Please postpone Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is September 11. It happens every year, and each year, I yearn for it to be easier, for the memories to be less vivid, for the pain to be less....real. I don't want to remember, I don't want to relive, I don't want it to be Sept. 11. The pain in my stomach seems to encircle my heart, and pound in my head, and come out in my eyes. As much as I reject them, the memories of the day swirl in me. The morning drive to the airport, the humidity in the air. The delays, the change of plans. The change of planes. The announcement of "a national emergency." The voice of Sue--who says that Jennifer says there is trouble. "Where are you?" "on a plane." "dear God, this can't be happening."
The landing in El Paso. The sight of tanks and army personnel on the field. The quiet of the terminal. The silence and tears around the bar TV's. The hush. Hearing women cry out loud.
The panic. "No rental cars." No more flights. We don't know, sir, we don't know anything.
Should I pray? Pray out loud?
Our father....
The Lord is our strength, and our salvation.

The bus to the Motel 6. Far away from the airport. No, I have no money--no, these boys have no ID, no money. We just need a room--we'll figure out how to pay you.
Room 314. My laptop--cutting in and out. CNN, Fox, ABC--all the same images over and over and over and over.
Matt calls. "are you watching TV?" yes. Turn it off. Now, really, turn it off.
No.
Dear God, NO.
That...is...was...
Mark Bingham?
My Mark Bingham? But, I just saw him... just said "see ya later" he just grabbed my arm and said "with you."
There must be some mistake. Of course, not everyone died--they couldn't. Who else?
Todd Beamer?
Jeremy Glick?
Nicole Miller?
No tears. None.
Disbelief.
I don't know when I've eaten. I don't know when I've been to the bathroom. I don't know when I've slept.
Sue, on the phone. Come home. Get back. I'll stay on the phone.
My mother is safe. My brother is safe. My nephews are safe. For now. The atomic plant is near their houses. A target. I have never had those thoughts, that fear before. I do now.
I wanted to go to a church and pray. I called the baptist church that I had worked with, had done an assessment...and, I should have known by the assessment, the answering machine gave me the service times, told me that Awanas were starting, told me that the wednesday night meal required reservations. That would not be a place to go and pray. They were probably in a bunker, too.
From the motel patio, I heard songs in Spanish, and crying, wailing, praying. I was silent.

I walked three blocks to Applebees. Maybe if I ate, I would feel...something.
This could not be real. As I walked in, a Mexican family was surrounding a child. The pinata was there, but, unbroken. The faces were covered with tears, and fear. And, they began to sing "Happy Birthday." The entire restaurant--filled with displaced air travelers--began to sing "Happy Birthday!" As if to say damn it, YOU WILL have a HAPPY birthday! On this day of unbearable sadness--this child WILL have a happy birthday. We sang as if it were a battle cry. A fight song. A rally. Total strangers hugged the birthday girl, hugged each other, and the waiters offered free margaritas. I thought I should, but, then, I could not imagine anything to celebrate at that moment. Nothing. Mark was dead.
I lay on the bed. An entire day. I could not move.
Then, I heard the voice again. Come home.
I began to call to find a rental car. American Express travel, and Mary said that there was one car in Las Cruces, New Mexico. I am in El Paso.
The man from San Diego shared the cab with me to the bus station. We took the bus, the silent, smelly, hot bus to Las Cruces. I walked to the Avis office. I did not say anything. The man asked if I was the person that Mary had called about. I nodded. He gave me a hug. He said, "I'm sorry." He gave me the keys, and told me to leave the car at any Avis at an airport. I did not sign a contract.
I began to drive across the desert. The sun was streaking across the mountains. The redness of the hills, the rainbows, the sun beaming directly into the car. The radio--playing endless patriotic music...and Amazing Grace...and How Great Thou Art. The voices, the names, the search, the anguish. 16 hours in a non-rented rental car. Calling everyone I knew on my phone. Telling them I loved them. Asking if they are OK. Everyone says they are OK. Everyone is not OK.
I arrive at my little house on Maroa, and my neighbors come out to my driveway, and, they cry, and they hug me, and they welcome me home. Paula says," we knew you were on the east coast..we knew you were coming home on Tuesday morning. We thought..."
And, she cried. Her husband, Matt, hugged me, and cried. Their son, little Matt, hugged me tightly. I told them that my friend was dead. They said, "we know."
And, so, tonight... the 10th of September, I do not want to go to sleep: because, if I sleep, I will wake, and it will be September 11, and for the 8th year, I will remember, and relive, and be saddened all over again. But, I will not be afraid, and I will not be alone.
Sue will be on the phone, Jonathan will send me a text, saying that he is thinking of me today, because he knows that it is hard. And, it is. God, it is hard.
I will think of Alice, and how she lost her only son, her dearly, very loved, lovely son. I will think of Lisa, and how she lost Todd, and how the kids lost their dad.
I will think about the other Don Simmons. The one who was killed in the Pentagon. The man, a civilian, with whom I shared a name, who died at his desk. I will remember reading my own name in the list of victims.
So, I would like to postpone tomorrow, or, even more, I would cancel tomorrow, but, I will be forced to remember it again--on Sunday, when I will have to take off my shoes to board another airplane, and stand in a line, and throw away my water. I will hurt again, but, I will not cry.

