Authenticity

I read an interesting blog by Arron, a good friend of mine who makes me think. You can find it here http://mylordandmyblog.wordpress.com/2008/10/08/are-we-still-of-any-use-2/. He talks a bit about honesty and authenticity.

I posted a little about my dad a few weeks back. I liked him. I loved him as well, but I think the most important thing is that as an adult I liked him. From what I remember most other people liked him. Dad was fun to be around, but probably more than that, it was easy to be with my dad. He was easy to be around. He didn’t talk a lot, so that may be some of it. But I don’t think that was all of it. I think that when he did talk, he meant what he said. I think that’s authentic. The 2^nd piece of that is that when my dad did something it agreed with what he said. Now, don’t get me wrong, I didn’t always like what he said. I also didn’t always agree with what he said. But dad was authentic. What he said was what he believed. What he did, he believed in.

The World English Dictionary defines authentic as “trustworthy; reliable” (www. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/authentic?s=t). So what does that mean? I’ve always interpreted it to being worthy of trust, someone you can rely on. If an authentic person says they will be somewhere at a certain time, they are there.

I also saw a lot of definitions that had to do with things of value being what they appeared. One reason a dollar bill is worth a dollar is because both parties believe it to be authentic, not a forgery. Art has value because it’s authentic; not a forgery.

I think a big part of being able to rely on someone is knowing that what they say is the truth.

Back to humans. Do you know any authentic humans? Do you know any humans at work that don’t lie to get ahead, that are honest about what they did on any given day, that tell the boss the authentic truth about their newest idea. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about being rude. I don’t think my father was ever rude. Authenticity isn’t rude. I don’t my father was ever even mean. Authenticity isn’t mean. He wasn’t judgmental. Authenticity isn’t judgmental.  He was authentic.

I want you to imagine something, maybe even dream. What would your worklife be like if everyone there was authentic? What would work be like if everyone in the meeting was authentic about the latest mission statement, the latest idea from up above? What would your homelife be like if everyone was authentic about their frustrations, their goals, their dreams?

Authentic. Kinda scary isn’t it?

Dad

Dad, Father, Daddy, Pop, Papa.

Whatever you called him is kinda irrevelant. They all hold an unusual place in our lives; good or bad. There is reams of research that indicate that the most powerful influence on the person that we are is our father.  Some might even say a disproportionate influence. Girls need a strong father and without one are more likely to do all sorts of stupid stuff. Boys as well.

My dad died about 15 years ago. He had a disease called Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. You probably know it as Lou Gehrig’s Disease or ALS. It’s one of a number of similar muscular diseases. Anyway, his death was not a surprise. I’m not sure I would say that I am sorry he died, but I might. He’s in heaven. That’s pretty cool. But I still miss him.

I know that Father’s Day was last week, so I know I’m a little late. I have kids so I am well aware of when that day is. The Mother’s Day blog was easy to write. Thoughts about Father’s Day? Not so much. I never thought of my Dad as a complicated man, but now that I am writing about him I’m struggling.

Dad, Father, Daddy, Pop, Papa. You may have had other names for your father. I usually called him Dad. 

He said that his kids may not have called him Money Tree to his face, but he was sure they thought he was one. You also may have had special names for your father that were not flattering. I’m not going to go there because that was not my experience. I fully understand that it may be your experience, but since it’s not mine I’m not qualified.

Dad, Father, Daddy. It’s funny to me that although a lot of cultural standards tell us that men are pretty simple creatures, a lot of fathers are very complicated. At least it seems to me in my life that our relationships with dads are complicated.

Let me explain what I’m thinking. My relationship with mom is not complicated. She’s mom. I know that she loves me no matter what. She was the one I went to with scraped knees, she’s the one I told I needed a hair cut, I always wanted her to know that I was in trouble first. Dad probably wouldn’t have helped with a scraped knee. He would have said something like “The bandaids are in one of the bathrooms.” But he would have said it with a certain amount of disbelief that one of his boys needed a bandaid. You know the funny thing is although I told mom I wanted my hair cut, I wanted Dad to take me to the barber. That was a guy thing.

