A Good Young Man

 My 28 year old nephew, Todd Calhoun, passed away unexpectedly two weeks ago. Yesterday we attended his service at Christ Church in Plano, Texas. I had the opportunity to do the remembrance at the reception after the service. Below is what I prepared and read.

For those of you that don't me, my name is Uncle Dexter, Sir, and I am proud to claim Todd Calhoun as my nephew. I take my uncling duties seriously and Todd, God bless him, made my job easy.

When Todd was still being toted around in a carrier and car seat, his Aunt Cindy and I were chosen to be the first babysitters, so his new parents could take a break. Initially this was to be an overnight stay, and then it was dinner and a movie, and then, finally, just dinner. I don't think Carol and Rod didn't trust us; they were just anxious about leaving him. They have always been a close family.

Todd, when he stayed with us, was a fussy baby and a picky eater. I take that back. He wasn't so much picky as inhibited. Finding the right combination of food, time, and comfort, where he could manage to eat easily was a big challenge. It was frustrating for Rod and Carol, and it added some stress to big family meals for them. I'm sure they got more than their share of advice about it, but Todd grew into a charming young boy, with an easy, twinkling smile, and a surprisingly big, quick laugh.

Todd's mother was quite the stickler for manners. Early on I picked up on Todd always telling me "Yes, sir" and "No, sir." I decided I liked it, and from then on, I attempted to teach all my new nieces and nephews to call me Uncle Dexter, Sir. The older ones, well, they were not inclined to be so respectful, but I still claim the name. As the designated "fun" uncle, I had some empathy for Todd when his manners were corrected publicly, but it worked. He became a respectful, well-mannered young man, with a genuine concern about helping others, especially his grandmother, Frances.

As a young boy Todd was regularly at our house for family get togethers and spent a lot of time in our backyard, specifically the pool. He had been swimming since an early age, thanks to his parents, and he was, as they say, a fish in the water. The kids often played a game of diving for objects at the bottom of the pool, and Todd was quick. He was smaller than some others, and his underwater swimming was more chaotic than smooth, it was more wriggling than swimming, but somehow, he frequently won those diving games. I can see him now, bursting up from the water, with some blue ring or yellow missile in his hand shouting "Got it!" with a big smile, bright eyes, and water sparkling on his lashes. I've been thinking about that scene these past few days, and marveling that a simple memory like that, feeling the pure joy of a child in the mental replay of it, could bring such comfort. Todd still makes me smile.

We kept a cabinet full of snacks in the kitchen. All the kids knew where it was, and they all helped themselves freely. Todd always asked. Politely, of course. If there were a bunch of kids getting snacks, he would defer to others, letting them get what they wanted, settling for animal crackers when he would prefer Oreos or chocolate chip muffins. That memory stuck with me because it was such an extraordinary trait for a little kid, that consideration for others. I remember thinking he was like a little old man who was just happy seeing everyone else happy. We could use more of that in the world these days.

As Todd got older, he became quite the reader. Once, at a big family gathering, I noticed Todd slip up the back stairs. I figured he just wanted to get away from the chaos and potential teasing. After a while I realized he had been up there for some time and went to check on him. He had pulled my office chair in front of the bookcase, looking through the titles and cover art of my book collection. He asked me if I had read them all and I told him, "Only the good ones." He immediately wanted to know which ones were "good" and we talked about books and authors and what I liked and what I didn't. From that point on he always checked to see what I was reading when we got together. His list was always longer than mine, but I was always flattered to think he respected my opinion on such things. In this case, I don't think he was just being polite. I think he was genuinely curious, and he became a very astute and mindful reader. I'd like to take credit for that, but I'm pretty sure that was all his Mom.

As Todd moved from high school to college to the work world our relationship changed a bit. He was still respectful, and still genuine, but in those 20-something years when everyone knows so much more than anyone over 40, I got a few more eye-rolls, a few more "it's a lot different these days Uncle Dexter." I didn't mind. I was happy to see him making his own way, doing the right things for his own reasons. 

