The Easter Story

Walking to work Friday morning was a joy. The sky was clear and bright and I could just barely even see my breath. The landscape remains just as barren as it has for the past three months but, still, there was definitely the promise of spring in the air. The cardinals have picked up their morning song once again and-- in case you didn't know-- cardinals have a beautiful morning song but, damn, they're loud and persistent singers. The robins are back. And the squirrels, wow, those horny little rodents are chasing each other across lawns and around trees all over the place. Anyway, that beautiful Friday morning, Good Friday in fact, got me to thinking about Easter and what it means.

Growing up Christian I was always taught that Easter is the celebration of Christ's resurrection from the dead, His victory over sin, the final act in securing salvation and eternal life for all believing mankind. I loved that story, how Jesus kicked death to the curb, the tomb was empty, those nasty people that nailed him to the cross were so royally busted! And, extrapolating from that starting point, I think the Easter story of God's salvation has also been the trump card so many people have played, and continue to play, over the years. It's the "get out of jail free card" that let's them be really nasty rotten human beings but rest easy in the fact they have "forgiveness" and are "saved" and it will all play out to advantage come time to depart this weary world. Worse still, the thought of being the subject of such eternal good fortune has also led a great many Christians to think they possess special insight and authority over how others should live and behave, not just themselves.

Anyway, it occurred to me this past Friday morning that what we really are, or should be, celebrating is new beginnings. Not salvation. Not eternal life. Not forgiveness. No, this time of year we should be celebrating new life and, in particular, new beginning. Easter shouldn't be a reminder that we're okay, taken care of, off the hook. Rather, this Easter and this start of spring, should be a reminder that we have the opportunity to wake up, start over, refresh, rebuild, the chance to do it right. We have the opportunity to become responsible and accountable, not mere beneficiaries of some supernatural power wash.

I've gotten to a point in my life where the story doesn't particularly matter to me one way or the other, it's the lessons that count. And really, there are many stories, Passover and Easter being the most common in our time and place. But they are all crafted to relay the same message: Recognize that opportunity is reborn with every new day, recognize that we can choose to start anew--  and that's a story I'm willing to accept lock, stock, and barrel.

Then and Now

Kels and Tam and I were sitting there yelling at the TV last night while Michigan slugged it out with Kansas. We're not big basketball fans but this is the big tournament. The home team in a big game. Gotta watch.  Just like a million years ago.

Back then, I was a kid in L.A., growing up in the shadow of UCLA, where John Wooden ruled the round-ball universe. A gentleman, a teacher, a wizard. Back then, a pint-size basketball fan, I would sit in the den at home with my brother Dan and my Dad. We'd be clutching the cushions on the couch, yelling at the TV, pounding the floor, jumping up, grabbing our heads, raising our arms in victory, spilling our popcorn. I would sit in that den watching UCLA back before I knew there was a sweet sixteen, before I knew there was a place called Michigan, before I knew there was anywhere that mattered outside of Los Angeles.

Back then, if I wasn't in our den watching with Dad, I was at Neal's house. At Neal's we'd sit in his parent's cozy little den doing the same thing: Neal, John, Joel, his Dad, and usually a couple or three others, packed in a room with seats for about 5. And we'd be yelling at the TV, pounding the floor, punching the air, holding our breath, spilling the Wowees.

That was then. Great memories. This is now. Great memories. I don't now how much more of the tournament we'll be watching. Certainly Kels probably won't be home to watch it with me. But it was a fun moment. The memories, however, were even better than the outcome of the game. Back then, and now.

Losing It

I don't know if it's a sign of aging or growing dependence: The other day one of my pairs of glasses came up missing. I searched every coat pocket in three different closets. I checked the laundry. I checked the cars, their cubbies, and under the seats. I checked every room in the house. I checked my locker at work, the lounges. and the OR. I checked damn near every work space at the office. All to no avail. I checked cupboards, counters, and even bags I had thought about using over the weekend. Nothing, nada, zero, zip. I even had Tam call her mom to make sure she hadn't mistakenly taken my glasses case when leaving the other evening. No such luck.

Now I have other pairs of glasses but this one pair has the least number of scratches and is really my go-to pair on a day to day basis. I can't claim I love 'em but I can tell you I was sorely missing them. I had lost a little sleep over the loss the night before but now it was really starting to bug me. And it wasn't just the loss of my glasses that was bugging me. It was my having misplaced an item so necessary and routine that was really getting on my nerves.

And then I saw Tam's purse sitting there on the counter. And then I started to remember how, ever so often when my hands or pockets are full, I'll ask her to be the mom and carry something for me in her purse. And that's when I approached that purse, excited I may find my glasses yet fearing I may indict myself for playing the mom card.

Without going into any more details I'll just say that I don't feel any older. I'm not losing my mind nor am I losing my essentials to forgetfulness. I'll just leave it at this: Thanks Mom Tam I'm happy to have my glasses back.

Now, where'd I put my office keys?

Same Old Sh#t

Here's a link to a story of great relevance. It's a brief interview from 2010 with an academic discussing marriage among American slaves. Marriage among slaves in America had no legal stature. Marriage among slaves offered the partners no legal recognition in terms of benefits. Marriage among slaves was, quite simply, not what some people today choose to label as a legal union. While a slave marriage would meet today's standard of a union of a man and a woman as husband and wife, it fell out because slaves were not recognized as human beings fully endowed with the unrestricted rights of white folks way back then.

