Breadcrumbs

“You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore before you start to be happy.” – Night Bird

Breadcrumbs

When she came out onto the stage she just stood there looking strangely confident and fearful at the same time.  I’m pretty sure no one in the audience knew anything about her.  Not one of us knew anything about her personally or professionally.  And, no one had any idea of her story of life.  Not just her life, but everyone’s life.

“This is an original song.  I’m Night Bird.”  She said in a gentle voice as she looked out against the lights glaring into her eyes.

For some reason, at that moment, I don’t know why, I thought of my friend Scott Banning as her words wafted into my ears.

“It was time for me to save myself.”  Scott once said to me as he described the hard choices he had recently made in his life.  “Some don’t do it in time.  Then one day comes and their time has passed.  They can’t turn their lives back toward safety and happiness.  They don’t know how to get there anymore.  They can’t see the path.”

Night Bird’s path was being sung to everyone in the audience.  But, I don’t know if they heard her giving out the breadcrumbs that would allow them to save their own lives, to find personal happiness.  I heard them though.  They spoke to me as small pieces of truth, crumbs to follow toward saving my life and their lives too; to find happiness again, or for the first time.

Crumb One.  Look outside.  Or, maybe a better way of saying this is, don’t look through your own eyes without seeing.  Become a witness to what others around you are doing, what they’re going through.  Then, do small things to help in the moment.

Give someone who has fallen a hand-up.  Greet a passerby with a smile and a cherry hello.  Catch someone else doing good.

Crumb Two.  Look inside.  Take time to feel grateful for everything you have.  Try it.  It will open you up to receive new opportunities.  Or, maybe it will just open your eyes to see options to sing a new personal story, one not visible through cloudy eyes?

Crumb Three.  Remember that everyone has a story.  You and I just haven’t read it yet.  Until we take the time to listen to another’s story, it will remain unwritten in our hearts.  The best way to create, or deepen a relationship is to listen.

Crumb Four.  Listening is the greatest sign of personal respect.  It’s also the gateway to kindness.  Who doesn’t want to be kind to someone else upon walking in their shoes for a while?  It’s a proven conduit to empathy and catalyst to serving others.

Final morsel. Go out and do small acts of goodness.  Yes, if you haven’t followed these breadcrumbs before, the path they lead to can be scary!  So, when you feel afraid ask, “What could this open up for me?”  Then, pick up the first crumb and try it before you stoop down to accept the next one.  

“You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore before you start to be happy.”  She said as her musical breadcrumbs came to a melodic crescendo with a roar from all listeners.  

When she came out onto the stage she just stood there looking strangely confident and fearful at the same time.  I’m pretty sure no one in the audience knew anything about her. Not one of us knew anything about her personally or professionally.  And, no one had any idea of her story of life.  Not just her life, but everyone’s life.

Is it time to you to save your own life?

Coming to Life

“I change with each expressive stroke and the painting comes into being; into life!” – Scott White

Coming to Life

“I began drawing when I was much younger.”  Scott White said as he walked into the Gallery on the Square.

His eyes darted from painting to painting; seemingly drinking in the brush strokes, the paint itself, the canvas and even the frames.  It all seemed to expand the twinkle in his eyes into a bright fire.  The art, his art and the art created by others, was clearly consuming his soul as if the fire-twinkle in his eyes was spreading into every other portion of his being.  But it wasn’t always that way.

“I quit drawing when my wife and I began having children.  It just seemed as if my children and my work were consuming my entire life.  Then, one day, my Pastor gave me an invitation.”

Scott’s Pastor knows him well.  He even recognized a burning ember hiding inside of him.

“I’m preparing a sermon series based on the Lord’s Prayer.”  Scott’s Pastor said to him one day.  “I’d like to have an artist create a painting for each portion.  Would you be willing to create some complimentary art to go along with it?”

Scott was a little perplexed by this invitation at first and replied, “You know my emphasis in painting is abstract, right?”

“Yes.”  His Pastor said with a matching, abstract grin.

“Well, I don’t quite know how this all fits, but I’ll give it a try.”  Scott said out of respect.

A few days later he picked up his brushes, after allowing the invitation fan a spark inside.  Then, when he made his first attempt at painting again, it was as if those brushes fanned the artistic ember within into a living flame and a new way of approaching life.