These little stories may seem silly, but praying and thinking about Todd these past few days has helped me to realize that these seemingly simple things have a big impact on people, and relationships, and ultimately the world. I am a proud Uncle of all my many nieces and nephews, and today I am especially proud of Todd. I will miss him. I am very sad that this world didn't get the benefit of having this good man in it just a little bit longer. Thank you Rodney and Carol, for this opportunity to reminisce, and for the good man you raised.

My Big Brother

I recently had the honor of speaking at my big brother's memorial service:

Winnie & Sons- Whitney's Wedding 

I got married in December of 2020 and my new wife was crazy enough to let me plan the wedding and our travels afterward. I wanted her to meet my family and so we headed to Pampa to knock out several introductions in one trip. Janie was, of course, anxious about meeting everyone but I assured her that my siblings were the best people on earth and she needn't be worried. It's been a little over a year now. I think she's beginning to understand what they all mean to me and how important they have been in my life.

A secondary reason for making the trip was to check in on Bill. He had recently been through some serious medical adventures and I wanted to see him, to check in. We've never been a family where everyone is in the middle of everyone else's business, but I wanted him to know we would be there if needed. He was my big brother, the first person I ever looked up to, the most reliable, stand-up person I have ever known. I wanted him to know I learned and appreciated the big brother lessons he taught.

My earliest memory of Billy is when I was probably 5 years old and sharing a bedroom with him on Christy Street. We had bunk beds and as little brother I had the top bunk. He was 11 years older than me and had all these exotic, grown up things like aftershave, a billfold, a record player, and various other things that were "look but don't touch" items. At bedtime he would stack albums on the record player ... Bobby Vinton, Roger Miller, The Four Seasons, Bobby Vee, Johnny Horton ... and let them play out. Billy, never sang along. He would turn on his bottom bunk reading light, eat his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and kick the bottom of my mattress if I was being fidgety or talking too much. He'd kick, the mattress would bounce up and I'd hear "Go to sleep, Deck."

As a kid, nothing was a bigger pleasure than to hang out with Billy. I got to tag along on a fishing trip out to some pond with Billy and his friend Monty Gordon. He saved me one day at the City Pool when I accidentally jumped in the deep end of the pool and panicked. We rode horses together at Grandma Turner's when my uncles would let us, and did some quail and dove hunting, too. He took Loretta and Nelda and me camping at Greenbelt Lake one summer. We were staying in a pop-up camper and a thunderstorm blew through one night. I don't think Bill slept a wink worried about us all. I think it was Loretta that got caught with a fish hook on that trip. Bill took care of that, too. For my 13th birthday he surprised me with a trip to Amarillo to see the dirt track races, just him and me. We drove in a red Chevy Impala that threw a fan belt on the way home. Of course, there were no cell phones and it was late. Bill hitchhiked to Panhandle, found a fan belt at the truck stop there, hitched back and fixed it, in the dark, with a screw driver and a crescent wrench.

Billy played basketball for the Pampa Harvesters, quite the bragging point at the time for a younger brother, even if he wasn't a starter. Mom used to take me to the games, though we always arrived after half-time when you could get in free. She said not to tell him we came to the game because it made him nervous, but he knew. After the games we would go to the A&W drive-in where I would get one of those small mugs of root beer and maybe a hot Dr. Pepper. Billy would ask me when he got home if I enjoyed my root beer.

Everyone in our family is smart, in one way or another, but Bill may have been the smartest of us all. When we added on to the Christy Street house the roof in the addition leaked like a sieve. We couldn't really afford to have it done by professionals so Mom pestered Billy until he came up with a plan to put a proper slope on it and re-roof it. I must've spent a week on that roof helping Bill and learned a lot, but was mainly just amazed at his retro-fit rafter design and calculations. Mom always depended on Bill, and he always delivered, though typically on his own time and terms.

As I mentioned, Billy was 11 years older and so I got to sit on the sidelines and watch him go through a lot of tough times. At some point, after he had been out on his own for several years with a wife and kids, he ended up back home, sharing a bunk bed with me again. This was at a time when divorce was still very much a "What will the neighbors think!" sort of thing. He was always quiet, but was especially so then. I never heard him complain or say an unkind word about anyone. I saw him consistently work hard and try to do the right thing. For a period of time he worked at a hog farm and I marveled at how he could get up and go to that stinky, hard job without complaint, but he did, all while managing the demands and responsibilities of that difficult time. I learned a lot of lessons from Billy that he should have never had to teach me, but I appreciated them all. He was the best teacher I could have asked for.

