A Christmas Reminder that Kindness defeats Meanness

Christmas Eve, 2019.

It's quiet right now. The storm will come later when family when will start showing up. I need to be cutting up celery and onions and I will get to that shortly. But I felt compelled to put fingers to keys and write something before I let the moment go. Yesterday I had a moment. A moment to give pause, pay attention and think. I have been battling many things lately, none greater than the state of our union. The divide. Hell, the chasm. The culture of meanness that we seem to be immersed in. The abandonment of empathy. The disappearance of civility and mutual respect. Citizens threatening the lives of political leaders and fellow citizens over political differences. Selfishness over servitude. Battles fought in my youth over equality are waging again. Compromise or respectful dialog are artifacts of the past. We don't talk. We don't sit across the table from each other, or sit on the front porch and have conversations. We tweet, we post, we "meme", we scream in ALL CAPS, we threaten, we troll, and we look for conflict. As the fictional character John Coffey said,  "I'm tired boss. Mostly, I'm tired of people being mean to each other."

Back to the moment.

Yesterday, we were running the next to the next to the last day errands before Christmas. A few groceries here, a stocking stuffing there, go by and check on grandma, grab a quick lunch and get that boy a haircut before Christmas. The boy is of course our grandson. And he needed a Christmas haircut. A close friend and a sweetheart of a barber/hair stylist agreed to work him in, partly because he plays her like a violin as he does most people. It's amazing how much dimples, big brown eyes and a somewhat bashful grin will get you, and get you out of.  So... we had some time to kill before the appointment and we needed some nourishment. Tatum Wade wanted cheese dip, so we drove to the Mexican place of his choosing. As we pulled in he noticed two young men selling holiday breads on the sidewalk. He observes people like no other six year old I have ever seen. And he is ... what's the word? Perceptive. He can read people and situations better than most adults. I think that has something to do with what life has thrown at him and how that has impacted his perception of the world around him. Great personal loss can do that.

Back to the moment.

"Those boys are selling bread, pops. You need to buy some bread. They need help". Well Tate, I bought bread last time they were in town. They take cash and we don't have any cash, so we will get some next time. We walk past them, exchanging greetings and order our meal. Deb and I share a plate, Tate gets his cheese dip and flour tortillas. We eat a quick meal and head out the door. The boys are still selling bread. Tate once again pleads to us that those boys really need our help. He didn't really know what they needed help with, he just knew in his heart that they had a need. Deb told him again that we didn't have any cash and that we would get them next time. We needed to hurry home and start preparing for the holidays, we have things to do. About three blocks from the restaurant, Debbie noticed the uncharacteristic silence. "What's wrong, Tate?", she asks. She looks at me. Then she turns to Tate and says, "Are you sad that we didn't buy some of their bread?" He didn't say anything, but nodded his head as I turned to look. His face was wet from tears and they were falling on his shirt leaving tracks of his grief. Debbie turned to me, I looked at her and we knew what we needed to do. "Do you want to get your dad a loaf of bread for Christmas?", she asked. Yes, he said in a quiet voice.

That was the moment.

Think about it. It's two days before Christmas. He's six years old. Santa is coming. Gifts will be opened. Developmentally, he is in that stage that thinks the world revolves around him. It lasts all the way through adolescence. He is supposed to be distracted by his own selfish interests. He should be pestering us to death about opening presents, what did we get him, how long is it until Christmas... the endless questions of the typical six year old boy days before Christmas. And believe me, he is typical. He wanted a 2019 Chevrolet Corvette in candy apple red for Christmas. He wants Legos and super heroes and nothing but sugar cookies and candy to eat. He likes video games that drive me crazy and is the most impatient child in the universe. He's not a fan of homework. He's just a kid.

But that's the point.

He's a kid that took the time to observe. And place himself in someone else's shoes. The definition of empathy. Now he had no idea what those boys needed, he assumed money for something. He didn't know it was for some kind of facility for those in need. At six years old, he had no way of knowing if they were legitimate or not, in his mind if they were selling bread on the sidewalk, that indicated they had needs and it was our obligation, our duty to reach out. Was he naive? Absolutely. Was he sincere in his heartfelt desire to help someone that he deemed was less fortunate than him. Absolutely.

So, what did we do?

We went back and bought a loaf of bread. I gave him the five bucks and let him make the deal . He picked the flavor. Debbie wrapped it for him and dad will open that gift of bread tonight. But what dad will receive in that gift is greater than any loaf of pumpkin bread. His gift is having a son that has empathy for the plight of others. A child that slows down just enough to pay attention to people. In my mother's words, he has a heart for people.