I always wanted mom to approve and be proud of me. But I needed dad to approve of me and be proud of me. I craved it. In a lot of ways I still do. Did I mention that my dad is dead? 15 years. But I still think “What would dad do?” I still base many of my decisions and actions on what I think dad would think. As I live my life I often think that I would love to be able to talk something over with dad. Not being able to makes me sad and sometimes a little angry.

You know what I have come to understand? Dad loved me no matter what as well. He had a different way of showing it, but he did. Dad would have done anything for me. Dad did a lot for me. Sometimes I knew about it and other times he did stuff that I didn’t know about until much later. Sometimes he made the decision to not do for me believing that it was time for me to learn a lesson in a different way.

My point to all this is that family is the first and most important community we have. In my opinion and in God’s opinion, the dad is the leader of that community. But in so many ways, the way our culture perceives and shapes men does not allow them the skills to lead community. The ability to be vulnerable and show vulnerability along with listening skills and empathy skills are key components to building community. And a lot of dads have missed these things.

My wife shared this blog post with our small group recently. I know it talks of a different relationship than dad/kid, but see if you can shift the thoughts to the dad/kid relationship. http://rachelheldevans.com/exercising-in-public

My encouragement to dads is be vulnerable with your kids. Let them know you. Not the warrior that doesn’t make mistakes or the hammer that hits them when they get out of line. Let them know you. You. The real you.

My encouragement to moms/wives is to allow your husband to do this. Encourage him to do this. Don’t make him do it, because we all know that probably won’t work. But help him. Help him know that it’s expected and wanted. Give him permission to be vulnerable. He may not know that it’s ok. He may think you want him to exude power and invincibility. Let him know that’s not always the case.

My encouragement to sons and daughters is to allow your parents to be vulnerable. Ask them questions. Ask them to tell you about a time when they were scared. Tell them you’re scared and ask them to help. Just like in any other era we live in a scary time.

Share with others, especially with your dad, your father, your daddy, your pop or your papa. It just might change that relationship.

Memorial Day

Yesterday was Memorial Day here in the good ole US of A. In keeping with my tradition of writing of special days the day after the day has been celebrated, I’m a day late. I do not come from a military family. My dad served in the Reserves during the Korean War, but was never actually deployed. As far as I know no other close relative of mine has served in the military. I’m sure there have been some through the years, but none that I was close to. So I don’t have as personal a feeling towards this day as many others do. People like Chet in Kansas, David, Alex and Angie in Texas, Adrian in California, Josh in Washington, Isaiah on a carrier, Mike in Abilene, Wade in Virginia, Chris and Bert in Colorado to name a few. They have personal memories of people that have served our countries and although I have not ever discussed battlefield death with them, I’m sure they know people that have died there. At the risk of offending my mother, that sucks. Obviously not in the physical “sucking on a straw” sense, but in the deeper sense that my teenage boys use the word. It sucks in the sad, not good, no real explanation for it, depressing sense of the word. The people that I know in the military chose this life. I know that at various times in our country’s history there were individuals that were drafted and had no choice in the matter and maybe one day we’ll cover that ground. But for today, the people serving in the military and many individuals in year’s past chose to serve our country in this way. They knew that injury and death were possible. They knew that once they signed that document committing themselves to our government their life possibilities included a few more options. They chose to sign that document anyway. Thank you to each and every one of you. And for those of you like me and probably really can’t grasp the enormity of that decision. Try something with me. It may be difficult for your brain to wrap around this, but try it anyway. I’m not one for grandiose visions of what the world might look like “if only”. For example, what if the Confederate States had won our Civil War, or what if the British had actually thrown everything at us in 1778 or in 1812? What if the French hadn’t sold us 3/4 of our country? What if the Japanese hierarchy had decided to leave us alone in 1941? What if we can’t split the atom? What if, what if, what if? But, what if? Think of the things that our country has developed and used over the years. Think of the creativity that this country has engendered since 1776. I’m not saying that other people in other countries wouldn’t have developed these things two days, two years or two decades later. Nor am I saying that immigrant populations in the US haven’t contributed immeasurably to our development. What I am saying is a lot of things happened here. We have a freedom to make mistakes and be creative that is rare. So look around your house and think of your daily life. If you use an Apple, HP or Dell computer, if you sleep on a Thomasville bed, wear Tommy Hilfiger, Nike, Converse or Under Armour, read Stephen King, James Patterson, William Faulkner or Ernest Hemingway, drive a Ford, Chevy, Buick or Hummer or went to a community college (a uniquely American invention) thank a veteran. And if you are one of the few people that I didn’t cover up there, but like living in a country that enables its citizens to dream, create and invent then thank a veteran. Whatever life we lead, we lead because others have been willing to protect the freedoms we have. So, to Chet, Alex, Angie, Adrian, Josh, Mike, Wade, Bert, Chris and Isaiah and every other veteran that reads this, thanks. And thanks on every day of the year, not just yesterday.

