Bringing In the Light

            I take so many things for granted.  And, I often think there aren’t many miracles in life, in the ordinariness of the day. That is, until we pay attention, until we make room for them to happen. 

            In the rush of daily life, I almost let this one slip past me, unnoticed.

He asked me to help build the campfire so he could get it just right.  Everyone was depending on him. It had to be perfect. This was his task, and he wanted to do it perfectly.  He’d never been asked to do this before.  It was the most anyone had every asked him to do.

Only men built fires, and wasn’t he just a boy?

We gathered his chosen sticks of wood, dry and perfect for his fire.  He picked up the kindling, methodically splintering it over his knee. Even the paper was torn just so, all arranged, ready for the match.

            We had to wait, a friend had to get the matches. We had some time, and I asked him about his campfires past, who had built them, what happened around them.

            It was small talk for me, until he spoke.  His voice got quiet, his eyes wet, his hands shaking. No, this was big talk, big stuff, big wounds.

Only a few campfires, only a few of the only good times in his past, what he could remember of them.  Most of childhood was just a fog; he couldn’t remember.

            He thought this fire would fail, it would not burn, and everyone here would think he was a failure.  It was the old familiar story, it was the ending that he expected. Wasn’t that the story of his life?

This was his fire, his first fire he had built. He wanted to say his dad would be proud of him, but halfway through the words, he choked, looked away, not able to say that, that dad would be proud.

            The matches arrived, and I handed them to him.

            “Light your fire, son,” I said. “You can do this.”

            There was a spark, a small flame that grew, catching the paper and kindling he had laid so carefully, his most important task ever in his young life.

            I asked him to blow on the small flame, to make it grow. And he did, a smile breaking across his face. 

            The fire, his fire, was ablaze, catching the big sticks, sending flames up high.

            “Good job,” I said.  “You did well.  I’m proud of you.”

            Those words, ones he had never heard before, filled the air, filled his heart.  The words he had never heard, until now.

            He nodded, not saying a word.  The fire crackled, as we let those simple words sink in, letting him really hear them.

He built the good fire, the fire everyone liked. Soon everyone crowded around to feel its heat on this chilly morning, to cook our lunch, warm our hands and our hearts. 

The others, the builder of the fire, and I sat around the fire, sharing our lunch, a few stories, our friendship. 

“Great fire,” they said.  “Thanks.”

He looked down at his shoes, and then at the fire, taking it all in, feeling the warmth of their praise, their thanks, warming his heart on this cold winter’s day.

His big smile lit up his face, and added more light to our day together.

            A miracle, in the coldest, most ordinary of places.  But that’s where miracles happen, when its cold and lonely, and you think your life isn’t all that special.

            We just need to be ready to let the light in. 

                        Neal Lemery, 12/6/2015

Finding That Special Fathers' Day Card

I walk past the large display of Fathers' Day cards in the store, not even stopping to browse, to find the perfect card to send to a father.  A twinge of sadness stings my gut, bringing back that old feeling, a mixture of grief, loss, and an emptiness that can't be filled.

The greeting card companies and the TV ads tell me I'm supposed to make Fathers' Day a special day for my dad..  But, they're missing the point, and they sure don't understand my life and how I think about Fathers' Day.

Dad has been gone for most of my life.  And even when he was around and I got him a card, he'd just nod, barely saying the "thank you" I'd been craving.  My step dad has been gone a long time, too.  I knew he liked my cards.  He'd smile and give me a hearty handshake.  We knew where we stood with each other.We just didn't say them.  Talking about love and fathering wasn't part of our conversations.  But, we knew.  And, that was enough for me.  

My father in law liked my cards, too.  He's chuckle and laugh, and there'd be a twinkle in his eye.  He got a lot of attention on Fathers' Day, and he knew he was loved.  He gave it back, too.  In spades.  

This is the second year without him, and the emptiness inside of me as I look at all the choices on the card rack gets a bit deeper with me.  

I'm on the other side of the coin now.  I have a bunch of sons.  My step son and I are close, even though he's about six hundred miles away.  We can share our love easily, with just a smile, a joke, or something funny we e-mail to each other.  We still joke with each other, still playing pranks on each other with a silly plastic lobster.  A few weeks ago, I found Mr. Lobster, again, and he starred in my movie, the one I made on my iPad, and sent to my 42 year old son.  

A few hours later, my son sends me an e-mail.  He's in hysterics over my three minute movie, and invites me to share it with the rest of the family.  I'm not sure he thought I would, but I did, showing him I, too, can make my way around You Tube, and make some jokes again, with Mr. Lobster.