Changing the Language--It Matters!

One of the comments that I heard repeated often when I was teaching in Inner Mongolia, ROC, was "when the Chinese wanted to take over Mongolia, and make it Chinese, they outlawed the language of Mongolia, and made Mandarin the official language." In culture after culture, when cultural change was desired, a change in language was necessary. In the US, some would argue that immigrants can never fully embrace the United States culture without speaking English (which is problematic, since the actual "original languageS of the United States were Cherokee, Choctaw, Iroquois, Seminole, Miwok...). But, I digress: I would like to see the culture change to elminate the use of the following words:
1. Nonprofit. First, most people spell it with a HYPHEN, which, it does NOT have. Nonprofit is the term used to describe what an organization does NOT do, not what an organization DOES. It's like calling a hospital a Nondisease facility, instead of a hospital. Or, calling a school a Non-ignorance facility. It just doesn't work that way. I would suggest (along with an army of other professionals in the field...) that we substitute the term COMMUNITY-BENEFIT organization. CBO for short, which could be confused with Community-Based organization, which is OK, too--but, Community Benefit Organization tells the story much better, and even draws curiosity, which is not a bad thing. The IRS coined the phrase nonprofit, and, it's been assumed by the sector, but, since when does the IRS get to create language? Should they not be doing audits, collecting taxes or something?
Word 2: VOLUNTEER. Yep, I hate the word. I try not to use it. It is usually defined as a person who performs a service or a task without getting paid for the performance of the service or task. But, there are many "paid volunteers," such as VISTA, Americorps, RSVP, etc. In the church, the term doesn't make any sense at all. We would do better to refer to people as paid or unpaid, but, that leads one to think that the compensation is the only thing that matters in the equation. In church, people who serve should be referred to as ministers, aka servants. Pay is not the issue: calling and gifting IS. Churches do a theological and Biblical disservice to people who serve without pay in $$ by calling them the V. word. Jesus did NOT seek volunteers, he called people that he knew were gifted, created specifically for the service, and who really had not choice but to follow. It's true still: those who serve in community-based organizations and churches are not volunteers, as is commonly used, but, are the designated, the called, and you could not PAY them enough--ever, to do what they do. Pay is NOT a matter of justice, and paying them for doing repetitive work, or work that other staff do not want to do is a misuse of the gifts of those who show up and are willing to serve. No organization has EVER gotten better service from a person because they paid them$--but, quite the contrary. Bill Hybels is incorrect in his assumption that "volunteers should be paid to do the repetitive work..." But, then again, Bill Hybels and WillowCreek is about 15 years (maybe 20+) behind in their thinking about unpaid service, equipping and engaging people to do amazing service. In the recent "Defining Moments" on "volunteerism" the only thing that was defining was that Charlene and Vernon Armitage knew a heck of alot more about engaging people in service--to the church AND the community, that Hybels has ever known. In this area, he's out of touch with the research, language and current best practices of engaging people. Of course, I have not found him (or others like him) to be open to learning about the profession or the sector, because they assume that since they have been able to build a big church, they must be doing it right. I'm not confused by the "crowd syndrome." Volunteer needs to go away as a noun--but, we need to understand the term better as a verb.
Word 3: Recruit. We recruit to have people do things that they would not choose to do on their own. The military recruits. Athletic teams recruit. The church and community benefit organizations should stop recruiting and learn to do what Jesus did: INVITE and ENGAGE.
There is something wrong with the recruitment mindset: it says that the task is more important that the person. It says "I've got to get this done, and it doesn't matter WHO does it, or what happens to them in the process: the TASK matter! Recruitment is about getting things done. Inviting is about getting People done.
Today, I was thinking that if we believe that Jesus recruited, he did it more like a coach, and not like a colonel. He identified who he wanted, he saw them trained, he knew what was in them, THEN, he approached them and invited them: like Pat Hill watches a high school player, goes to his games, talks to his parents, THEN, makes an offer--
a colonel (or a military recruiter) takes whoever walks in--THEN puts them through the paces, basic training, and if they don't cut it, they are done...and find a job elsewhere. Not what I see as a grace-filled way to engage people. But, then again: what is the end goal? The task, or the person?
When I refer to female students at Fresno State, I am careful to refer to them as women, not as girls. How I use the language shapes how I view them. They are women, and that matters.
I do not teach "colored" students, Orientals, or other ethnic terms: how I define people shapes my view of them, and the view of themselves.
Community Benefit organizations.
Unpaid staff.
Invite/Engage.
Older adult.
Women.
"I once called you slaves, but now I call you Friends..." Jesus.

