeed, life.

Later that evening, it occurred to me that a lot of us still expect that broken bananas can be fixed. We might spend our whole lives trying to mend things that, in fact, need to be dealt with as is. Because, meanwhile, we're neglecting things that really could be fixed with the time, energy, and determination we possess.

We often spend our time trying to "fix" the way we look, the way others think of us, the size of our noses or the size of our homes. Often these pursuits are just as futile as trying to wrap a piece of tape around a banana and say to ourselves, "All better"

Instead, there are a host of things that are, indeed, broken, which we could fix if we tried to determine ourselves, our time, our resources, our attention.

Things like homelessness.

Poverty.

Abuse.

Trafficking.

A world is waiting to see if we're going to ever realize that we have all that we need to roll up our sleeves and dig into the real work we are called to do. Otherwise, the things we choose to fix won't ever make a genuine change in the lives of others, or ourselves.

Notes on the Void

The void. Well, to be comepletely honest (no lying here), the void has been an ever-decreasing space. Not because life is any easier than it ever is--always the thoughts about finances, bumps in the road, future plans, Tyler's nap schedule and butt rashes, etc..--but there's been this sense of a STORY. Do you know what I mean?
 
Like this: a story has to have its ups and downs, and I think a lot of us get trapped into thinking that the chapter we're living in the present moment is the last chapter--like that's the end of the novel right there.
 
But the truth Jen and I have been embracing is that a novel is a lot biggger than any single chapter. And a life--a full story--is so much mnore than a hard moment or two. (Or three.)
 
In other words, I have been praying and seeking Christ to help me see the story, and not the chapter. And it's working.
 
So the void, in that sense, is not really a void at all. For a void is vast darkness, and in every story, vast darkness is never really present. It's more the pockets of blindness we face, before realizing that the light had never really left us at all; it was just shining from the pages of a different chapter--one we haven't yet written, or one we've already read.

This Ancient Game of Bowls

Yesterday evening, after Jen and I had given Tyler and five diggers a bath, I left our home on 1 Lesley Avenue to walk to the old church hall at St. Oswald's with a neighbour of ours named David.

A bit younger than my own grandfather, David is a kind man who walks with a cane, hefts a big smile everywhere he goes, and says that his main rule for living is the Golden One: You see, Luke, I treat everyone the way I'd right liked to be treated, mate. That's all it is.

And in David's life—along with his wife, Jill, and their daughter Gemma, who live two doors down—the Golden rule is indeed alive and well. Already, they've taken delight in Tyler, bringing him toys, inviting him over to feed their bunnies, and dropping off other odds and ends (including a delicious teddy-bear shaped cake for Tyler's birthday last weekend).

A lot of guys in my age group go out drinking at the pubs. But somehow, getting a tall pint (or two, or three) just never really feels like my cup of tea, so to speak. The loud noise, the effects on the wallet (thinking constantly, is this really a good use of money?), and the general sense that time might be better spent is usually triggered.

So it was that when David invited me to join the Fulford Bowls Club, I jumped at the prospect.

The church hall at St. Oswald's is much like many church halls in America, I suspect: decor from the 1970's, a bit of a musty smell, and its walls seem to wear the memories of a thousand different games and activities played by people of a hundred different ages.

Last night, after our ten minute walk to the hall from our homes, David and I walked in to find four men and four women already intent on their game of the bowls. I immediately noticed that "crown of wisdom" each soul there wore. Their white hair seemed more a promise of good stories and lives well lived than a disappointment. I felt, immediately, a sense that this would be a great Thursday night activity.

For two pounds, we bowled for two hours. Halfway through, we stop for tea and biscuits (I ate two of each)—and stories. I spoke with Ken, once a British soldier who was at Normandy and met many of the 101^st Airborn from America.

I met Henry, whose wife passed on 12 years prior, but whose smile remained.

I met Arthur, a man of few words who—one could easily tell—was the Keeper of the Bowl, so to speak. His was the duty to setup, ensure accuracy, and lend advice to the American newcomer to their game.

The object of Bowls is to get three of your large balls (each containing a bias, or heavy weight on one side) as close to a small ball (the jack) as possible. The jack is on one end of the long green mat, and you and the others gentlemen stand on another end and pitch balls and remark over one another's technique.

And I loved it.

I love it.

Walking home with David, I asked how long he had been coming to bowl at the church hall. "Oh, about 15 years, I'd say." Then, he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "You like it, then, ey?"

"I love it," I replied.

"He smiled his massive smile and said, "You took to it like a duck to water."

And it was everything in me to not say, "The bowling was a hoot, but you and the others were what really made the night—your stories, your wisdom."

Even though we only lived two doors down, like a kind grandfather does, he watched and waited while I got inside our little home, excited to have found a new social group to hang with every Thursday night—even if they are twice (or three times) my age.

On Money

Money? Whoa...whoa. Hold on just a moment. I thought this blog was about literature, England, writing, stay-at-home-daddying, faith, inspiration...any of a number of other assorted things that can be discussed, but not money.

Why money?

I guess the simple answer is that it has been coming up lately. A lot.

We recently attended a church service where the pastor preached a message imbued with the notion of the "prosperity gospel." And it stuck to me like moldy jam.

Thing is, our world is involved in a love affair with money. And I get it. I do. It wasn't long ago--when Oprah had aired a segment on the book The Secret and was telling everybody to make dream boards and cut out pictures of their dream houses and paste them on, the cars they wanted, the designer kitchens and clothes and everything else--and I made one. I admit it.

On mine, I had pictures of my novels with the words "The International Bestseller" on top, and a big, beautiful home, and all kinds of other "stuff."

Stuff.