One of my foster sons flies his paraglider way up in the air, sending me videos once in a while, looking down at the far away ground, or a jet liner flying under him.  He knows I'm scared of heights, and I worry about him jumping off cliffs and flying high in the air, turning summersaults and making loops.  I know he's laughing every time he sends me his latest aerial adventures.  It's his way of saying he loves me, that he's doing just fine.

I have other sons now, too, the young guys I mentor in prison, and some of the other guys there, too.  The young man who makes the coffee drinks at the prison canteen on visiting days knows my usual order, and gets it started the moment I walk in the door.  Other guys show me their art work, or tell me about doing well on a test, or moving ahead in their treatment.  I get a lot of "Hi, Neal"s when I show up on their special days, or sit in on one of their activities, being a dad in their lives.

Their own dads don't show up much, if at all.  So, I like to give them a smile and a handshake, just to say hi, just to say that they are important.  

I don't find the "sons" section in the Fathers' Day cards.  There are the golfing joke ones, the religious ones, the silly ones, even the stepdad ones now.  But, there aren't any cards that say what I want to say, "Good job, son.  Thanks for being the son.  Without the son, there'd be no Fathers' Day."  

"I'm proud of who you are, what you've become."

That's what this day is really about,  sons and daughters.  The dad takes on the job of helping to raise the child, to teach, to listen, to wipe snotty noses and change dirty diapers, and help them with their homework.  And, to listen and counsel, and show them, by example, how it is to be a man, to move along in the world, being healthy, and wise.  

I don't have daughters, but I know they're watching their dads, too.  

"How are you at this man stuff?  How do I live with you?  What kind of man do I want in my life?  And, while you are at it, teach me about trust."

It is the biggest job I've ever had.  A lot of teaching of respect, and capability, and a lot of unconditional love.  

We're supposed to show them what love is all about.  And, respect.  And,  compassion and learning about this crazy world.

Being a dad is really learning how to be a good example, to be watched, and judged.  

"How ARE you doing as a man?"

"Show me.  But, I expect you to do it right."

No pressure there!

And, by the way, the manual on all this stuff is out of print, and I can't find an old copy on Amazon.

We're the guys that wait by the door at night, making sure they get home safe from that party, or that big date.  We're there to listen, to nod, to simply be there, keeping the porch light burning, to be the guy who cares that they do have a home to come back to, after a day of being a teenager in a harsh, often indifferent, cruel world.

We give the hugs, wipe the tears, and look them in the eye, quietly telling them we believe in them.  All things are possible.  And, they are loved.

Such simple things we do.  But, when that simple stuff gets neglected, or no guy is behind the front door when they do come home late at night, then all hell can break loose, and their fragile ships at sea too often crash onto the reefs and sink in the storms.  

And, we're the guys that haul the laundry sack to the laundry room, when they come home for the weekend.  And, we fire up the barbecue, and cook their favorite foods, letting them hang out with their old friends.  We often take a back seat then, letting them visit and laugh with their friends, as we flip the burgers, and get more potato  salad out of the frig.  

There will come the time when they'll sit down with us on the couch, after the party, and after a long day at the beach with their friends.  Then, they'll talk, a bit shy at first, then going deep, talking about the serious questions of life that a young man has, once they get out in the world, and have to deal with all of life's adult problems and worries.

Then, we listen, and we listen hard.  Sometimes, they ask for advice, but mainly, they just want to talk, to show you they are doing OK, that they learned a lot from you about life, that they are doing pretty good at it.  

And, we let them know, right back at them, that they're doing a good job, and they we believe in them, and take pride in who they are becoming.  

It's pretty easy to sit there and listen, and to nod, to say a few words of encouragement.

You see, fatherhood is a whole bunch of just showing up, just being present in someone's life.  

You don't need to give them your DNA, but you do need to give them your time, and your love.  That's fatherhood.  That's being a real man.  

The good work comes in just answering the phone, or texting something sweet back, in the middle of the night, letting them know you are around, that you care.  

I get my thanks, then, for being the dad.  I get that when they don't call for a couple of weeks at a time.  I know they are fine, they are making their way, needing their independence, flexing their big boy muscles and making their way through life.  

Someday, Hallmark might figure it out, and start selling "I love my kids" cards for Fathers' Day.  But, until they do, I'll just keep on doing what I do best, loving all my kids with all my heart, and telling them, every chance I get, that I love them.

--Neal Lemery

June 11, 2013

The Journey

The Journey

The young man was growing up
Becoming more than a boy, more a mystery,
Growing taller, a little wiser,
Ready to take on the world.

