I Used To Be Pretty

Several years ago, a friend and I would have breakfast most every morning at a little joint known for their good breakfasts. As a rule, we sat at the same table, ordered the same thing from the same waitress: a young Vietnamese girl named Kim.

Because I really like to know people’s stories, I would ask Kim about hers. She came to the USA, as many have, to study. Her story was particularly interesting to me because she came from North Vietnam. Her father was a professor and taught for a time in Moscow.

Anyway… we went from the usual customer/waitperson conversation like, “Want the usual?” “Yes, please.” to a wonderful friendship. Kim came to our house where I tried to fix comfort food for her. I went to the Asian market with a recipe for pho that I found on the internet. Two elderly asian women, detecting my ignorance, helped me find the right ingredients and gave me instructions—none of which I could understand. Kim appreciated the effort; I think. She suggested that the next time we should have burgers, and we did.

The friendship grew. It grew to the point that when we collaborated with some other friends to start a house-church, Kim joined us. She asked if she could invite a few friends and I told her, yes, that’s what this is about.

So the next Sunday she showed up with friends. I was surprised; not that she had actually brought friends, but to see that her friends were an older, anomalous couple named Page and Dicksy. This was great because we were a pretty eccentric bunch anyway.  We were age diverse, culturally diverse, socio-economically diverse, politically diverse and so on.

As it turned out, all of these weird ingredients came together to make a pretty good stew. I didn’t know though, just how powerful this little tribe was until just lately.

I’ve watched them bring compassion, knowledge, expertise, gifts, talents, time, determination and sheer willpower to bear in a situation that desperately needed a solution.

I wish I could tell you all about Page and Dicksy, but for now, you need to know this: they were basically only-children and had no children of their own. For the most part, our little band of believers became their clan.

I wish I could tell you all about the players in this saga; people, that life and God have equipped in ways that have made them a Dream Team for times such as these.

Recently, Page passed away. Dicksy instantly became alone and essentially homeless.

(Oh, believe me it is a story.) The Dream Team stepped in, became Dicksy’s family, planned, funded and conducted Page’s funeral. They found Dicksy a home in a retirement living center and set her up very nicely indeed.

Photo by Molly Hennesy. Taken at Fort Reno, Oklahoma.

They continued to visit her and care for her which was no easy duty. Dicksy’s mother as it turns out, was apparently a colorful character in her own right, at one time married to a country music pioneer. On her deathbed she charged Dicksy with the responsibility of caring for all her worldly treasures. Dicksy took that very, very, very seriously. In her new little retirement home she continued to worry and fret about her stuff. Always the stuff.

Isn’t it funny how treasures become stuff, that becomes junk, that becomes crap, that becomes dust.

Following her husband’s death, a couple of things happened: one, Dicksey became a liberated woman; again (it was not the first time though, that she had become liberated. I’ve seen the pictures). For those of us that knew her, she always wore a wig, a very unflattering one. As soon as Page passed, she took off the wig and threw it away. “I never liked that old thing. Page wanted me to wear it because it made me look younger.”

I’m no expert on grief, but weirdly enough the guy that wrote the book on grief—literally, is the leader of our little band. As an observer, it seemed to me that for Dicksy there was a mix of grief, obsession over her stuff, and fretting, that all combined, bringing her to a sort of defeat.

My Amazing-Missus, who has truly been amazing by being herself in all of this, was with Dicksy when she had her 89th birthday, just a few days after Page’s death. By this time Dicksy had been moved to a rehabilitation unit. A physical therapist came to her room. Arlene told the young man, “Today is Miss Dicksy’s birthday.” “Happy Birthday,” he said.

Dicksy’s reply to him was, “I used to be pretty.” In a few days she was dead.

Her funeral is tomorrow. Once again the Dream Team is busy taking care of details, planning what will be a beautiful memorial service. Afterward, we will gather and remember Page and Dicksy. We’ll laugh at the craziness. And we’ll marvel at the Providence of God. And hopefully we will understand, a little more deeply, that to God: we are all still pretty.

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Earlier I mentioned that our leader, Doug Manning literally wrote the book on grief. This is the book I’m speaking of. I highly recommend it.

Beautifuller

The band (a small group of very talented, humble musicians) was playing, the stained glass windows colored the light as it came through; it all had a beauty to it. To make it beautifuller I was sitting next to Karlee, at 5 years-old, our oldest grand-girl.

The words to the song the band was singing were projected on a screen at the front of the church. One of those words was “beautiful”. Karlee pointed out to her Mimi that she knew that word. Then she took an offering envelope and a little pencil from the pew rack and wrote the word to prove it.