So I know what that's like--to chase down the American Dream that everybody's screaming at us to go after. Fo goodness sakes: buy a house, buy stock, buy properties, buy a nice car, buy a nice shirt, buy a nice aftershave, buy a nice computer, buy a good insurance policy, buy a good wallet to house the good money that you need to GET MORE OF!

The funny thing--the really funny thing--is: why?

Why?

I mean, if we really pasue for a moment and try and articulate thoughtful responses for these seemingly endless demands hurled at us from a culture media-frenzied enough to beg for more people telling us what we need to achieve the American Dream, then we may come to some startling conclusions.

Startling Conclusion #1:

Are people really happier when they own more stuff?

No.

I don't mean to sound like a know-it-all here (and of course, I know basically next to nothing. Or, perhaps a better way (a more poetic way) to phrase it is to borrow and paraphrase Isaac Newton's words on the matter of ignorance: knowledge and wisdom are the ocean, and I have played with a few grains of sand. So, what I'm doing here is maybe playing with a few grains of sand).

Okay, Okay. One grain of sand.

In my limited experience of life, I haven't found anyone who is happier because they own more stuff. In fact, I've observed the inverse to be true. The people I've met who have many properties, cars, extra rooms, etc., seem to have a lot more stress and worry in their lives. It seems like they often discuss what is going on with all of the "stuff" they have, and think about how they can gain more "stuff."

That doesn't sound much like freedom to me. Though the possession of money parades itself around as a way to achieve freedom and a better life, its masquerade quite possibly disguises its real intention and masterful ability as an overseer.

In short, I haven't met very many people who own tons, and appear free. Most often, they live as indentured servants to their own stuff. Their stuff comes to own them more than they own it.

Startling Conclusion #2:

The Lie of Ease. I'll be honest here. I didn't want to live without a dryer this year. I knew ahead of time that I would be the stay-at-home parent, and I had visions of my little man spilling yogurt all over himself, or oatmeal, or juice, or any number of assorted foods and other beverages. I thought to myself: Self, there's going to be a lot of laundry this year. Thus, in our first week here in York, I called Comet (I guess a sort of appliance store in the UK) and ordered a 200 pound (currency, not weight) drying machine.

Job well done.

So I thought.

But then we started getting calls about problems with our USAA credit card. The order didn't go through, and instead of getting the dryer, we handled the mix-up ("Yes, USAA Customer Service, we are living in the UK, etc..") and decided not to buy the dryer after all.

Initially, I thought it would be really tough for us.

But it's not.

Instead, it's gleefully freeing.

Okay, maybe I added the "gleefully" part a bit on the hyperbolic front. But it is freeing. Really. We usually do a wash at night, and then drape our underwear, socks, pants, and other such items over the radiators before we go to bed.

In the morning, it's like teh Santa Clause of the Laundromat came: dry clothes!

It started me thinking on the lie we often here when it comes to having more money so that we can purchase more things so that we can have more time to relax. However, instead of relaxing, we often spend the time fixing, venting, exchanging, or trying to figure our said things.

Case in point: how many people do you know who haven't spent hours and more pored over their technologically brilliant flat-screen televisions and computers and all the rest, trying to figure out just where the heck the "on" switch is?

The great lie is that having more, and better, stuff doesn't always make out lives easier or more relaxing. Indeed, it can often have the exact opposite result.

Startling Conclusion #3

We all die.

Ouch.

Even me?

Yes, Luke.

But WHY!

Because.

Fine.

Fine.

So, if we all die, we've got to ask ourselves a hard question about money. What's the point? It's kind of like a kid at a playgroup. (I only feel entitled to make this analogy because I've clocked quite a few playgroup hours in the last three weeks.)

In a playgroup, there are always those kids who want to slowly but steadily gather as many of the toys as possible to their general spheres of dominance. Even if that kid's mom or dad says something like, "Honey, ten more minutes and then we've got to go," the kid will still relentlessly (and perhaps even more strenuously) try to get as many toys as possible.

But the thing is--and what I really want to stay to that kid--is this: "Buddy, you're leaving in five minutes! Then, those toys that you spent so much of your playtime hoarding are gone. We're putting them back in the closet for more kids to get in the next playgroup. Why not find a toy or two you like and actually play with it!"

(Whenever I try to say that to said kid, he usually repsonds, "You're not my Daddy!!")

(Okay, I've never actually said that to a kid. Probably wouldn't.)

Simple analogy, perhaps. But really, think about it. Why spend your life gathering a whole bunch of toys when some grwon-up, at some point when you really can't expect it, is going to yell out, Okay, toys in the closet, playgroup is over!"?

Why spend our lives trying to gather more and more when the reality is: how much can we really play with?

Really?

Startling Conclusion #4:

Other people need it.

Really.

I mean: need it.

I'm not espousing any ism here, I'm just trying to think clearly and simply. If you're sitting at a table with four other people, and you've got a full, bar-b-q chicken, three ears of corn on the cob dripping with butter, peas, mashed potatoes with gravy, a tall glass of milk, the gallon of milk nearby, fresh bread, and summer squash, and the other four are slwly grinding their way thoguh day-old bread and water...what do we do?

Really.

We don't need to call it any sort of theory of govering, or talk about forms of government, or theology, or anythign else.

It's a simple question for us all. What do we do.

And the answer is pretty simple as well: we share.

We don't interrogate the other four people, asking questions like, "Now, why don't you have more food yourself?" and "Did you ever, at any point in your life, have more food? If so, what happened, why, and how are you to blame for no longer having said food?"

Nope. We just simply share.

After all, we couldn't eat that feast ourselves anyway.

I guess the point with this rather long, long (long), long blog today is a simple one. We know we all want money. Everyone on television tells us we should more money. Our friends tell us we should get more money. Our families tell us we should get more money. Heck, strangers even tell us we should get more money.

The question I'm asking, then, is a simple one:

Why?