He knew where he was going, and
What he wanted to do.
What would feed his heart, light up his eyes,
Warm his soul?

“Where is my place, in all this world?”, he asked.
“What is my dance?”
“What is my song?”, daring
to wonder if he really mattered, if he even would be heard.

Moving ahead, he’d walked away
From the devils in his past,
And those who’ve told him no,
Or he’s bad, or not good enough.

Head held high, he marched on
Taking the challenges of today
Making them his stairs
Climbing to the next level.

He looks to others as his heroes
Looking for his gods in the words of others,
His theology found dwelling in his heart,
Within his soul.

Arising out of his childhood muck,
He slips out, staggering to his feet,
One foot now in front of the other,
Free, now, to walk strong and tall.

A deep breath, clearing his lungs, his mind,
He looks ahead, finding his stars,
Adding more fuel to the soul fire
Coming to life within his chest.

Coming into his manhood,
The rages of childhood pain slough off
Now unneeded armor, and he moves ahead
Finally free to fly, to dance among the stars.

Others dance in unfettered joy
Watching his feet move to his own rhythm,
Feeling the beat, raising his deepening voice in song
Becoming what he is becoming, finally free.

Long into the night, his feet move to the drum,
Sweat drenched chest taking in the cold starry air
His voice reaching to the treetops, the moon,
His gods joining him in the chorus.

His own song at last his own,
Toes solid on his own familiar dirt,
Saplings becoming trees, watered by his tears,
Feeding on his new found song.

The old fears, the old anger, and rage
Fall farther back on the trail now dark in shadow,
Ahead, the dawn of his new manhood
Glimmers in the first of tomorrow’s light.

Tomorrow will find him moving ahead,
Feet hard on his trail, aimed straight and true,
his heart beating with his new found love
from his gods, his self, his soul.

Years later, he will look back down this trail,
His journey rich and right,
Well satisfied, well fed, and he will know
He is, at last, Love.

–Neal Lemery 12/9/12

A Young Man's Gift

What must it be like, to get a gift, for the first time in four years?

Four years in prison, after a childhood of hell, of being beaten and abused, and drunk and high, and then doing what someone did to you, to others, and then told by the cops that what you’d been taught was wrong, and you were going to prison.

And, then, for four years, no one in your family comes to see you, or write to you.  You are in classes to learn about what you did, and who you are, and how you might want to deal with all of that, and actually be healthy and strong, and become a real man.

Manhood, what a confusing thought.  

And, deep inside, you are a kind and sensitive soul, and spend your time being an artist, and creating some beauty in your world.  All that is new, to be good to yourself, and to be an artist, to create.  

How strange is that, after so many people have told you that you are a beast, and a pervert, and need to be locked up, and punished, for all the bad things you have done.

Yet, someone new in your life gives you a gift of a book, a book that honors art and creativity.  And the giver of the book writes you a letter inviting you to explore your creativity, your gifts of beauty, and reminds you that you are a good person, an artist, and a creator of wonderful and beautiful things in this world.  

No wonder you are confused.  No wonder you find it hard to make sense of this world, and who you are, and what is expected of you.  

Courage -- A Letter to a Young Man

In you, I see courage. You take your experiences in life, and where you are at, and you move forward. You move into the unknown, knowing that you take your past, and where you are today, and you feel you must move on.

On down the river, on over the wall, on up the mountain. Ever onward.

There are steps to take, challenges to face, explorations of who you are inside. And, you go.

You look backward, a bit, figuring out who you have been, what you have experienced, and what that all means. You try to make sense of it. You try to understand it, and what all that means, for the man you want to be. You do not live in the past, as you cannot change the past. You can only understand the past. That understanding gives you power.

Growing into manhood is hard work. It is not just taking each day as it comes, and being content to do the least amount of work to get by, to park yourself in front of the TV and not be engaged, to just let life go by. To snooze. If you snooze, you lose. Instead, you are awake, alive.

Instead of taking the lazy path, the path of least resistance, you step outside of your comfort zone, and you dig into your troubled past, and you dig into your gut, and you crack open the door of the dark stuff that lies buried, deep and dark, the scary stuff, deep inside.

You are curious of what lies there, in the dark and stink of your life, and you are readying your broom and your mop, and maybe your shotgun, getting ready to wrestle with the monsters that lurk down there. You are tired of the stink and the slime, and you want to clean house.

You soak up knowledge, hungry for news, hungry for challenge, hungry as your mind desires new ways, new approaches to life. You want a new world to explore, a new world in which to live, and fresh air to breathe.