As I started out on my own, with life and loves and the things that happen, my relationship with Bill changed. We'd work on home projects when visiting each other. He'd be silly Uncle Billy with my kid, and I'd be mean Uncle Dexter with his. We played golf. We built buildings. We made each other and everyone else laugh at family gatherings. I felt honored and lucky to have such a great big brother as a friend. 

A favorite tactic of Mom's would be to have Billy pitch her ideas to me when she thought she knew best or when she wanted some favor. She knew I was more likely to listen to Bill. What she didn't know was that when he talked to me about them he always said "Your Mom says," and he would finish with his opinion on the matter. Once Mom was dead set on me spending a week of vacation building a new corral fence for her horses. Bill told me, "Your Mom says she needs a new fence, but she really just needs that corral cleaned out and an electric fence around the top to keep the horses from chewing on it." so that's what I did.

It is impossible to sum up any life with a few short stories and observations. I know I'm biased, and just because he was my brother doesn't mean I know everything about him, but I can tell you this. He was a man of faith, in word and in deed. He was honest, in relationships and in business. He was sincere in his laughter and his grief. He acted out of love. My big brother Billy did his level best to be a blessing to everyone he had a relationship with at home, at work, at church, in the community. He was my hero as a kid, and my role model as an adult. None of us are perfect, but I can honestly say that in the 60+ years he was my big brother, he never let me down. He was never anything but caring and kind and helpful to me. If it was fan belts or fish hooks or fences, any of the daily chores and challenges of life, I could always count on Billy. If it was faith or family or forgiveness, the bigger responsibilities and questions of life, I could always look to Bill as a compass because I knew he would choose the right path, even if it wasn't the easiest.

To me, my brothers and sisters are the best people on earth. I love them all for who they are and I know they love, and tolerate, me. I miss my big sister Jennifer and I will miss my only big brother Billy. I could sure use his help these days, and he'd probably be eager to give it. I'll have to settle for remembering the love and the lessons. Those will be with me always. 

I love you, Billy.

And then there were five .... and for some reason, I feel diminished. Well loved and blessed! But somehow less.

Sunshowers

My street - Hartwood Dr.

I was in junior high, probably 7th grade, the first time I heard the phrase "the devil is beating his wife." I was on Bus #9, parked beside the tennis courts at Pampa High School, waiting for Delbert to drive us to our drop off on Farley Street. Farley was the last street on the southwest side of Pampa and all the kids from Farley and Christy and Dwight used to walk over there to catch the bus in the morning. On the way home we always had our fingers crossed, hoping Delbert would drop off the "city" kids before the "country" kids. Dropping off the country kids first added what seemed like hours to our bus ride.

Mr. Blue Sky

It was probably one of the country kids that knew that phrase and said it out loud while we sat on the bus, watching big rain drops come down on a perfectly sunny day. If I had to guess I'd pick Regina Benyshek, but it could have been Leigh Barrett or Alicia Mahaney or Johnny Harper. I think the Burke's rode that bus, too and it sounds like something Merlie might have said. I asked my Dad if he had ever heard that saying and he said, "Sure. It means the devil is up there stoking the fire and heat in the sun, burning away the clouds and the rain that was prayed for, and the little rain that falls is his wife crying because while he's doing that he's beating her." Dad could have been full-of-bull, but it sounds reasonable in an old-timey-saying way.

Deep green and wet leaves

I was reminded of learning that phrase on this morning's walk. If you follow me on Instagram you know that my walk often includes photos of large, old trees around Overton Park in Fort Worth, Texas. It rained overnight, ending about 7AM. It was 7:30 before I made it to the park. The sun was out, and though it wasn't raining, under the trees I was getting wet. Rain was still running off the leaves to the point where you could hear the shower when you were under the trees in the shade. Through the trees I could see blue sky and a shining sun. It was such an odd experience, something a Texas Panhandle boy would have had little chance to experience what with the lack of trees and rain.

The Bridge - glowing

I remembered that phrase. I remembered today was Easter.