“I start out with an idea.”  Scott says of his approach.  “I put brush to canvas and the art seems to spark to life.  It isn’t so much that the painting paints itself.  It’s more like a partnership, the process of creating the painting reveals me!  The painting and I come to life together.  I change with each expressive stroke and the painting comes into being; to life!”

Scott’s ability to recognize this process is also reflective in the way he displays his work.  He arranges his work by phase. 

“The problem is that we’re running out of wall space in our house!”  He says with a chuckle.  “My work has changed over the years.  So, we’ve arranged my paintings in phases.  My work has morphed over the years and it just keeps growing.”

The role of his art has also grown in his life.  He’s still working at his “day job” now.  He paints as a hobby.  But, he’s looking forward to the day when his living experience completely shifts.

“I’m 65 now.”  He confides.  “I hope to flip my use of time to the creation of art first, with my job taking up less and less of my time.  It’s all because of one invitation.  That invitation from my Pastor.”

That sermon series based on the Lord’s Prayer was fully supported by complimentary paintings created by Scott.

“The combination of the Lord’s Prayer and my painting was the start of a new way of living for me; a more fulfilling approach to life.  Now I don’t let my preconceived notions rule the way I move into my future.  I relish the process of living my way forward by receiving each moment and living it as it happens; as it comes to life!”  Scott said, as the fire in his eyes brightened and he finished his story.

“I began drawing when I was much younger.”  Scott White said when he walked into the Gallery on the Square.

His eyes darted from painting to painting; seemingly drinking in the brush strokes, the paint itself, the canvas and even the frames.  It all seemed to expand the twinkle in his eyes into a bright fire.  The art, his art and the art created by others, was clearly consuming his soul as if the fire-twinkle in his eyes was spreading into every other portion of his being.  Because it has.  But, it’s more than that.

His art is an invitation for him.  An invitation for him to come to life!

A Face of Triumph

A woman crossing the finish line during event take down.

A Face of Triumph

Potential early morning triumph brought throngs of competitors and their supporters to the town square and the finish line for an early fall marathon. People were lining the road leading to the finish line holding signs and cheering as runners charged forward toward the end of their run and the carnival-like atmosphere there, around the main stage.

That platform held a live band which was blasting music to surround everyone as they milled around, laughed and sampled products from the event sponsors.  Smiles of individual achievement were on almost every face and many people were wearing race medals around their necks which certified they had completed the course.  It was like a vast party on the square.

And, like the race, the party was coming to an end.  The racers, their supporters and the vendors began taking their success and grins toward other destinations and activities.  It wasn’t like a rush to an exit.  It was more like a trickle at first, almost imperceptible in effect, sort of like the steady stream of slower runners still pounding the street toward completion, victory and conclusion.

Soon, the crowd was gone, the music stopped and trucks were loaded with barricades, tents and all pieces of the stage.  It looked like the end of the event.  But it was neither the end of event nor the end of triumph.  As it turns out, one more competitor would cross the finish line.

Few would see her trudging forward, but there were a few.  You see, it had been hours since the first competitors completed their run for glory.  So, it had to be more than the sight of her running that caught my attention.  There was also the crisp staccato of appreciative clapping.  But, neither of those stimulants cemented the significance that this runner delivered with her finish.

It was the look on her face.  Hers was the genuine face of triumph.

Potential early morning triumph brought throngs of competitors and their supporters to the town square and the finish line for an end to an early fall marathon. People were lining the road leading to the finish line, holding signs and cheering as runners charged forward toward the end of their successful run.  It was a carnival-like atmosphere there around the main stage.

Now that stage was gone.  The metals had been awarded and the crowd had vanished.

“Too bad!” I thought.  “They missed what very few saw; an improbable victory.”

It was not a victory over others.  It was a victory of one, the joyful face of a person who had faced true struggle and defeated it.  It was the look of satisfaction.  She, the last runner to finish, displayed the face of triumph for all of us, because many of us have been in her shoes.  I know I have.

I treasured the sight of her victory because it reminded me of the value of such personal triumph.  It resonates with the heart.  Her amazing finish displayed the gratification of completing something no one else thought she could.  It personified the rewards of defeating one’s own self-doubt.

The last runner to finish the race wore the face of triumph for herself and for all of us.