Memories

I have a lot of memories. You probably have a lot of memories as well. My wife probably thinks my memory should be better than what it is. I’m sure that my mom had the same issues years ago. One funny thing about memories is that they usually aren’t very accurate. Research has also shown that they change over time.

Anyway, I got memories. I have a lot of good memories. Each birth of my children. My wedding is a good memory.  I have some good memories of high school athletics. My hw and I went to Mexico a couple of years ago, I have a lot of good memories from that trip. I have good memories hanging out with my best friend from high school, Todd. I can remember my first date with the hw and each of our homes. I have good memories that involve my mom and my dad and my brother and sister. All good memories.

Of course, I also have some memories that aren’t so good. I can remember being chased home from elementary school by a big, mean kid. I can remember a girlfriend saying “leave me alone”. Well, she might not have said those exact words, but pretty much. My dad died way too early. My father-in-law has also died. A couple of my kids have done some pretty stupid things. I’ve wrecked cars. I’ve hurt people I love. There are more. A lot more.

I’m sure you have good memories and bad memories as well. Some of you may have memories that are way more substantially worse than mine. Divorce, kids with diseases, family members killed in war, car wrecks. I know of so many people that have had really bad experiences and have a tough time forgetting the memories. Many times I’ve heard people say something to the effect of “I wish I could forget that memory.”

Well, be careful what you wish for. I recently read an article in Wired about memories and the possibility of forgetting specific memories. I get the magazine, but I think you can read the article online at http://www.wired.com/magazine/2012/02/ff_forgettingpill/all/1. The general premise is that there are brain compounds that help the brain remember and in certain circumstances scientists may be able to recreate these compounds in order to enable us to forget. I suggest you read the article, it’s thought provoking and well written.

While I was reading the article I found myself thinking about the possibility of being able to forget. I have to preface my thoughts on this with the fact that I have never found myself destabilized or debilitated by memories. I think God and his grace that my personality is not such that I dwell on the past. That said I don’t think that I would partake in the taking of a pill to forget memories that I don’t like. Those memories are a part of who I am. Those memories are a key part in how and why I make decisions today. I remember and I learn. I have learned because I have those experiences. I learned through my dad dying. I learned through watching my mom hurt through that time. I have learned how to help other parents of struggling teens because my teen struggled.

So, for me, I think the right answer is to remember. Remembering makes me the man I am. I have learned through my stupidity and I think I am better for having and keeping those experiences. Even the bad ones.

Unemployed = Unwanted?

I have been unemployed twice in my short life. Neither was really my choice. Neither experience was particularly positive, but neither was it completely negative.

I graduated college with a degree on a wonderful December afternoon. A few weeks later I received a job offer from the only company to which I had applied. Two interviews and one job offer. Not very much money, but still I was wanted by people older and smarter than I was. That was a pretty cool feeling.

I was recruited for my next two jobs. I didn’t even apply for them. That’s just crazy, but I was wanted. Me. I wasn’t just filling a spot that needed to be warm. A person I knew and trusted called me and said they trusted me and wanted me, specifically me for a specific job. That was a pretty cool feeling.