The Best Things in Life...

As much as a part of me protests, my body cannot seem to sleep any later than 8:15 am--even, and especially, on the weekends--when, my memory of being a teenager and my 20's could sometimes find me clinging to my pillow well after noon--and then a nap was required, especially on weekends. My mind seems to signal that I need to rise and go look in my backyard, to see if the birds are congregating at the feeders, to see if "Roy," the hummingbird, and his girl, Joy, have returned--or Buzz, yep, the bee, or Snoop, the large grey pigeon, or the nasty mockingbird. The palette of nature in my backyard is amazing, seeing that I live in the heart of the city, near major thoroughfares, a large, noisy hospital, and can hear the Amtrak horns several times each day and night. But, the birds, bees, squirrels, hummingbirds, worms--and cats don't seem to know their proper geography. They feast on the fertile soil, of centuries of past farmers and orchards..and play among the roses, lilies, wisteria, plums, figs, jasmine, lavender, lilacs and iris that have found a healthy home in the small plot of land on Divisadero.
All of the old poems about gardens, those that I rejected because of their hokiness and smaltz, now, I get it... I understand...I feel the presence of God, and good in my garden... in the things that I planted, but that the earth grew. As I picked figs from my trees today, and tasted the sweetness dripping down my chin...and, as I nibbled on the lavender and mint...I felt the kinship with planters and growers of the ages...and especially in this fertile Valley.
As I sat with my coffee, and breathed in the morning air, with the sound of finches, mockingbirds and thrush around the gurgling fountain...and watched Roy signal to Joy that there was a prize in the Bottlebrush branch...I thought, who can sleep?

Death Makes the News

Death seems to leave people speechless, and then, it seems to make them verbose.
On this day, I tend to believe the old wives tale that deaths come in "3s"--but, it seems to have come in 4's here, too--and, I know probably thousands more.
This is not a eulogy for Ed McMahon, although, I did grow up with him on the late night TV screen, first in vblack and white, then, in full color. Ed seemed like my friend, the friend I couldn't talk about, since I wasn't supposed to be up that late watching television, so, I watched Ed & Johnny in the dark, alone. They made me laugh, and taught me a new vocabulary, and gave me ideas, and introduced me to the broader world. They were grown men who had a friendship. They talked to one another, they joked, they even cried together--and they weren't related. For many little boys like me, they may have modeled something that we didn't see around our neighborhoods--male friendships.
Farah Fawcett. I wasn't a Charlie's Angels fan--except for Kate Jackson, but, I did recall her acting in "The Burning Bed," and how it exposed me to the reality of domestic violence in a shattering way-that it really happens, frequently, in hiding, and that it is real--and, that we can do something about it--and that we should look for the signs, and confront abusers, and tell.
Michael Jackson. For years, he and I were the same age, then, at his death, he is three years younger. Maybe it's the skin-whitening, the hair, the eyes, the sequined glove. Eccentric, talented, tragic, no doubt lonely--people called him "beloved," but I don't think he knew that. His poor children, his legacy tarnished, his talent diminished. The only Michael Jackson record I ever owned was "Rocking Robin, " and that was the Jackson 5. I somehow missed the Thriller crusade--and, "Billy Jean" seemed to be borderline abusive in the video. His death, at 50 (or 53) is a loss of his great talent.
There was another death this week, the death of an infant to SIDS. Unexplainable, painful, heartbreaking. The young family may never be the same. They are surrounded by their loving family, friends, their caring Church-my church, and this little boy will not receive a headline, a 48 Hour special, or a mention on Dateline--but, he matters--and he may be the greatest loss of the week, because of the loss of the potential of his life. God's choice to take him is not understandable, almost unbearable. This little one-on the earth for only a few months, was loved and adored--and, will be missed--in ways that sear your heart. His death will not make the news, but, his death will display how much the Loving Father wraps us in His hand and comforts, wipes the tears, heals.
Sleep in heavenly peace.