Look closely for the drips

I take a lot of pictures on my walks. I'm not necessarily a good photographer. I only use the camera on my phone. I walk nearly the same trail every day and I challenge myself to find something new, something unusual, some unique perspective that I haven't seen before, or that I think people might enjoy seeing.

It's more game than art, but it makes the walks more interesting and I find that it opens my eyes and ears. I also know that more often than not, my perceptions are drawn upward to the big trees, the colorful and changing sky, the birds ... the things above.

It must have been a cool rain, or maybe it was just because my feet were wet from walking in the grass, but there was a distinct temperature differential between where the sun was shining and where I walked in shade. The day would warm up, but walking the shady parts of the trail was like being there when the front blows through, or the thunderstorm outflow catches you, bringing that make-you-shiver rain.

Thinking about cold rain brought a song to mind, one from high school, a blues song, burned into my psyche from ZZ Top's "Rio Grande Mud" album ... "Sure Got Cold After the Rain Fell."  It's a straight-ahead-dead-sad-blues song, a distinct change of pace, and the longest song on that album. One of the lyrics is:

Somebody can you tell me what make a man feel this way?

Like river without its water, like night without a day.

And it sure 'nuff got cold after the rain fell,

not from the sky but from my eye.

Those "lines" are rain drops

I was well aware that today is Easter. The sun shining through the trees. The warmth overcoming the cold. The strange sensation of rain drops from the trees while the sun is shining. The sounds transitioning from busy, coarse street-side traffic to quiet, wet woods with raindrops. The overwhelming sensation of Spring and renewal.  There weren't many people out and about, an unusual morning walk in many ways, and I selfishly enjoyed it alone, but felt compelled to share it here.

I took quite a few pictures today, and even a video!. I've included most of them here. I hope they convey something of what I was thinking and feeling on the walk which was essentially this:

It rains in everyone's life, sometimes even when the sun is shining. I can tell you what makes a man feel like a night without a day, but you don't have to stand in that deluge. You can find some sunshine. But know that even after the rain stops, sometimes a big, cold left over drop will catch you on the neck, make you shiver, and remind you of a bad, dark rain. Nothing you can do about that really. You could walk under an umbrella everywhere, but that blocks the sun, too. Best you can do is walk through the drips, appreciate what came with the rain, and look forward to finding some sunshine.

In Search of Comfort

Of an evening I like to find a comfortable chair with an easy reading light and sip a smidgen of bourbon, with a little ice, from a hefty glass while reading The Bible aloud to no one. Please understand that this says more about my humanity, my creatureliness, my search for comfort than it does about my righteousness. I make no claim to that. None. Even the act of reading is a selfish search for comfort, for understanding, for purpose. And I confess I often make more time for bourbon sipping than Bible reading.

Humanity is always in search of comfort. We trust in the certainty of our science, we dream of having confidence in our leaders, and we are uplifted when faith and trust in our fellow man is restored. Sometimes all those things fail us, and we are left grasping for something to hang onto, some eternal comfort. Try as we might we never quite understand the fullness of whatever eternal comfort exists, certainly not in this world. This world is too broken. The small comforts of a few verses read aloud, a whispered prayer, the embrace of someone that truly cares for you, the ease of true friendship, a snippet of song or piece of art or a turn of phrase that encapsulates our feelings ... these are our refuge, our meager comforts, our reasons to continue.

My desperate Bible reading this week took me to several passages in Psalms and I found some comfort there.

I read Psalm 133 through 136 and learned, or re-learned, that "his steadfast love endures forever." Many times in my life I have questioned God when bad things have happened, wondering the purpose of suffering. In retrospect, which seems to always have more clarity, I've come to understand that it takes both the good and the bad to appreciate the fullness of life I have lived, and that both have brought me to where I am today. I cannot forget the bad, or discount it, because that diminishes me and makes me a shallow, incomplete person. I will not say that I am grateful for those bad things, but I am grateful that steadfast love endures forever.

I read Psalm 137 through 140 and came across a verse that is burned in my brain, Psalm 139:13-14:

For it was you who formed my inward parts;
You knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
That I know very well.