Not long ago, in a local restaurant, Tate noticed an older lady sit down by herself. As Tate's dad walked by her, she stopped him and asked if that was his boy. Yes, he replied hesitantly. Well you need to know what he did. She explained that as he walked by her, Tate stopped and asked in childish innocence, "are you alone?" "Yes, I am", she replied. His answer was a simple one. "I'm sorry you are alone." She smiled back at him and told him that it was ok, but she appreciated him noticing her and being kind. Dad admitted that he needed that moment too. Sometimes we parents and grandparents need proof that we are doing something right.

So what do we adults need to take away from this ?

Number one, pay deliberate attention. We are offered hundreds of opportunities to be nice, pleasant, considerate, giving and loving everyday. But if we are not paying attention to those opportunities, we will never have that moment. We have to look at people and situations that we may not be comfortable with. We have to look with empathy, not mere sympathy.

Number two, see the need. And if we can't determine the need, ask. It may be as simple as someone having a bad day and the cure is a hug. The need doesn't have to be great, nor costly. Many times the need they have is your time. It can be very humbling to realize that what that person might need is you... your strength, your compassion and friendship.

Lastly, take action. Have the innocent courage of a six year old to ask if someone needs help. Offer an ear if someone needs to talk. Have a kind word to say. Be ready to embrace someone who needs a hug. Help them up. Show some love. It may not be comfortable, it might even seem awkward.

I think my six year old grandson demonstrated how we need to heal this nation. One kind human interaction at a time. Respect for one another. One selfless act of giving. Empathy for those who are alone. A kind heart. Tears for those who are less fortunate. Thank you Tatum for reminding me that the solution is and always has been love for each other. One person, one interaction at a time.

I think that is what this season is all about. One selfless act for the good of all others.

Merry Christmas from the Lynch family...

Breaking in New Traditions

Tradition. We are all bound to it in some fashion or another. At times it comforts us and we treasure it. At times it haunts us. Sometimes it sets standards that we feel we can never meet. And sometimes it stands in the way. And like everything else, even traditions change with the seasons.

My memories of Christmas traditions are vivid. The first ones are from my childhood. I can't really rewind and play a particular Christmas, but I have a montage of moments that together paint my perceptions of what Christmas should be... for children. As does my wife, and I think the Christmas memories we created for our own children were molded by our ideals of what they should be. Family of course. Christmas plays at Church, Christmas Eve gift exchanges, Christmas Dinner, and our signature family tradition. Santa always brought/brings new underwear and stashed them into our stockings. I think, I hope, the boys have their own cherished memories of those days. That one thing they wanted, the surprises, Grandma's dressing, sitting at the 'kid table'. Not to mention dressing up in bath robes and towels and pretending to be a wise man in the Wilson Freewill Baptist Church Christmas extravaganza. The Christmas 'sacks' handed out by the Elders containing candy, nuts and fruits. They are certainly some of my favorites.

But for those traditions to begin, old ones had to give away to new. Grandma's house as the gathering place for the entire family eventually moved to our home. Dressing preparation mastered by both grandmas were relinquished to Debbie. And so on, and so on.

The last couple of years has ushered in new traditions. Last year, we 'had Christmas' at our sons house. And it was great. Grandma was able to make it out from her new assisted living home. We had a new family member, the beginnings of a new crop of children. And his presence seemed to rejuvinate our spirits.

This year, it was quite a change for us. We scheduled our family Christmas after Christmas to accommodate the growing family and their obligations. Grandma had Christmas at her house as we couldn't get her out on the snow. But she was good with that. And we had a emergency that resulted in Deb's mom being taken to the hospital early Christmas morning. We spent Christmas with her as it should be. We gratefully ate Christmas dinner with the hospital employees in the cafeteria. Turkey, ham and the fixins.  It certainly dampened our spirits and we are praying that tomorrow will provide answers  to her ailments and a quick recovery.

What will next year bring? Who knows. But as I am starting to see the past with a better view on this side of 50, the future also starts coming into focus. Traditions will change, regardless of the holiday or the season.  Places where memories are made will as well.  Next year we will have a new member to welcome to the family. But what remains, what should never change, are the ties of love that bind family and friends. It is important that family and friends come together. It is important to exchange the gift of love and kindness and support. And we should be deliberate in doing so.

