The Importance of Showing Up

You can say a lot of things about my brother in law Joe. He makes a mean pot of homemade chili. As evidenced by my son Kyle’s peals of laughter, he does a spot on impression of King Kong in the inflatable wrestling ring. He also makes the funniest tooth fairy I’ve ever seen. But Joe was blessed in another way, too, that may be evidenced only by those who have found themselves really in need of a friend. Joe understands the importance of showing up.

You probably have a friend like Joe. At least, I hope you do. If you had surgery and needed someone to drive you home, he’d be the one in the waiting room who would eventually bring the car around, drive you home, help you up the steps, fluff up your pillows, and make sure you were OK before he went home. Of all the things I can say about Joe, the biggest compliment I can pay him is that I know if I ever really needed him, he would be there for me. And he would probably be the last to leave. I can’t really think of a major event that has occurred in my life since I have known Joe where he hasn’t been there. I know that I can always count on him and that is a rare quality these days. Thanks, Joe!

I am so fortunate to have many great friends and a wonderful family. I think of all of the times people have shown up for me. I remember when my dad was really sick and all of the friends and family who spent countless hours with us at the hospital over seven months. It wasn’t so much that they kept us entertained. They didn’t have to always know exactly the right thing to say. They didn’t have to say anything. It just meant so much that they were there, just sitting in the same room, watching TV with us to give us something else to think to talk about for a few minutes. It was a welcome distraction. Sometimes just a kind look or a warm hand on your shoulder can make all the difference to remind you that you aren’t alone.

As I look back on my life so far I see mental snapshots of both good times and bad. Continue reading The Importance of Showing Up

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Something Beautiful

Last May I was in Orlando, Florida as a part of my job (sponsoring 60+ high school seniors, tough job, but somebody has to do it). One afternoon I took some time off and met two wonderful ladies. They were once “just kids” in the church youth group (circa 1985). I was the youth pastor. Tisha and Alisa have become godly women who inspire me.

We rendezvoused for a 25 year reunion at a nice restaurant at Downtown Disney. Our lunch turned into a 3 hour conversation that was just a little bit of heaven for me. Toward the end of our time I had decided that one of life’s greatest privileges is meaningful conversation. We spoke openly about our lives and all that God has been doing in our 25 years. Our passion for God, life, and one another is mutual. Our fellowship was rich, rich, rich.

Alisa's Family

In that conversation Alisa showed us pictures of her kids. They sure are growing. And then she announced that they are expecting a third!  What? I was happy, but I thought, “Wow, that’s great, but you’re how old?”  By the grace of God I did not say that outloud , no insensitive outbursts… this time.  — She was absolutely glowing, and that made me very happy.

Then Alisa said, “Here’s a picture of him.”

A sonogram? No. She turned the page in her picture book and said, “Here he is, we love him so much already!”

Baby Hudson, I love this kid!

It was a photo of an infant. I took a double–take. This baby had a severe cleft-palate. The light went on and I understood. Bill and Alisa were adopting a special needs child. And these words spilled from my heart, “How beautiful.”

This weekend, the first weekend of February, 2012, Bill and Alisa are in China. They have been waiting since last May for the travel documents

In route to China

that would permit them to go get their son.

I remember Alisa’s famous words to me that day. “We have prayed to be found faithful in doing God’s work. We have friends who have adopted unwanted Chinese baby girls, and then we learned about little boys with special needs. They need families too. We thought ‘if not us—then who?’”

She talked about Bill’s job in the Air Force and the kinds of medical benefits his family receives. They have viewed their assignments in life, their gifts and abilities, as a part of God’s sovereing design. As stewards of all that God has done in their lives, they want to be used as God’s instruments of love, grace, and hope.

This weekend little Mr. Hudson will join his family. After more than ten months of praying and planning for their son, Alisa will hold her son.

To God be the glory.

Hudson Taylor, missionary to China

And by the way, Alisa was firm in the fact that she wanted his name to reflect his birthplace and unique story that is a gift from God. The name “Hudson” is from one of China’s most famous missionaries, Hudson Taylor , 1832-1905.

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Always the More Beautiful Answer Who Asks the More Beautiful Question

There is a gentleman in this world who some say is a shaman.

Some people say he uses coyote tricks for his own purposes in our culture that he picked up in other lands.

Some say he’s the son of a Baptist preacher, therefore his perspective of faith is understandable.

Others say, only because he studied healing cultures in other lands did he come to the faith treasured by his family of origin.

He’s recounted things I can’t imagine. I sat in the audience one day where he was sharing metaphysical secrets of Eastern mysticism he had been granted after being anointed as someone special.

He detailed a story where he visited an indigenous culture in a remote African area only to hear that the tribe received visions while around a fire. They told of a rope descending from heaven, a man in white descending the rope and delivering the message to all who were around the fire that there was One God who had One Son who came to save the world…and that they should have joy because of this news

It’s no wonder that one of his many books is entitled, “The Bushman Way of Tracking God: The Original Spirituality of the Kalahari People.”  He’s a psychotherapist, an ethnographer and a cybernatician.