As someone who frequently feels 'not good enough' this is an amazing comfort. But that's a selfish, personal comfort. This particular verse was also part of my morning Bible reading the day of the memorial service for my dear departed niece, Colby Katherine Finn, in May, 2010. I remember reading that verse and getting stuck on "knit me together in my mother's womb" and "fearfully and wonderfully made." At first I thought, "how cruel." At the memorial service, surrounded by friends and family and witnessing the impact of this innocent little one on her community, I had to acknowledge the truth of it. She was fearfully and wonderfully made and that gives me, a 60 year old man, some comfort that I might possibly be wonderful.

I read Psalm 145 through 150 and found some wisdom in Psalm 146 and some hope in Psalm 149:

Psalm 146:3-4

Do not put your trust in princes,
in mortals, in whom there is no help.
When their breath departs, they return to the earth;
on that very day their plans perish.

Psalm 149:1

Praise the Lord!
Sing to the Lord a new song,
his praise in the assembly of the faithful.

I think we have all seen a prince or two that does not deserve our trust. It's a reminder of human fallibility, our inherent craving of comfort above sacrifice. It's wise to be cautious of those who claim leadership and power, regardless of your political persuasion. Distrust is a good safeguard against tyranny, but it also helps to combat our own pride, our tendency to envision ourselves as completely in control.

And as for the "new song," this, to me, is a call to hope. That our song can be new. It does not have to be the same old song. The Psalms themselves are poetry, songs. There is rhythm and meter and rhyme that provides a foundation, a starting place. Dietrich Bonhoeffer in Letters and Papers from Prison, puts it this way:

What I mean is that God, the Eternal, wants to be loved with our whole heart, not to the detriment of earthly love or to diminish it, but as a sort of cantus firmus to which the other voices of life resound in counterpoint. One of these contrapuntal themes, which keep their full independence but are still related to the cantus firmus, is earthly love. Even in the Bible there is the Song of Solomon, and you really can't imagine a hotter, more sensual, and glowing love than the one spoken of there. It's really good that this is in the Bible, contradicting all those who think being Christian is about tempering one's passions (where is there any such tempering in the Old Testament?). Where the cantus firmus is clear and distinct, a counterpoint can develop as mightily as it wants. The two are "undivided and yet distinct," as the Definition of Chalcedon says, like the divine and human natures of Christ. ... Do you understand what I mean? I wanted to ask you to let the cantus firmus be heard clearly in your being together; only then will it sound complete and full, and the counterpoint will always know that it is being carried and can't get out of tune or be cut adrift, while remaining itself and complete in itself. Only this polyphony gives your life wholeness, and you know that no disaster can befall you as long as the cantus firmus continues.

I know no Latin or music theory, but I get the gist. The cantus firmus is the underlying song, the melody of our life. If that is based in God, or if you prefer the greater thing outside yourself, then as long as your loves, your life, your actions are in "counterpoint" or harmony with that foundational melody, then you are in "the song" ... "the story" ... "the poem" ... "the picture."

I believe that in this world, that is where you find comfort. Not in your own song, not in your selfishness, but in harmony with a true song, something above our mortal abilities, something more substantial than earthly comfort.

My Bible reading this week took me to several passages in Psalms and I found some comfort there. Whether this was God speaking to me or my own desperation to find comfort, I do not know. But it was found.

All of the above is a bit grandiose. Philosophical and epistemological rantings that are well above the pay-grade of a glorified keyboard monkey. My only excuse is that this is the second anniversary of the loss of my love and I still struggle with sorting it all out, with making sense of the joy and the tragedy in the 30+ years of our life together. I'm not as lonely, and I'm not as lost, and I'm not as shocked as I was two years ago, but I am trying desperately to sing a new song, one that is in harmony with something bigger than myself. I'm starting to hum along. A bit. There have been fits and starts and I'm inherently skeptical, but I'm starting to feel the rhythms and anticipate the rhymes. I am hopeful. And comforted. And anticipating the joy of a new song.

Happy New Year!

New Year's Eve 2019 was spent with old friends that I haven't seen in quite some time. For many, many years we would gather at Brenda and David's house on New Year's Eve. Our kids would draw names and exchange gifts. We would watch whatever football game was on, eat, drink, talk, and tease. We would kiss our sweeties and toast when the ball dropped in New York City, 11PM our time. Sometimes we would stay until our midnight. Other times we would head home right after the toast because the kid was sleepy, or because I was.

