Vitamin Steve

Steve

I’ve never met this man you love, this man whose smile you share

I’ve never heard him tell a joke,

or, drink held high, yell, “Cheers!”

I’ve never seen him hold a room within his charming sway

I’ve never had to hold his hand

while he slipped far away.

I’ve never loved your father, friend. We’ve never even shared

a single meal, a laugh, a mile;

and yet … you’ve made me care.

You’ve spoken long and often of his love, his spark, his reach.

And though a stranger, still I feel

his impact and your grief.

But more than that, in this short time I’ve seen your love unfurled.

With you, I’ve honored his great life;

his impact on this world.

I celebrate him with you now. I’m honored to attend

while you give weight and words and space

to him, like sweet amens.

His life, lived well! His legacy now carries on in those

like you, who choose to live with joy:

His true memorials.

Vitamin Big

The words we use to describe ourselves are like pictures. Each one communicates a thousand other nuanced words, all of which we hold high. They’re serve as invisible banners, pleasantly shading us or darkening our paths with their presence, depending on what words we choose.

For instance, I’m always amazed when people describe me as “brave.” To be honest, I’ve imagined the word “TIMID” taking up most of my banner, instead. 

I’ve always been a weenie, I explain to those who think otherwise. I go on to describe my childhood memories – fear of lightning, fear of falling, fear of heights, fear of dogs. Sometimes, I recount my fear of my uncle. During church, he would reach over and thump my red-haired cousin on the back of the head when he misbehaved, a memory that still makes my own head tingle in sympathy. Even though I sat as far away from the action as possible, I lived in perpetual terror of the dreaded thump.

When I recall all these things, my listeners usually agree. I’m your standard bench-sitter, right?

Well, I don’t know. Lately, God’s been upsetting my long-held beliefs, and this one may be no exception.

For example: I’ve always assumed that certain people just aren’t my type. It probably began with my uncle. Larger personalities have never felt “safe,” so I’ve kept them at arm’s length.

But lately, God’s brought a bunch of big people close by. People with loud voices, short fuses, fuzzy plans. I’ve done what I usually do and backed away, but these people just keep edging in.

And as they have leaned forward, hands waving, nostrils flared, the strangest thing has happened Rather than seeing the supposed danger they stand for, I’ve started to see what they give.

My witty friend Lori gives me permission to treat life with a blessed irreverence.

My passionate friend Livia teaches me that big feelings must often be processed in big ways – with a raised voice, for example. Or shameless tears.

My cousin Katie, with her commitment to justice, reminds me that love without legs is just another four-letter word: LAZY.

And each time we talk, my older brother Charley shows me that my buttoned-up agenda looks like faded newsprint next to the 4K, 3D vibrance of following God’s plans instead. Charley’s the best dad to his kids, inviting them into a life that is wild and unpredictable and beautiful, just the kind of life I think God intended when He sang out to His friends, “Follow Me.”

I love my big people. They invite me beyond my shallow ideas – beyond that silly banner with its limiting list. If someone assumes that I’m brave, let it be! God’s life flows through me, after all, and He represents all the great traits in the world.

Perhaps others have spotted the truth about me all along, calling out a courage that’s lurked just out of my sight. Perhaps my banner is really a marquis, a rotating list of words God sings out, each of them more vivid and delicious than the last. That seems like His style, doesn’t it? Finding a creative way to name His favorite traits in each of us, traits He cultivates with fatherly pride.

All this inspires me to action. Rather than sitting around thinking about limitations or safety or pride, I’m taking a cue from my friends. Setting my banner aside, I’m leaning in to each day, hands waving, nostrils flared. And just like my bravest, most colorful Friend, I’m living big.

Some Questions

I remember the pit that formed in my stomach the moment I heard my Grandpa make a racial slur. It had something to do with “niggers” and a woodpile, and although I didn’t fully understand his meaning, I felt his words’ ugliness deep down in my gut. Rage churned up inside me, but also fear. Grandpa was strong and I felt so weak! I think made a feeble resistance at the time, or later, to my mom, who explained that Grandpa grew up in a different era and didn’t understand that this comment was inappropriate.

But this was not enough. Surely, he knew! To this day, that single comment, along with several others overheard during my formative years, makes me squirm. Those people can’t be trusted. These people are too different. Things spoken in family settings, things I strove to contradict … but things that shaped me, anyway. Our negative childhood realities impact our adult lives like swarms of insects on a hot day. We shoo them away, they return. The cycle seems impossible to escape.

The memory of those rotten words makes me sick. But something else gnaws at my mind. Does other rottenness exist, unperceived? Do I resemble my grandfather, ignorant of my harmful words, my ugly acts?