Way back then, in that inconceivably narrow-minded and uninformed dark period of U.S. history. Way back then, when citizens of this republic did not believe all people were created equal or had equal stature under the law-- solely based on the color of their skin.

Anyone in this country today-- anyone who doesn't believe our grandchildren will be looking back in disbelief over the outrage, efforts, and expense spent today, in 2013, to keep gay marriage from being legally recognized-- is quite simply wrong. Discrimination aimed at a person's sexual preference or orientation is nothing short of discrimination fueled by irrational fear. In short, it has no credible foundation and no business residing in the laws of this land.

It amazes and saddens me to see the degree of financial, emotional, and psychic investment this issue requires in this modern society. Then again, we still seem to believe rather strongly that the world's problems can be solved with bullets and bombs. Maybe I shouldn't be so surprised.

The Immeasurable Luxury of Choice

So I saw this waitress the other night. She is an attractive woman and looks to be about my age. She didn’t wait on us but she has before. We go to this restaurant a couple times a month.

Last night she came by our booth and stopped as she saw Evan counting change, learning the relationship between quarters, dimes, and nickels; counting by fives and tens. She commented on how she did this, too, evenings with her little grand daughter.

A short while later I saw a young woman come in and take a seat, obviously not a customer. She was an attractive young girl, a tick or two on either side of 20. Draped in $300 worth of clothes rather than $30, she would have probably been media-approved stunning. But, she wasn’t. She was in sweatpants and a nondescript t-shirt-- the pants low enough and the top riding up enough to reveal a soft roll at the waist of this small-framed young girl.

Turned out she was the daughter of that waitress, there to get some money from mom, a mom who obviously cared. She had a problem. She needed money.

What was striking in the exchange were the facial expressions, the eyes, and the interplay between a caring mother and her dependent daughter. The face of a mother that hurt with caring, concern, and down-right worry. The face of a daughter that didn't want to see her mother pained. Eyes of a mother that, when her hands dug out the small stack of tips, showed concern for the significant loss of take-home pay that was about to take place. Eyes of a daughter, looking down, that didn't want to be standing in a restaurant taking her mother's tips. Eyes of a mother that followed a young daughter as she turned, cash in hand, and headed out the door-- likely to an eventual destination the mother knew all too well and couldn't recommend.

I don’t know these people in any capacity beyond that moment, but their exchange, their regard for one another, it was a short story told in 2 minutes and without words. And, perhaps the entire story is nothing like I want to believe and only a fiction in my mind, observed from a disconnected distance. But, whatever it was that I thought I saw, it was a story that made me appreciate, once again, how fortunate I am to have a capable daughter. It reminded me of my great good fortune to be able to provide my daughter with the means to reach far. To have a daughter with the body, mind, and psyche to accommodate learning, exploring, and becoming capable and independent. To have a daughter that will one day, with just the least bit of luck, enjoy the immeasurable luxury of choice. And that, I’d have to say, is the real meaning of success.

Not That I'm Superstitious

Funny how, for a profession which more and more prides itself on a solid foundation in science, outcomes, and evidence based treatments and therapies, medicine still functions in the shadow of superstition. For example, you never comment on how well a surgery is going, only on how well it went. You never tell  a member of a on-call crew, "I hope it's quiet for you tonight." You never ask, "Is the ER quiet?" It's just not done. Full moon, same way.

I do the call schedule for my group and, somehow, it seems I'm always on for the full moon. I've never done the calendar research to confirm this notion, but it just seems I wake up to a big round moon more often than not when I'm on call. Not that I'm superstitious.

Yesterday, however, is a case in point. I have been busy as heck over the past week with several irons in the fire. To top it off, I started call this week. By 12 noon yesterday I actually made the statement to the OR crew, "This must be a full moon today." I had seen enough weird stuff, been called on enough weird stuff, happening to enough weird people that I felt it just couldn't be anything less than a full moon. But, I never checked, I never confirmed the phase of the moon. Not that I'm superstitious.

No that I'm superstitious but, let me just tell you, when I got up this morning and saw that big ol' full moon shining in the window I was not the least bit surprised. It's good to know, though. Not that I'm superstitious, but I know things will be getting better in about three or four days. Just don't ask me how it's going until then.

A Mom's Secret

I just now, after 50 years, figured out why moms so often made cookies while you were either sleeping or away at school for the day. I know moms have always claimed they do it to provide their child with a surprise or a treat. I know some moms might claim it’s just easier to get baking done when the house is quiet. I know some moms may claim it’s just coincidence, that their was no planning to it, that the mood just hit them.

None of that is true. I had a revelation just the other evening while Tam and I were making cookies and Ev was fast asleep. Yes, the house was quiet. Yes, he will be surprised. Yes, it is easier to get the work done and the mess cleaned up without the distraction of a kindergartener. But that’s not it. The aha moment came when Tam and I stood at the sink each licking a beater:

When the kid’s away you don’t have to admonish anyone about eating raw cookie dough. Better still, you don’t have to share the beaters.