May I Suggest...

Tonight, I went to Fresno State, and saw the new film about Garrison Keillor, "The Man on the Radio in the Red Shoes." It was well done, inspiring, funny, entertaining, and profound. I did not expect to use so many positive adjectives. I like Keillor, I've always liked "Prairie Home Companion." It's been on the air since 1974, and I have fond memories of listening to PHC in college, grad school in my first teaching jobs. For years, I said that I wouldn't know know anything if it weren't for NPR, and Garrison Keillor was a major part of my knowledge. I loved the "ordinary" people he interviewed, the simplicity of the music, the heart in his stories, the vivid storytelling, his use of language, and his passion for poetry. I wanted, and still want, to write like him, to tell stories like him, and to be the southern/central california/baptist version of Garrison Keillor. That probably will not happen, but, I'm not done dreaming...
One line in the movie--and, I calculated that he was 65 years old when he made this statement, he said "I am moving into the most productive period of my life. I am amazed that I am accomplishing more--and working faster than I ever have...this is the best time of my life." Were I not sitting in a full auditorium, I would have shouted my agreement. YES, I get that!
Me, too---I am accomplishing more, working faster.. with some sort of urgency, that isn't that kind of "stress urgency," but, a positive kind of driving urgency that makes me wake up earlier in the morning (or, it could be the diuretics and being 53)--and "get to it."
There is a song, and I listen to it almost daily. I have it in 3 versions on my iPod. The lyrics..."may I suggest, may I suggest to you, may I suggest this is the best part of your life. "
So, with Garrison Keillor, may I suggest...this is the best part of your life?

Some Fresno thoughts...

The commute across the street to the Dickey Youth Center was one of the best--and, I was able to speak to the Leadership Fresno class about Ruby Payne's "Framework of Poverty." Talking to a group of middle class people, about class differences between poverty, middle class and wealth. It was personal, because I was speaking with a backdrop of my own neighborhood, standing where I had a clear view of my own house. I could use examples of my own neighbors, but, I did not want my neighbors, my friends, or my neighborhood to be the "check that I keep cashing," or to be the great punchline to my little message. This is MY life here, too. This is the LIFE of my neighbors, they are not sermon illustrations, or calls to action, or emotional tools, they are people, with lives that matter.
I will return in a few hours to give that "call to action." I will ask people to get off the proverbial bus, to engage rather than just be exposed. I will suggest that they touch, rather than react. I will suggest that they should move, rather than stagnate and simply "feel" concerned.
In my 8 years here in Fresno, I have seen very, very few organizations, and even fewer churches make any significant difference in the lives of my neighbors, or in the lives of people living in poverty anywhere in this city. Few. Rare. Exceptionally rare. There is a god-knows too much talk about "transformation," with no transformative actions. There are classes and seminars and chats and forums and luncheons, breakfasts and dinners about the needs, but, little consequential action>which just seems to intensify the problem, and magnify the need. For all the talk about an "asset-based approach," the often well-meaning "sages" of Fresno transformation have yet to make a dent. Yeah, I know, I'm included in that tribe--as much as I would like to delete myself from that grouping--I don't want to be known as a "former..." or as an "at large" or definitely DO not call me a "relocator." I LOCATED with the intention to stay--if I was a "RE..." anything, then, I could have the option to RE...again. But, I don't think that I do. I am NOT a relocator. I am an investor. My house, my savings, my profession, my values, my life. Invested here on Divisadero St., Cultural Arts District, Lowell Neighborhood, Downtown Fresno, Central San Joaquin Valley, California. I put my stake here, and I was asked to come here "for the rest of my life." I don't think they meant it with that invitation, or ever thought that I would. But, I am here. (essentially, now deal with it. )
The transformation tribe never quite understood "equipping." They just didn't "get it." Maybe they were chasing skirt too much, maybe they were allowing others, even their beloved pastors, to be distracted by lust and money, or the "lust for money." But, they didn't and don't have the theological framework to understand Ephesians 4:11, 12, or the moxie to do something with it. In equipping, you are required to give away your power, to yield your influence, to release your own agenda for the agenda of others. You have to stop being fascinated by your own influence and agenda, and live for another's glory and agenda. In many ways, you must yield your dreams for the dreams of others. Buying an old house and moving into a lower class neighborhood is no more than a sham if there is no equipping of your neighbors to be able to leave the neighborhood and take their kids to better schools, safer, quieter streets, and real community.
The failed nonp;rofits in Fresno, many led by so-called "faith-based" leaders were failed by this ego, failed by this lack of yielding, failed by the vice-grip of control and "good ol boyism", even if the good ol boys were/are the white/black evangelicals and quasi-evangelical episcopalians and armenians. These organizations failed due to lack of LEADERSHIP, not lack of funding. There is a consistency of names on those board rosters--some of the same names were on each of those boards. It stems back to more than the "mennonite mafia," but to the tiny cluster of larger than life egos that started some organizations in Fresno many years ago. They see themselves as the rscuers and heroes, they cannot relinquish the control. They still have their hands of influence in city hall, though that is diminishing daily. They still strut their stuff at their monthly luncheons.
So, what is my call to action this afternoon?
If you have never been a part of a board of directors before, then, we want you.
If you have never stepped up to serve on a commission before, we want you.
if your name has never been in the Bee, or you have never been asked to pray before a council meeting or a Grizzlies game. We want you.
If you name is unpronouncable. We want you.
If the words "tolerance" and "pluralism" have a positive place in your vocabulary, we want you.
We don't just want you, we NEED you.
Get off the bus--and do something.