Kissing your sweetie was an important part of the New Year tradition, like the Southern tradition of eating black-eyed peas on New Year's Day for good luck. The superstition behind the kiss was that what you're doing at midnight on New Year's Eve would be what you'll be doing the most of for the following year. There weren't quite as many people at the get together last night. Only a few kids showed up, and they were drinking as much or more than their parents, not exchanging gifts. I didn't have a sweetie to kiss, but that's not a complaint. I was happy to be spending time with friends and that seems like a wonderful activity for the upcoming year.

I spent New Year's Eve 2018 in Sugar Land. Some neighbors down the street invited me to their house and there were a lot of neighborhood people there. Most of them I did not know, but it was nice to meet them and visit a bit and learn a bit about them. I snuck out sometime before the ball dropped, walking the half block back home in a cold, for Houston, wind. Everyone was nice, but I was uncomfortable. The holidays require a lot of social energy, and I was running low.

As I laid in bed that New Year's Eve, sleeplessly watching the alarm clock tick over from '18 to '19, I realized that on New Year's Eve 2016 I did not kiss my sweetie at midnight. She was in Plano. I was in Sugar Land. She had spent New Year's Eve with friends and family in Plano, while I stayed in Sugar Land and unpacked. We had just moved into our new house and there was a lot to do. That night, as she was getting in bed, she coughed hard and felt some pain in her chest. We soon learned that the cancer had returned. That story has been told. I'm not re-telling it all here. I'm not superstitious. Midnight on New Year's Eve is just another moment in time. But it is a marker, a remembering point. Memories are not mistakes or triumphs. They are what you make them, and it seems that over time the good ones win out over the bad.

Last night I left shortly after 11PM. It's a long drive from Plano to Fort Worth and I didn't want to be on the road after midnight with a bunch of rookie drinkers. I was on I-30 headed west with the downtown Fort Worth skyline coming into view when I started noticing sporadic fireworks. Small ones, nothing too showy, probably set off in someone's backyard, hoping the neighbors didn't call the police. Someone's tradition. Someone's superstition. Someone wanting to mark the moment, spark some excitement, and ignite some good luck and happiness for the new year. Here's hoping we all get good luck and happiness in the coming year, regardless of our traditions!

I tossed and turned a bit last night, before finally falling asleep. Anxious, as always, about the things to do and the things undone, I finally relented to sleep by convincing myself that I could put off those things for a fews hours, until tomorrow and a new day.

This morning, as always, the sun came up and life continued, despite the momentous marker of being New Year's Day. I was reminded that today was a dear friend's birthday, the anniversary of another friend's wedding, and a day when everyone "starts over" by making resolutions or just simply being able to close the book on the previous calendar year. I'm not much on resolutions, they seem a bit contrived to me, but I assume they work in their own way for many people because the tradition continues. It makes sense, in a way. It's a permanent marker kind of date. But three or five or seven weeks from now, January 1 is just another day when the sun came up, and it loses the magic, the spark of being a new year.

I feel like I have done a lot of starting over recently. New jobs. New home. New relationships. Starting over doesn't always work out like you want. Too often when we "start over" our goal is to meet our own needs, to make ourselves happier or healthier. I kissed my sweetie on New Year's Eve because I wanted to keep kissing her. I should have been looking at it the other way round. When you kiss someone, do it to make them happy, not for your own agenda or need. Their happiness should be your reward.

If I have a resolution this year it is to be more selfless, to worry about other's happiness more than my own, to ignore my own discomfort if my presence is helpful to someone else. I would like to give more happiness than I take. I don't want to be the person who thrives on conflict and complaint. I've known too many people in my life like that. I've tried not to be that person, but I fear that sometimes I slip into that mode, that mindset that if someone else is happy it is somehow stolen from me, despite knowing that happiness can only be given, not taken. Or, worse, that somehow my happiness is dependent on someone else. What an unfair burden that is. You put them in a no win situation and sure enough, no one wins.

Give some happiness. You'll get plenty in return. Happy New Year, everyone!