If there is one sacred tradition, let it be that.

Tribute to Blue Haired English Teachers...

Note: This was written in the Spring and I found it unpublished in my blogs. So here it is.



The last couple of days have been a swirl of emotions. Emotions, plural.

The Spring 2012 Education luncheon was concluded yesterday and it has caused me to reflect over the last semester, the last almost nine years, over a career in education. And eventually back to my days as a student.

I'm thinking average would have defined me. I remember math being very difficult once we started adding letters into the mix. In grade school, I vividly remember SRA reading labs. Everyone was a different 'bird', blue birds, red birds, etc. They were clever disguises for levels. I think there was a day when I realized that 'crows' were not as pretty and smart as blue birds. Unlike many of my contemporaries, I do not have vivid, abundant memories of school days. Glimpses here and there, of certain teachers, activities, friends, events. Mrs. Minton's spiced tea that you got to drink when your tummy hurt. I still have the recipe, handwritten by Mrs. Minton on a recipe card. She did that for every student. Learning about the space race in science class, as it happened. Duck and cover. In fact, I still have the "in case of emergency" booklet that all students received, including the chapter on "In Case of Nuclear Holocaust". I'm not kidding. Little Olympics was the first place I had any kind of real public school success. Lo and behold I was faster than most, but not all. That Badgett kid from Hayes was freakish fast. And if you liked a girl, you swapped medals. And that was ALL that you swapped as far as I knew.  Elementary school gave way to Junior High and competitive athletics, a class schedule, hanging out in the old HS auditorium  listening to the Blues Image sing Ride, Captain Ride on the jukebox. Grabbing a bbq sandwich, nacho doritos, and coke at Lydays across the street. But I don't really remember much about class, or learning. Little bit, here and there. Coach Naylor and Oklahoma history, Ms. Howry's class a little bit, again just glimpses.

And high school went about the same way. Athletics, hanging out with friends, a 1964 Impala 4 door, but again, no real substantive memories of any classroom. And the ones I do have do not include learning or my academic ability or lack thereof. I knew I didn't qualify for or was enrolled in any of the 'smart classes'. Everyone knew who taught the smart classes and the 'average' classes. I think we knew our 'place'. And I was good with that, I was comfortable with that.

But that all changed with Ms. Lorene Rich's English class. I really can't remember which year of English. I think it was Jr. or Sr. year. She was eccentric to stay the least, and I liked Ms. Rich. The first thing you noticed was that she had blue hair. You know that color of blue that occurs when older ladies 'rinse' their hair and the result is some point in the blue color spectrum, depending on the amount used. I swear at times, hers had an effervescent glow. And I seem to remember her as a large lady, not really overweight, just big. She had a sharp wit, and was very savvy about students, especially boys, it seemed to me. She knew what we were thinking before we thought it. Or did it. And somehow, in spite of all of this, and we couldn't really figure it out, she was cool. And cool transcends age, and career choice, and blue hair.

Then one day in Ms. Rich's class, it happened. I received the only compliment that I can remember about my academic work throughout my public school career. It was a purposefully, almost flippant remark about a writing she was handing back. It went something like, "Well, Mr. Lynch, it seems you have some skills when it comes to writing, who would have thought?". Now that may seem somewhat condasending to you, but remember Ms. Rich was cool. She knew that if she overdid it, the rest of the 'guys' would have razzed me unmerciful. I still have the paper, an attempt at some historical Civil War fiction starring my great grandfather who served in the Confederacy. And it was very cheesy and not that good. But she saw some potential, still not entirely realized, but potential none the less. The grade was an "A" I think, heck I would have been surprised by a B. That memory has stuck with me through the years. And I'm not entirely sure why. But that very savvy, seemingly off hand remark changed me I think. Or at least gave me a new perception of myself. This eccentric, funny 'old' English teacher made a significant impact on me, and probably set me on my career path. A crooked path, but a path none the less. Thank you Ms. Lorene Rich, for being the coolest Blue Haired teacher I ever had.

Losing your religion and finding your Faith

Losing your religion and finding your Faith

Easter weekend is approaching. My memories of Easter include ladies in polka dot dresses and Sunday hats. Having to wear that JC Penny suit and my picture taken next to the '64 Buick Special that would take us to church. Eyes squinting because the early morning sun was blinding me. Getting my ears cleaned out on the drive there, with mom's hankie and spit. Pastel dresses, business suits, little girls in frilly dresses, boys tugging at too tight collars.  Singing Jesus Saves, first, second and last. Wrapping up with Victory in Jesus. Then home to a baked ham, good Southern style potato salad (mustard yellow of course), and all the fixins. Fond memories indeed. Rockwellian, certainly.