and once again, you rise...

Seems odd to think now that I am launching into a new endeavor in my life--at this point in my life. I have peers who are knee-deep in their retirement planning, even in this economy, and who seem to be moving strongly in that direction, and I'm stepping into phase 2 (or is this phase 3?)
Teaching in the American Humanics program with Dr. Matthew Jendian is a gift--and it feels like life, it feels like another chance, it feels...well, right.
I have admired the program that Matt has bred at Fresno State-the quality of students, the practical process, the academic rigor, the hire-ability of the graduates, and when I began to teach one course, I was grateful, at 2 courses, I was amazed, and now at 3+, I am astounded.
I am accustomed to the classroom-I feel like I was born there, and I am approaching the 30 year point of teaching in higher education. Some days, I am nervous, and tenuous, and fearful. Most days, I pray and pray and pray that I will not screw up, that I will remember all that I need to remember, and that I will be a better listener than talker. I want to connect with at least one student on a deep, thinking level. I don't want to frustrate the learning, but, enhance it.
Gosh, I was teaching when I was a kid--and, all I ever wanted to be was a teacher. I didn't really care where/what/who I taught, I just wanted to teach. And, teach, I did. In Aiken, Charleston, Ft. Worth, Garland, Anaheim, LaMirada, Mill Valley, Indonesia, Inner Mongolia, Fresno...and, I have taught Marketing, Economics, Bible, education, speech, communication, small groups, teaching methods, early childhood education, child/family/community, History of Education, Philanthropy, Grantwriting, grantwriting, grantwriting... I get to continue.
Do people really get to spend their lives doing exactly what they wanted to do when they grow up?
After the brain hemorrhage, the episode, I somehow felt that I would probably never teach again. I thought I would plutz, sputter, ramble, get lost, ramble more, chase rabbits, lose track..and, admittedly, I probably do all of that--but, at the end, I look at the faces, and see the eyes, and glimpse at the minds--and, I got to do it again--I get to teach.
It sounds so cliche, but, I never think about possessing the "gift of teaching." I think of teaching AS the great gift TO me. The pleasure of communicating truth, and sometimes theory, and sometimes stories, and sometimes dreams--to others.
I recall Leon. A first grader at Ladson Elementary in Ladson, SC. A low-country poor, poor school. I was the "man teacher" in first grade. The black kids were still trying to adjust to the school, in 1976, SC wasn't that far away from it's history of educational apartheid, and, I had spent my summer in Charleston at Sacred Heart School, teaching music as the "white teacher." I had learned "Stoned in Love with You" from my students, and I had taught them "Bill Grogan's Goat" and an Appalachian Carol--they had taught me to eat shrimp--shell and all, and to drink cheap beer after a Mass in Creole and Gullah, and they had taught me to....breathe deeply before I spoke, and to look intently at their faces, and they had taught me... to be a teacher. Leon called me "Mr. Cinnamon" and other names, and he completed my degree in education--by giving me a real, live student in which to focus my efforts and gifts. Leon to Zenobia to Chuck to Ramey to Todd to Charity to Matthew to Quincy to Amardeep to Philip. Decades of names and faces, and lives that have intersected with mine. The "man teacher," the white one.
I walked in the footsteps of Pat Conroy and Carole Ricketts. I read Parker Palmer. I breathed in the Charleston air, and exhaled all that I had learned from loving parents and a life surrounded by faith and food and family. I was foreign there, but, I learned to love being the foreigner, the "white one" the "man teacher."
And, today, in Fresno, again, I am foreign, I am the white one, the man teacher--and it feels so right, again.
When I thought it was over, once again, I rise to teach.