Unexpected

“It was such a stressful time my hair began to fall out!” Meme Skuas

Unexpected

It was a huge tent, filled with people.  That’s because it was a celebration of sorts; just not the expected celebration.  It wasn’t that the scheduled celebration wasn’t happening. It was.  It’s just that there was something else to celebrate.  Something that was to be discovered in a private conversation, between two people, in a middle of a large crowd.

Sometimes, very personal, very private things occur in the middle of a crowd.  You know what I’m talking about.  It’s happened to you; a time when you gazed across a vast, filled with people space and caught the eye of another.  In such a moment, your eyes and the eyes of another person became locked, spellbound.  They also spoke.

When eyes speak it is inaudible.  Yet, they say so much.  In many cases they express more than can be heard.  They speak through feeling.  And, when such communication is combined with speech, the result can be remarkable.  That’s what happened in the middle of one celebration; a remarkable conversation that ushered in the unexpected.

“It was such a stressful time my hair began to fall out!” Meme Skuas said in a heartfelt way, at the start of an unexpected conversation.

She was speaking in two ways.  First, in voice.  And, her eyes were speaking in a more moving way, a communication so powerful it seemed as if the large crowd in this place were transported away.  Far away.

“At the time I didn’t think I could live through it!”  She continued.  “I’m telling you this because I think you’ve been through something just like it.”

Meme was specific in her message to you and me.  She wanted to share it.  She wanted to celebrate it!

“Now that the pain is over, I’ve learned something miraculous.  I discovered that the experience, the lessons, the pain all worked for my good!”  She said with a paused, expectant yearning radiating through her eyes.

Unexpected!  Who would have guessed it?  The person delivering this significant message was as unexpected as the message itself.  The messenger is a dynamic, successful, happy and vibrant person.  One would never suspect she’d lived through such a trying time.  Just seeing and being with her in this moment was cause enough to celebrate, because she was a truly the vision of her message.  Everything had, and was continuing, to work for her good.

It was good to be in a huge tent, filled with people for a celebration.  That’s because it was a celebration of success; just not only the expected success.  It wasn’t that the scheduled celebration wasn’t happening. It was.  It’s just that there was something else to celebrate.  Something that was to be discovered in a private conversation, between two people, in a middle of a large crowd.

Sometimes, very personal, very private things occur in the middle of a crowd.  You know what I’m talking about.  It’s happened to you; a time when you gazed across a vast, filled with people space and caught the eye of another.  This was such a moment, two sets of eyes became locked and spellbound.  They spoke volumes about what an important truth.

Everything.  Everything in your life.  The noble, the mundane, the bad and the excruciating are all teachings.  They’re lessons.  Most often, such lessons are not expected.  Not what you and I want to experience.  Not what we’re looking for.  And, their resulting good is also unexpected.

They’re unexpected in another way too; because, as it turns out, they’re all working for our benefit.  It’s all for our good.

Everything is working for our good.

Stick a Needle in my Eye

“Nobody made a greater mistake than he who did nothing because he could only do a little.” – Edmund Burke

Stick a Needle in my Eye

“It looks as if I’ve arrived with perfect timing!”  Phil said as a greeting, when he walked through the restaurant door.

He’d been with his aged mother at an appointment with her doctor for most of the afternoon and had just dropped her at home before coming.  It was now evening and he needed a little food and rest because of his busy day.

“My mother has lost most of the sight in one of her eyes now.”  He said with a concerned look on his face.  “I was with her, in her doctor’s office, so she could get an injection in her eyeball.  We’re hoping it will stimulate improved vision in that eye.”

It’s hard to imagine what it would be like to lose vision in one or both eyes for most people.  And, it sends a shutter down one’s spine to think about having a needle stuck into one of their eyes.  And, Phil’s story brought to mind that one childhood rhyme, about sticking a needle in an eye. You know the one!  Many of us have used it as a way of offering increased assurance to another.

“Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

At this thought, that rhyme seemed to become a virtual haloed-ticker-tape, rotating round and around Phil Grimm’s head as he recounted his afternoon of offered reassurance to his mother.  It wasn’t the same kind of assurance as the now haloing-rhyme though.  His is a more simple, practical, loving and effort-based assurance.  

