A Gratitude: Matthew Bednarz

When I was five years old, I joined the Cub Scouts. My mom was a den mother, which officially meant that she joined the thirty-plus fathers in the "troop" to which I belonged. But my mom wasn't alone as a woman among men: she was joined by five other mothers who played the same role for their sons: women all who exhibited great strength, powerful love, and voices that refused to bend.

I could write a lot about these den mothers--Mrs. Reynolds, Mrs. Armstrong, Mrs. Dlugolenski, Mrs. Wahl, Mrs. Panos, and Mrs. Bednarz--but their full story will have to yield until another day. Today's words are focused, instead, on one of their sons, a guy who quickly became my best friend.

Matt and I at the Grand Canyon, 2007

Matthew Bednarz is one of those extremely rare people who actually has loads of wisdom and love. He's the kind of person who can read the subtext in life. He's able to bring out its humor, joy, and worth--and he's been doing that for me ever since we were in the Cub Scouts at age five.

We rose, together, through the ranks of John F. Kennedy Elementary School and what I remember most about Matt is his incredible ability to make others laugh. But Matt was unique in that he didn't make people laugh at other people--instead, Matt just made people laugh. Anybody. Everybody. Matt could find the humor in any situation, whether it was discussing the small cartons of chocolate milk or the onset of puberty and the realization of girls. Matt's quick wit was evident to all of us, and my stomach often ached with joy whenever I was with him for more than five minutes (which was often).

But Matt's humor was only the beginning. because his ability to make people laugh was grounded in something even more rare: his wisdom about people and the world around him. Matt was able to see the good in everybody--and I mean everybody. he would talk with anyone, share with anyone, listen to anyone.

And Matt could write (can write). His stories, in elementary school, always evidenced something that made the rest of us say,. "Isn't Matt our age? How can he write like that?" And we'd listen to him read something he wrote or talk about a story or movie idea of his, and we'd elbow one another and think, Damn, that's really, really, really awesome the way that only fifth-graders can.

We both had Mr. Robert Looney as our teacher in fifth grade--a man who deserves a medal and his own tribute for the inspiration and joy he shared with us--and that year Matt and I were encouraged to write wildly creative and free stories. So, we did so. What we'd once penned as "Voyagers" in the second and third grades became even zanier and more twisted now. And all the while, Matt was visualizing how to film things, how to bring stories to life in a way that no one else I knew even talked about.

On weekends, Matt would hoist the large VHS camcorder onto his shoulder, pass out scripts to his other Cub Scout friends (now we'd moved on from the scouts but still got together regularly), and he'd guide us in his own self-written, self-produced, self-directed, self-edited movies. (They were, of course, always awesome). Whether it was a movie about Mars Bar and Almond Joy--anthropomorphized into mafia-esque men at battle for power--or the nuances of young love, Matt's movies always had one central message: life can be hard, crazy, unexpected, painful, weird, confusing--but it's always, always worth living 9and living to the fullest).

As we entered high school,. the characters in Matt's movies and stories grew more complex--and the stakes within the scripts were raised--but that central message remained: that life, for all its horror and pain, is still worth it. Life is still amazing, even if it's nearly impossible to see it that way sometimes. The characters in Matt's stories and movies--like Matt himself--always chose to fight on, to embody courage towards whatever they faced.

And in this regard, they always succeeded, because they always kept on going.

When Jennifer and I moved to Flagstaff in 2006, after I'd left high school teaching to go back to school for a couple of years, Matt flew out to visit and spend five days with us. We saw a lot, talked a lot, did a lot. But what I remember most about that trip was a single moment: we were outside Jen and I's little campus apartment, and the unequaled Ponderosa Pines surrounded us. I looked up at Matt, and it was like I could still still the five-year old friend with whom I played kick ball, whose jokes I laughed at till my stomach revolted against me, whose generosity of spirit, warmth, and creativity had grabbed hold of me and inspired me even then. And I looked at Matt, and it was like the 21 years that had passed from our Cub Scout days until then hadn't changed a thing.

Not at all.

Instead, we were both five-year olds, still, albeit with harrier faces, a few more battle scars. But we still saw that thing inside one another that only a friend who's known you since you were five even can see: your character arc. Your journey. Every protagonist needs to face incredible odds in order for his story to become beautiful.

In this manner, Matthew Bednarz becomes even more than an incredible protagonist. because his story isn't only about him and the odds he's had to face. Instead, it's about me, too, and every other person on whom he's had a remarkable impact through his laughter, his wisdom, his creativity, and his love.

Today, I say happy birthday to my best friend and a guy whose character arc is, to me, amazing. I'm grateful  that you've let me be a part of it for so long. And I look forward to the stories still to be told, the movies still to be made, the laughter still to be had. I love you, friend.

Trading Epiphanies

Once upon a time, I used to have the kind of epiphanies that arrived when I was sitting at the edge of the ocean, where the water kisses the sand and the sun smiles and leans back in his chair watching it all happen. Those kinds of thoughtful, reflective, transforming moments happen much less, lately.

Now, my epiphanies come when a full glass of ice water is knocked onto my lap by my 18-month old son Tyler while we're out at a restaurant to celebrate Jennifer and her remarkable mommy-hood.

Lately, epiphanies shock me. They grab hold of me and say: Live this life, damn it! Don't miss a moment; don't waste a second!