I call on my loved ones for help, especially those whose childhoods featured different isms than mine. Ruralism. Theism. Monoculturalism. Conservativism. Lower-middle-classism. I ask my believing friends, knowing that my most trusted exhortations have come from Christ’s church. And I ask with a gratitude, with honor.

These are the things that I wonder. Feel free to respond to as many or as few questions as you prefer

1.  What do you wish you could say to people like me, people with my set of isms?
2. What do these current times stir up in your soul?
3. What do you wish your local church knew? What do you wish it would do or not do?
4. Is racism an issue in your life?
5. How frequent or aggressive does it feel?
6. Where does it primarily exist?
7. In the pursuit of growth, enlightenment, or healing – can you  recommend a specific action step, or a resource or book for me or others like me?
8. Anything else you want to say? To me, to the world, about hope or fear or your own isms?

Thank you. I value you and your input so much.

Vitamin Awe

How does the tender bush leaf know

To grow in such a way!

To make its surface, flat and smooth,

Still curve to catch the rain?

How do the water drops decide

To congregate, just so!

To fall and join and then divide

To stand in perfect rows?

They gleam atop these small green plates

A silent, ordered feast

That eyes may see and lives may taste

And praise may be increased.

Vitamin Teed

Teed comes up in my mind pretty often. Slender as a sapling and older than my childish comprehension, he parked his little cart outside the public pool every day and sold candy. I imagined him as a tall man, though I’d never once seen him stand. A crippling injury left him permanently seated, his cart his only ticket to mobility.

I recall his slender face and white hair, his teeth perpetually straight in my mind, brightening his perpetual smile. I can’t imagine we pool rowdies were ideal customers. Jostling, damp, selfish, sugar-crazed and constantly yelling, I can imagine we tried his every last nerve. But Teed never let on. He simply showed up. Every day. Dispensing his candy cigarettes, his pink penny gum with the Indian on the wrapper, and his jewel-toned sugar sticks that would glue your back teeth together if you bit down too hard.

I loved Teed desperately. I hated the fact that he couldn’t walk. We never so much as shared a short chat, but I watched him every day. I adored him for providing me with low-cost snacks. And I coveted his little cart.

Truth be told, any time spent on shore, including my interactions with Teed, brought me joy. I hated the water, after all. It was my dirty little secret. I hated the Arctic-cold area where the hose piped in fresh water, probably straight from the polar ice caps. I hated the way the lifeguards bantered above us and the jarring shrills of their whistles. I hated the way other peoples’ arms and legs flailed around me, hated the discomfort of entering a domain where I knew only one or two friends. I hated the fact that it cost my parents thirty-five cents to get me in – or was it seventy-five? Either way, it was too much. And I hated my ineptitude in the water.

I loved getting out though. Loved the rough heat of the concrete beneath my numb limbs when I lay in the sun to warm up. Loved emerging from the pool portal into the outside world like ants from our nest, streaming in every direction to stretch legs and lungs while the lifeguards took a swim. I loved the park next door, the rickety bleachers I climbed. And later, I loved the innocent rendezvous with biggest my crush, Chris … who’s still my biggest crush today.

Of course I loved rushing to be first in Teed’s line. I loved surveying his wares, hearing his low drawl as he counted back my change. I loved the moment of dignity he gave me when his eyes met mine and he took my few coins. More than the candy, this was my secret addiction.

The pool would always make me nervous, after all. I would always be awkward and shy. But here on dry land, during the moments I conducted business with Teed, I felt my worth. I was important. Trustworthy. Someone with whom an adult shared a smile. I ached to fit in with my friends, and swimming at the pool upped my chances. But as much the high of their affection lured me in, the kindness of Teed kept me coming.

Love – genuine love – saves our days. It carves hidden facets into otherwise shadowy memories, transforming them into priceless jewels. It shows us ourselves through gentler eyes. It transforms us.

I’m grateful for Teed, for his cart. His life wasn’t easy or his vocation ideal, but you’d never have known it, to watch him. Maybe that’s why I loved him so fiercely. He showed me a pattern of who I wanted to be – who I still want to be, even now. Gentle. Honest. And marshalling all that gentle honesty to communicate others’ value back to themselves.  

I don’t have candy, or a sweet cart. I have the miscellany of my own life, as do you. But oh, let these things be our tools -- our weapons in the war for real love. My efforts feel mundane, but I believe that each smile, each steady gaze, steadily chips away. I believe that all acts of genuine love, love like Teed’s can and will change this world’s shape. I believe it enough to keep trying, anyway.

One honest act at a time.