While speaking of the importance of effort, Edmund Burke once offered this assurance, “Nobody made a greater mistake than he who did nothing because he could only do a little.”

And here was Phil, sitting at the table, still wearing his virtual halo, and down-playing the difference his small effort was making.

“It’s no big deal!” He said. “All I did was drive her there and then sit with her a while.  It was a lot more effort for her than it was for me.”

It would be a mistake, I thought, for him to do nothing because he viewed it as, so little.  What is a little thing to one, is often a big thing for another.

“It looks as if I’m finishing my dinner with perfect timing!”  Phil said as he pushed his plate away with a satisfied look on his face.

He was now getting ready to go to his aged mother’s home again, so he could help her get ready for bed. It was now late evening and she needed a little more reassurance, so she could rest.

“Nobody made a greater mistake than he who did nothing because he could only do a little.”  I thought to myself, while saying goodnight to the man who thought he was doing very little.  Something small.

Because, he could do a little, something small, it was a lot to She who received it!  Rest assured.

Fence Building

“I honestly don’t know how to keep living with this!” – Glenn

Fence Building

Tears were streaming from his eyes.  His voice was cracking from strong emotion as he spoke.

“I honestly don’t know how to keep living with this!  I don’t know how you continue to do what you’re doing.” Glenn said as he spoke, to another, of his experience of rescuing others from extreme danger, people who would surely perish without receiving aid from others.

She listened to him with compassion and responded with, “It fuels me to work harder to provide relief to others.  But, yes. It’s hard every day.”

It was a discussion that seems to be more and more common these days, I thought.  One could characterize such as conversations about fence building.  At least, those were my thoughts while driving, just two days ago, when one particular fence caught my eye.

It was a yard, perimeter cedar privacy fence.  You know the kind; about six feet tall, weathered, painted-red and surrounding the back yard of someone’s house.  I wouldn’t have noticed it at all had it not been on an expansive corner lot as I turned from the road in front of the house to drive south to go to another meeting.  It was the fence’s worn red color that caught my attention first.  But, it was the sign posted on that fence, it’s contrast, that caused me to drive on a little further, to a point where I could safely turn around and go back.  Go back to that contrast and observe it more carefully so as to absorb its message.

It’s a distinctive message painted on a piece of standard plywood, about four feet long and perhaps two and a half feet wide.  The printed words are stenciled in paint, including those on the black mail box perched on the bottom right-hand corner of the contrasting white sign.

The printed-upon-mail-box lid reads, “Prayers Here” with an arrow pointing down, toward an opening.  The front of the rectangular box reads, “Thank God for his love.”  And all of the lettering on this black box is a stark white. While all of the lettering on the white sign is a midnight black.

The words stenciled on that white sign read, “PRAYERS WORK!  Place your written prayer request in the box.  Someone will pray for you. Or take a request and pray. Requests kept confidential and anonymous.”

So, I pulled out the pen, which is almost always tucked into the front seam of my shirt, just above a button to help hold it in place.  I scribbled a note on a scrap of paper; a receipt from a purchase a day or two before.  Then, I opened my car door, stepped onto the paved road, lifted my right foot onto the curb, walked across the sidewalk, opened the box and dropped my note into the box.

“For Glenn and all others like him, who are building fences!  Not to divide or keep others away, but to protect others, the down-trodden, those needing shelter.”

I paused, pulling the lid of the mail box down, giving it a little pat, while sweeping my lingering fingers along its smooth surface.  Then, I turned back toward my car, walked a similar path back, slid into its cocoon and sat for a moment. Pondering.

That’s when I rehearsed the words spoken by my friend David about one week ago.

“There are days when I just want to stay in bed and pull the covers up over my head.”  He said.  “People are so mean these days!”

So, of course, I added another request to that little black box, hanging on that fence.  That’s when it dawned on me that this painted-red cedar fence was originally built to separate, to divide.  Yet now, the same fence is purposed to build protection for others, offer hope to the down-trodden and provide respite to those needing it.

I thought of the tears streaming from my friend Glenn’s eyes again.  His voice was cracking from strong emotion as he spoke.  I remembered him and David.  This painted-red cedar fence had reminded me that we’re all fence builders, every one of us!  

“What kind of fences am I building?”  I asked myself as I began to drive ahead again, vowing to generate more purposefully created fences of hope, respite and kindness that very day.