They arrive when Tyler burps (for real) and then finds the sound of his own burping so strange and new and delightful that he continues burping (for pretend) for the next five minutes because it makes his Daddy and his Mommy just about bust their guts laughing. When Jen and I finally catch our breath and stare at our little man full in the face--yup: epiphany. Life is meant to be laughed at.

When our little man has just been srubbed clean in a bath foaming with enough bubbles to cover Godzilla, and we're now drying him off and about to exit the bathroom for the bedroom to put on his pajamas covered in dinosaurs playing with a variety of sports equipment, and then--splat!...splat!...spalatta-tatta-plop-tat!--the diarrhea-like substance cascades down his read end and lands in a surplus of medium-sized piles all over the bathroom floor--yup: epiphany. Life gives you surprises; you can get mad at life's surprises or you can use them as bookmarks to remember the stages you've been through.

When Jennifer and I have gotten our little man down to sleep, and then we've cleaned up the kitchen, and folded the laundry that's been sitting in the dryer for two days, and cleaned up all the disembodied parts of Mr. Potato Head, and picked up the various foods (rice, Cheerios, avocado) that has been squashed into the carpet--when all of this is done and we sit close to one another with a glass of wine and speak softly, whisper about the dreams yet to come, the antics of the day, the subtle sadnesses and thousand tiny triumphs and the mess and beauty of it all--yup: epiphany. No matter how deep the chaos of any moment feels, it will pass. It will pass.

I can't say that sometimes a part of me doesn't recall those long, still moments on a beach somewhere, or sitting for hours in a cafe--and yet, the epiphanies I have now feel somehow more authentic--more tested, perhaps. They feel more right for the path I am called to walk. Surely others have their own paths, frought with different epiphanies, different sadnesses and triumphs, but I feel a sense of gratefulness for mine.

My new epiphanies feel like those stones along the shores of such oceans--those stones that have been washed up and then taken back into the deep waters, time and time again, where they are tossed and shifted and combed over and over and over until all that's left is the appreciation for what is, not what once was.

Flying with Baby

Jennifer and I recently returned from our first flight with Tyler, our 16-month old son. Prior to the flight, Jennifer had heard about a considerate possibility that would help grease the wheels of possibly-fuming passengers located anywhere within crying distance of us and our little man: bribe them with chocolate.

Well, the actual pre-flight friendliness goes something like this:

1. Make photocopies of a cordial, rhyming, simple poem about how we all know traveling with a little one can be tough.

2. Place said poem into a little plastic baggy.

3. Include two pieces of Hershey's chocolate and ear plugs into said baggy.

4. Deliver baggy packages to all passengers nearby, and especially include those who look like they haven't had enough coffee yet.

True to form, this tactic got our flight from Manchester, New Hampshire to Phoneix, Arizona off to a fabulous start. Other passengers even played peek-a-boo with our son as the plane prepared for take off.

As can be expected, the plane then took off. So did our son. Tyler wanted to talk with everyone on the plane. He wanted to play with the little fan-thingys up above, the Call-Stewardess buttons, the lights, the seats in front and behind, and especially the hair (or toupes) of the men and women sitting anywhere in the vicinity.

After a few minor hair-grabs (he's fast), we settled into a relative peace, whereby Tyler proceeded to place Mr. Potato Head's eyes on his butt, his feet on his head, and his arms in his eye sockets. That lasted about 17 minutes.

Then, Tyler learned that he could open and close the window shade--managing to make a very loud bam! sound as he did so. This was great fun, and occupied Tyler for the next 13 minutes.

2 minutes of fan-on, fan-off, fan-on, fan-off.

4 minutes of overhead light-on, overhead light-off, overhead light-on, overhead light-off.

3 more minutes of window slamming: open, closed, open, closed.

7 minutes of attempted hair (and toupe) grabbing gestures.

5 minutes of Peek-a-Boo with the angel of a woman behind us (thank God for you, Angel- Woman who Played Peek-a-Boo with our son!).

7 minutes of an attempted diaper change when the raw, rotten-egg smell of fresh poop was detected by both Jennifer and I. Said attempted diaper change occured on envelope-sized chaning table in the plane's bathroom. Result: false alarm. Not even wet.

11 minutes of attempted mini-DVD player time. Elmo was excited, but all Tyler wanted to do was press all of the buttons on the DVD player at exactly the same moment. Needless to say, Elmo didn't get very far.

4 minutes: window open, window closed, window open, window closed.

22 minutes (whoo-hoo!) of eating: anything and everything edible. Eating is a magnificent way to pass time on an airplane. Good for Dad, good for mom, good for baby.

Fresh, raw smell of poop makes another entrance. This time, I was sure it was the real thing. Attempted diaper change # 2: unsuccessful. No sight of anything brown or smelly in any way--false alarm yet again.

Somewhere along the journey, I descended into the Land of Goofy. Ask Jennifer. She became the parent and now she had two children to deal with. I became laughing over anything--the way the water looked in my little plastic cup, the way the man in front of us turned his newspaper, the way the little fan could actuallybe made to blow softer and louder! Wow!

I resisted the urge to grab someone's hair.

But I came close.

And then, the Captain came over the intercom with those glorious words: "...begining our descent..."

An hour later, as we walked through the long hallways of Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, Tyler stopped mid-stride and did a little dance. He shook his body, did a jig with his feet, and then looked at Jennifer and I and laughed.

It took everything in us not to dance right there alongside him.