She wrote the word again and then added an “ler” to the end of it. She explained to me, “See, Pops, normally you would say, ‘more beautiful’ but I wrote ‘beautiful-ler’, so it has my last name ‘Fuller’ in it.”

She went on to add a little cloud and rainbow as if to give us a visual reference for “beautifuller”.

From the 5 year-old hand of Karlee Fuller

Now I won’t insult your intelligence by trying to convince you that this post is largely about anything but an opportunity to brag about my granddaughter, but there is more to it. Indulge me.

The thing about kids is that they see more beautifuller than we do. There is still a wonder and curiosity stirring in them that causes them to be fully alert, asking, “Why, Pops; Why?”

Take the beauty of the colors that nature is offering us right now. I’ve seen autumn sixty-four times now—I get it. The theme song of the bored and cynical should be: “Been There, Done That”.

I have a certificate in a box of treasures my mom gave me that says I was enrolled in the “Cradle Roll” of the Brookside Baptist Church of Tulsa, Oklahoma, when I was just weeks old. Last Sunday morning I sat in what could have been church service number ten-thousand-plus for me. (64 years times 52 weeks times three, for two service on Sundays and one on Wednesday, not counting revivals, camps and vacation Bible school.) I’m not complaining, bragging or expecting a medal of some kind; I’m just saying…

Some times it takes a 5 year-old, to say, “Look Pops! It’s Beautifuller.” And when I do look—she’s right!

I just finished a wonderful book by Wendell Berry, “Jayber Crow”. I highly recommend it. Maybe you won’t read it but at least read this excerpt. This is written in Jayber’s voice. He is the bachelor barber and church janitor in a small town in Kentucky: 

     In general, I weathered even the worst sermons pretty well. They had the great virtue of causing my mind to wander. Some of the best things I have ever thought of I have thought of during bad sermons. Or I would look out the windows. In winter, when the windows were closed, the church seemed to admit the light strictly on its own terms, as if uneasy about the frank sunshine of this benighted world. In summer, when the sashes were raised, I watched with a great, eager pleasure the town and the fields beyond, the clouds, the trees, the movements of the air—but then the sermons would seem more improbable. I have always loved a window, especially an open one.
     What I liked least about the service itself was the prayers; what I liked far better was the singing. Not all of the hymns could move me. I never liked “Onward Christian Soldiers” or “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Jesus’ military career has never compelled my belief. I liked the sound of the people singing together, whatever they sang, but some of the hymns reached inside me, all the way to the bone: “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” “Rock of Ages,” “Amazing Grace,” “O God, Our Help in Ages Past.” I loved the different voices all singing one song.
     I thought that some of the hymns bespoke the true religion of the place. The people didn’t really want to be saints of self-deprivation and hatred of the world. They knew that the world would sooner or later deprive them of all it had given them, but still they liked it. What they came together for was to acknowledge, just by coming, their losses and failures and sorrows, their need for comfort, their faith always needing to be greater, their wish (in spite of all words and acts to the contrary) to love one another and forgive and be forgiven, their need for one another’s help and company and divine gifts, their hope (and experience) of love surpassing death, their gratitude. I loved hearing them sing “The Unclouded Day” and “Sweet By and By”.
     And in times of sorrow when they sang “Abide with Me,” I could not raise my head.

Thank you Karlee. You have made your old Pops see beautifuller.

"The pursuit of truth and beauty is a sphere of activity in which we are permitted to remain children all our lives."  —Albert Einstein

It Has A Face

"How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?” 
― C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

Normally I wouldn’t be overly attentive to news of an uprising in Burkina Faso. And, while I shouldn’t admit it, the concern about the spread of ebola wouldn’t have mattered much until it reached as close as Dallas; that is until I realized that Burkina Faso is near the heart of the outbreak in Liberia, Guinea, and Sierra Leone.

That’s the way it is, you know?  We don’t care a whole lot about anything until it has a face. For example, we understand the horrors of cancer once it has a face. By that, I mean, someone we personally know gets THE diagnosis. For me the first time cancer really had a face was my mother-in-law, Betty. It took her life at 49.

Why am I concerned about disease and political uprising in Burkina Faso? Because it has a face for me now. For several years, I have “supported” a little girl there. We send a little money to her each month and on special occasions through a wonderful organization called “Compassion” www.compassion.com.