Then I was told not to come to work anymore. The current term is “laid off”. I don’t know where that term came from, I didn’t lay around much. Not sure if they expected me to, but if they did, then I didn’t give them that satisfaction. So there. End of this story, I wasn’t good enough for them, they didn’t want me. That was not a cool feeling. As a matter of fact it was depressing.

Anyway, I found another job. Actually, I was offered two jobs. After prayer, pondering, prayer, a lot of talking with hw, conversations with a couple of very close friends and then more praying I chose one. I was wanted. That was a pretty cool feeling. I liked it.

Three jobs later, I was laid off again, kinda. After a couple of conversations with my boss I decided to resign. The place had changed, maybe I had changed. Anyway, I don’t work there anymore. They didn’t want me there. I wasn’t wanted. That was not a cool feeling. Didn’t like it. Still don’t like it.

I don’t think any of us like to be told we are not wanted. It’s kinda demeaning. No, it actually is demeaning.  The problem is that you are fickle. I am fickle. All of us are fickle. We love the new car, until we don’t. We love the new furniture, until we don’t. Some of us love our spouses, until we don’t. We’re fickle. For me, the second problem is that I sometimes look for approval and wantedness from you. You’re fickle.

God is not fickle. I have to consistently remind myself that my worth comes from God. It doesn’t come from you. No matter who you are. Employer? nope. Mom? nope. hw? nope. Sister or brother? nope. Great friend? Nope. Lifelong adversary? Nope.

All of us are fickle, not God. He always wants me. That’s a pretty cool feeling.

Mother's Day

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. You probably already know this, since all of my friends and interested individuals are very intelligent, but there hasn’t always been a Mother’s Day. It became official in the United States in 1914 when Woodrow Wilson signed a bill recognizing the date. So I guess before this date moms were taken for granted 365 days each year, instead of only 364 days each year. Just kidding I’m sure none of you (or me and my children) are guilty of taking your mother for granted.

Anyway, I’m getting older. Therefore, my mom is also getting older. Many of you would probably even consider my mom old, but only if you consider 81 years as being old. She is 50% of a team that raised three kids, put all three through college, experienced their kids marrying and having kids of their own. Dad died 15 years ago, so she has soldiered on as the matriarch of the family for another decade and a half.

I’m not going to say that I had the “best” mother. I’m also not going to say that she is the “best in the world” or something else inane like that. I am already tired of seeing my Facebook friends say such things. They don’t know if they had the “best” mother. What makes one really good mother better than some other really good mother? However, I will say that God blessed me with the mother that I needed and so she was the best mother for me. I hope and pray that you can say that your mother was the best for you.

But, I digress. As usual. My mom wasn’t cool. Come to think of it she’s really not very cool now in the way that the world views coolness. She’s mom. She made sure I brushed my teeth. She made sure I had clothes on when I left the house and that they matched at some level. She fixed a lot of meals. She tended my scrapes, made sure the house had band-aids and paid the bills. She came to all of my events, be they choir concerts, drama performances baseball games, soccer games, football or basketball games. I also knew she and dad would be “there”, wherever “there” happened to be. Her goal was to make sure I lived to see the next day and that I had food in my belly, books for learning, a bed to sleep in and that I knew God and his plan for my life. Her goal was also to make sure that I knew I was loved and that in due time became self-sufficient.

There were times when I didn’t like my mom very much. She told me to do things that I didn’t think I should have to do. There were other times that I wanted to do something and there was no way she was going to let me do whatever that was. I can even remember one time when I told her that she was mean and I didn’t like her anymore. I can’t remember how she responded, but I do remember that whatever she said can be translated as “Whatever”. Most of you have heard this word before. You’re familiar with the meaning. She didn’t roll her eyes or make any demeaning comments. But it was clear that my opinion of what was right was way secondary to what she knew to be the right course of action.

Most of you had similar mothers. They were probably pretty good at their jobs as well. So although I’m not willing to say that I have the best mother ever in the history of the universe and even better than Eve, Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, Hannah, Elizabeth and Mary combined. I am willing to say that she was the best mother for me.

Thanks mom.