Old Kia Kima

“I don’t know what it is about this place.  The people involved in its reclamation have become very successful over the years.” – Boyd Billingsley

Old Kia Kima

“This place was an old Boy Scout Camp.”  Boyd explained as he spoke of the camp on the south fork of the Spring River, in the Ozark Mountains.  “A developer purchased the property from the Boy Scouts of America with hopes of building vacation homes there.  But, the soil was so rocky it couldn’t pass the necessary percolation testing for septic tank installation.”

So, the old camp sat there, unused for a few years until it became a dumping ground.  People had begun to use the site to dump old refrigerators and other kinds of trash.  The roofs of the sixteen old stone cabins had also collapsed by the time Boyd Billingsley and his group of friends came back to visit the forty-acre old camp, now called “Old Kia Kima.”  When they saw their beloved camp and its one and one quarter mile of river frontage in such neglect, it broke their hearts. So, they devised a plan to reclaim it.

“I don’t know what it is about this place.  The people involved in its reclamation have become very successful over the years.” Boyd says.

Their plan was to purchase their treasured memory.  The spot that had changed their lives as children.  But, that wasn’t their whole plan.  They also determined to restore the camp, allow groups focused on children to use it at no cost and then to establish an endowment fund to keep it running well past the end of their humanity.

“It cost us about eight thousand dollars per cabin to complete the restoration.”  Boyd said with tears in his eyes.  “We went to the old scouts and their troop masters who had loved it to ask for help in obtaining funds.  We didn’t have any trouble raising the money to complete the restoration because neither their memories, nor their love for the place had waned over the years.”

The groups using the camp today are generally about sixty-four people in size.  These contemporary campers simply pay a deposit of one-hundred-fifty dollars and that’s it!  The historic camp is available for use by youth service organizations at no charge.  If they leave the camp in the shape in which they found it they get the deposit back.  Most groups simply donate the deposit so it can be added to the mushrooming endowment fund as a way of giving back.  And, giving back is the continuing theme of the camp.

“I invited a friend to come and be a ranger at the camp with me for a few days.  I told him all we’d need to do is sit on the side of the river and enjoy the scenery.”  Boyd said as his voice cracked with emotion.  “We had an orphanage using the camp during that week and we were so affected by the ‘rag-tag’ group of kids, we wanted to be more involved with them during their stay.”

Boyd and his friend got more engaged by helping a trio of sisters get into a canoe so they could experience the river first-hand.  The girls were having a great time right up until they hit a rapids section of the river.  As they were passing through the rough water their canoe overturned and the girls were bobbing in the water with their safety vests floating them along.  The two rangers jumped into the water and pulled the girls to safety while making sure the three sisters were well.

“One of the girls cried and cried!  We couldn’t figure out what the issue was until we looked down and saw that she had lost one of her sandals.  We told her it would be alright, but she sobbed, ‘these are the only shoes I have!’”   Boyd continued.

After diving in the river to find the missing shoe, the two men jumped into their car and drove to the nearby town to purchase the fraught girl an additional, new pair of shoes.   They also purchased tee-shirts for the entire group of orphan-campers.  Of course, they couldn’t leave the store without stocking up on all kinds of healthy food and treats for the kids to enjoy during their stay at Old Kia Kima.

“My buddy told me this was the most fulfilling thing he had ever done in his life!”  Boyd said.

“This place was an old Boy Scout Camp.”  Boyd explained as he spoke of the now restored and functioning camp on the south fork of the Spring River, in the Ozark Mountains.  “A developer purchased the property with hopes of building vacation homes there.  But, the soil was so rocky it couldn’t pass the necessary percolation testing for septic tank installation.”

The founders of Old Kia Kima understand what it’s like to have a rocky start in life and this camp was the catalyst that changed the trajectory of lives many years ago.  So, they’ve dedicated themselves and their camp to removing as many rocks as possible in the lives of those who have followed them.  They’ve been at it for twenty-five years now and they’re gaining momentum as evidenced by the balance in their endowment fund.

“I think we’re almost there!”  Boyd said.  “It won’t be long until we have enough in the fund to keep our camp moving forward when we’re not able to be Old Kia Kima’s Steward-Rangers anymore.”