You said this week that you’ve “been around the block”, and have sampled much of the dark side of what life has to offer, and there remains in your mouth the bitter taste of dissatisfaction, of emptiness, of shallow thinking. It is not enough for you, that bitterness, and you crave more, something sweet, substantial, meaningful.

And, so the light of understanding and the hunger for digging deep into your emotions and your gut now comes into your life. You realize there is more, so much more, in life. You are ready for this new adventure, this new calling, this need to be the explorer, the adventurer, and yes, the surgeon.

You are taking control of your life, and your mind. You are deciding not to live life according to someone else’s plan, someone else’s expectations for you. You are writing your own movie script, your own stage play, and you are now walking out onto the stage of your life, and taking the leading role. You are becoming the star in your own movie.

The journey into your heart and into your gut, into the emotional universe that lies within you, scares you. That place has been off limits for so long. Taboo. Forbidden. Too scary for words. It has been much safer to simply ignore that place, and not go there, and to fill that place with garbage and horror, and lock the door.

Yet, men do go there. Men crack open that door, and discover their heart, and their gut, and the emotions and feelings that are there, inside. For that is who we really are. We men are emotions, we are feelings. We are the currents and forces of conflicting and churning stuffs.

In you, there is anger. A lot of anger. I would call that righteous anger. Not anger for anger’s sake, or simply rising out of the hormones and stress of growing up in this often crazy world. Your anger is deeper, more complex, more intense.

As it should be. You have a right to claim your anger. You have a right to express your anger. You anger is earned from all the horrible and nasty experiences you have had, experiences that have tried to dehumanize you, to steal your manhood, your manliness.

My hope for you is that you claim your anger, to seize it, drag it out of its dark, filthy hiding place, and bring it into the light. Rip off its covers, and dump it out of its stinky box, and see it for what it is. Give it air. Give it light. Give it voice.

And rage, and yell, and scream, as you give it a name, and give your anger its voice. Express yourself and let it be known that you are angry, that you claim your anger, and that it is earned. Declare that it is a poison in your life and you are becoming free of it, that it will no longer have a claim on your manhood.

It is a righteous thing to do. It is seeking Justice.

And, when you do this, you will not be alone, and you will not be defeated. You will gather around you those people in your life who give you strength and support and love. We will be at your back, and we will cheer you on. You will draw from us the strength and determination you will need to give voice to your anger, and let yourself be heard.

There will be fear and hesitation and doubt. Yet, those are the sinister tools of your anger, the tools that anger uses to keep its power over you, its power to keep claiming your manhood.

And, knowing that will give you strength and courage.

We men are called to the river, and we are called to put our boats into the raging current and paddle out into the rapids. We are called to gauge the currents, and find the rocks and boulders, and hidden logs, and we are required to navigate the river, and to come to know its song.

And, as we run the rapids and as we come to know the river, and make it familiar, even beloved territory, we are finding our own song, our own rhythm, our own drawing of what our life is. The river song becomes our song, our melody. We men sing our song loudly, and with pride. It is our song.

As we men go into our hearts, and into our guts, and as we find the words and the songs to express what is inside of us, then we find our own songs. We find our strength and we find our gold.

In that journey, we open the windows in our soul, and we air out the stench of the ugliness, the bad times, the things that were so bad, so awful that we put them in black boxes and sealed them up with tape, and hid them in the darkest part of our basement. And, instead of letting those blackest, most evil things lurking and hiding in our basement, stink up our lives, we toss those boxes out onto the front lawn of our lives, and rip the boxes open. We let the wind carry off the stench, and we let the bright sunlight of our courage and our knowledge and our self confidence burn into the rotten garbage of the past.

We take our hose and flush away the filth, and the blackest slime and ooze, and make it all clean and fresh.

We call that stench, that filth, for what it is and we give it a name. We shout its name out loud, so that all our friends can hear. We do this so that the stink will know what it is, and so it will have no more power over us.

We feel clean, refreshed, pure. We feel that we are sacred and holy, for we are men. We are children of God, and we are good.

And, all of this is taking power, taking control. Becoming a man in your own house, your own soul.

None of us takes this journey alone. We bring our ancestors, we bring the strong, healthy members of our family, we bring our good friends. We bring our cheerleaders, our allies. We bring our armor and we bring our spears. We bring our courage.

You are the Captain now. You are the Man. You are the Boss. Not me. Not anyone else. And, definitely not the slime and the filth that has clogged and polluted your soul.
Be free.

And, be a man. Be the man you want to be.

--Neal Lemery 3/19/2011