In other words, Bradford P. Keeney is an interesting character.

And, today after a long week of work, and a long day of faculty meetings, I retreated to my office.  I began to search the collection of books on my shelves and finally found what I was looking for.  I needed to read a bit of Keeney because I was struggling with a way to help influence change in a stuck system.  Finally, on the fourth shelf I checked, lodged between “The Kite Runner” and “Primal Leaders,” I found it:  Aesthetics of Change, by Bradford P. Keeney, 1983.

Yes, I was in need of some coyote tricks, and I knew just the writer to help me.

So I opened the volume, but I never got past the preamble of pages that come before the text.  I had what I needed and I never read a word he wrote.  There on a blank page, resting high center were two quotes.  The first was by Jorge Luis Borges and read, “I leave to the various futures (not to all) my garden of forking paths.”

Okay, THAT quote was filed in the safety deposit box of my right brain and flagged for follow up.  I wasn’t ready to talk about gardens.  I needed to talk about people…who can be gardens, but who were not currently considered that way in my present state of mind.

The second quote was by e.e. cummings and stopped me short: “Always the more beautiful answer who asks the more beautiful question.”

When my brain reads grammar that doesn’t come easily, it goes into a loop.  And that’s what happened with cummings’ words.  I read the quote thrice more.  Then I decided I needed to study the nature of questions, answers, people and beauty…so I began to do research.

And when I found the following excerpt I quit looking.  Some beautiful soul had done thinking long before me about questions and answers and come up with enough thoughts to shift my focus from change that needed to take place in others…to the more relevant “change that needs to take place in me.” Continue reading Always the More Beautiful Answer Who Asks the More Beautiful Question

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On The Horizon: Flying Back in Time

Ever since I was little I always remember looking high in the sky in search of airplanes. They fascinated me. They are so big, yet seem light as a feather. When I got the opportunity to get on an airplane for the first time as a 6 year-old, I was ecstatic. I have flown on countless planes since then and still marvel at their abilities in the air.

As we continue to advance in today’s world it is important to look back and recognize how we got where we are today. In this week’s video blog, we travel to Oolagah, OK, where TV sensation and All-American hero, Will Rogers, was born. We take a look at the 76th Annual Will Rogers Fly-in, an event held in honor of Rogers and Wiley Post – two men responsible for so much in the aviation industry.
Andy Barth

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Big Sky = Big Medicine. Really Big Medicine.

The morning passed with fury. Meetings in Oklahoma City were followed by a drive to my campus 65 miles from point A toward…meetings in Stillwater, point B.  Concerns and mid-semester blusters stirred the pot of our academic soup du jour; the odor wafting from this churning fare was neither inviting to the students nor the faculty. “It’s what we’ll eat, because we must,” They collectively agreed through classes commencing and adjourning, research haltingly progressing, activities completed for reasons no one easily articulates.

The day progressed, the halls grew quieter, the chatter in the air sputtered and eventually silenced, punctuated with only an occasional interjection as my building cleared and light switches were pushed into the downward position. The College breathed a sigh of relief as those with beating hearts left their work for another day; its windows watched as the academics filed into the parking lot, engaged their various modes of transportation and headed toward the next segment of Life.

My one-hour drive home was not yet halfway complete when I realized the pain coming from my hands was due to my death grip on the steering wheel.  My white knuckles shined like eight surrender flags to my bloodshot eyes, sending a signal that had taken twenty-four miles to reach my brain.  The channels between my hands and brain were too clogged with traffic jams of Outlook calendars, publications, advisees and search committees to become aware of the beacons being sent over and over: “Stop. Stop. Please. Stop. Stop. Please. I mean it. I said Please.”

My myopic, rigid and focused view of the road ahead of me slowly dilated until it reached the width of my windshield.  Once expanded, my view shifted toward more of what lie ahead of me than simply the speeding asphalt and yellow or white lines.  There was, in front of me, a fragment remaining of the Day.  A remnant of what I almost missed was there for the taking because my subconscious took over my knuckles and screamed, “Hurt her. She’s not hearing my gentle voice.  Shake her. Please. I mean it.”

Beyond the windshield, through the shatterproof glass, past the pale of the Way Home lie a Holy Place.  I pulled my car over, compelled to find it.  The shoulder wasn’t far enough from the Way Home.  I pulled off the road until all four wheels rested on the dead grass and damp earth, pushed the gearshift toward Park, breathed out and turned off the ignition.  I heard…nothing.  I felt…tension. I needed…space.

I exited my car, white knuckles helping the death grip of my keys remain secure.  I headed toward a hill adjacent to a pastureland which was adjacent to my Space.  Black high heeled boots and soft earth wrestled during my ascent but I didn’t know it.  My brain was focused on the need for space.  The need for…this:

 

Cresting the hill, my body sunk into the ground, my knees taking a crossed position under my rayon plum suit.  The course dead grass stabbed through the rayon and my skin fought back. Continue reading Big Sky = Big Medicine. Really Big Medicine.

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Showcasing Red Dirt culture ~ authored and managed by contributors with connections to the great state of Oklahoma.