Maimouna

She is a beautiful little girl named Maimouna. She is just a bit older than our oldest grandchild Karlee. In her last letter to me she drew pictures of her favorite things: her friend, a doll and a ball. Just a few days ago I put a letter in the mail to her. It included a picture that Karlee drew for her. I hope she gets it. The parliament building of her town is burning to the ground; today.

Several years ago I became involved with a group called the International Arts Movement based in New York City, and had the privilege of serving on their board of directors. The movement was founded by an artist named Mako Fujimura. Mako and IAM helped me with a language for a dilemma in our culture that was troubling to me. Mako had an epiphany of sorts following the events of 9/11, which impacted his community in NYC directly. He made a plea for artists and other culture-shapers to “re-humanize” the world. One way to look at what that means is for us to really see real faces.

For me, for today, when I heard Burkina Faso in the news, I immediately saw the face of my little friend Maimouna. My heart breaks for her and her family and the on-going de-humanization that comes with disease, and strife, and so; in Burkina Faso and in Oklahoma City.

“No man can be an exile if he remembers that all the world is one city.” 
― C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

A Life, A Rhapsody

I’m not the first to draw an analogy between a life lived and a composition. One of my favorite examples is from “Mr. Holland’s Opus”, a movie I wrote about here. Mr Holland was the band director of a high school for many years. In a scene toward the end of the movie, one of his former students, Gertrude Lang is speaking at an assembly given to honor him:

“There is not a life in this room that you have not touched, and each of us is a better person because of you. We are your symphony Mr. Holland. We are the melodies and the notes of your opus. We are the music of your life.”

What a wonderful tribute. What a beautiful metaphor for a life’s story.

In 1924, George Gershwin composed “Rhapsody In Blue.” It is a classic. It was the hallmark of music scored for orchestra written in jazz forms of the 20s. A rhapsody, and particularly “Rhapsody In Blue”, is characterized by its range of emotion and tonal qualities along with a feeling of improvisation, but with a recurring theme.

A rhapsody is literally an epic poem, written in one movement, recited or played from start to finish. 

I want to tell you of a story of a boy. To me this boy’s life is a rhapsody.

This boy grew up in Lincoln Parish, north central Louisiana, in a little town called Dubach (dew-bach). It was clear to all that love and loyalty for family would be a theme of his life.

I didn’t know him as a boy, but I know from the stories I’ve heard that he made the most of every life experience and relationship. His stories are rich and humble. In fact there is a humility that everyone who knows him, knows is genuine.

There are some things I know for sure about him. He loves music. He was a musician himself. He played the clarinet. I think it’s interesting that “Rhapsody In Blue” starts with a clarinet solo, just as the rhapsody of his life does. He is a great encourager of the musical pursuits of others.

He has never been one to be the center of attention. In fact, he is one of the most selfless people I’ve ever known—always doing what he could to allow others to have their moment in the light.
He reluctantly tells stories of his service in World War II; if you ask.

Just as “Rhapsody In Blue” debuted in 1924, 90 years ago; so did this man. Happy 90th Birthday Dad!

My Dad has provided wonderful guidance and instruction for me all of my life. Some of it has taken, unfortunately some I have squandered. 

Dad never told me I should pray and read my Bible. I came to understand how valuable those things are by watching him practice those disciplines himself. If I am a good husband and a good father and a good grandfather, it is because of the example he has provided.

My Dad understands that the highest calling in life is one of service. It is another of his life’s themes. He has given so much and sacrificed so much—he and my mom both. I look back now on my first drum set and I know that they sacrificed much for me to have those. I know that for my Dad, as a Baptist preacher, to have a son playing drums in a rock and roll band, back in the day when Baptists were particularly concerned about rock music and dancing, must have been difficult. Yet somehow he managed the conflict because he wanted me to love music.

Over the last few years, I’ve watched Dad age with the same grace by which he’s always lived. His eyesight is nearly gone. One day I said something about how hard that must be, yet I never him complain. His reply was, “You know in some ways I see more now than I ever have.”

Here’s the thing about him and those beautiful attitudes of his: “Rhapsody In Blue” is a masterpiece, but only when it is played by master musicians under the direction of a master conductor. Many years ago when my Dad yielded his life to God as an instrument in the Master’s hands, it took. I swear, it’s as if it was his destiny. Thank you Dad for being faithful.

Oh, and those words of Gertrude Lang to Mr. Holland:

“There is not a life in this room that you have not touched, and each of us is a better person because of you. We are your symphony Mr. Holland. We are the melodies and the notes of your opus. We are the music of your life.”

I am honored to be a part of Mr. Fuller's Rhapsody.