This last Wednesday, my wife and I were part of the Worship Band practice at Trinity Baptist Church. Much to my chagrin, we are not part of the band. That would be my dream. I would love to know what it feels like to tear off a screaming guitar riff. But that's another blog. Deb is the Media Minister and I am her executive assistant, a relationship that we are very familiar with. Our job is to help with sound, video presentation, equipment, etc. Somewhat like roadies. In many ways, it is my dream come true. I get to help great musicians make great music. It's a blast.

But something happened Wednesday night that no one expected. We had Church. All eleven of us. It started out as practice. Sound checks. Getting those darn AUX volumes just right. Replacing bad cables, changing out mic batteries. Business as usual. We ran through monitors only for a couple takes, a couple of which were slightly rough, getting everything on stage just right. Then we turned on the mains. And just as the volume came up, something happened. Something changed. Perhaps something moved. As if on cue, the band cut loose like they were playing in Carneige Hall in front of thousands. And reality was that it was an empty sanctuary. But for the next half hour, they played and we worshiped just like it was Easter morning service. I was no longer an observer, we were all participants in an emotional, passionate worship of our God. Musicians didn't just play instruments, they performed for their Savior. The vocalists didn't just sing, they sang out to their God. And I loudly sang right along with them, caught up in the moment.

When the last chord was struck and the last note sang, it became eerily quiet for a moment. Everyone seemed to look around at each other with the same unspoken thoughts. "Wow, did you hear that? Feel that? Was that for real?" Not unlike witnessing something that you can't quite comprehend. Finally the silence broke, and almost in unison, there was an exclamation of "wow, did you hear that." But it went beyond that, it was felt as much as it was heard. For me, the afterglow lasted for the rest of the night.

As we were shutting down, everyone gravitated to the piano. We gathered around it and we discussed the moment. We shared joy, love, hurt, and sympathy. We embraced and we prayed. And we were fulfilled.

And for the record, that was not a religious experience. That was a Faith experience. It wasn't tradition, it wasn't ritual, it wasn't a formal worship service. It was a personal and group celebration of Faith.  I encourage you to attend an Easter service somewhere this Sunday. And anticipate a worship experience, not a yearly ritual. It doesn't require polka dot dresses and pressed shirts, just you and your God.

Yep, I did it. This had been on my to do list for some time.

And lest you misunderstand, my motivation is not to enlighten the world with my musings, but to self medicate. That's right, this is pure therapy. The dosage will be intermittent, the topics random, and the content ... unpredictable.

So, why now? What led me to finally start this thing? Blame it on Jackson Browne. Someone had posted a video of a live performance of Browne singing Running on Empty. As I sang along with Jackson's familiar lyrics,  it hit me that was exactly how I was feeling. Key words "Running" and "Empty." Living life too hard and too fast.  I can remember when the boys were young, playing ball and such, and we were always chasing down the road for another event, and mom would always lament, "you kids need to slow down a little." She was right, as always. Her generation fought and survived some of the worst that the world had to offer.  It seems to me that our burden is the pace that life seems to demand of us. The world travels fast these days, and we are along for the ride. But we do have some control of the damned merry go round, and I am going to make a concerted effort to drag my foot off the side and slow it down just like we use to do at Willard elementary.

As for the title of the blog Tryin' to Loosen My Load, after listening to Running on Empty, I found one of my favorite Browne tunes that he co-wrote with Glenn Frey, Take it Easy. You know it of course, and it made Winslow, Arizona famous. Not to mention flat bed fords. The first two lines:

Well, I'm running down the road
tryin' to loosen my load 

And that's what my intent is ... loosening the load. A couple of lines later...

Lighten up while you still can
don't even try to understand
Just find a place to make your stand
and take it easy...

And if you haven't figured it out ... music is a big part of my life. And reading. I'm old school - I love the "ARTS", not a very popular notion in the education world today. Liberal arts appreciation has given way to high stakes testing and degrees intended for employment without consideration for a real education. In fact, I'm pretty sure I am a frustrated artist. Frustrated because I would love to write a song, or the next great novel, play an instrument or paint,  but I seem to have no talent to go with my desires. But that has never kept me from singing loudly. In the shower.