Category: Personal Reflections on Life

I had little idea that he was from a small town in Kansas when I first met him. I just knew he had his Ph.D. in entomology and was a tenured professor at Kansas State University. He was just returning from an extended stay in Mexico where he taught short courses on protecting stored grain from a specific moth that tended to infest it. The short course was sponsored by Aid to International Development. That is all I knew.

As it turns out I had no idea that Bob was so much more than is vitae could reveal. A member of what has been called the “Greatest Generation,” Bob grew up in what is now a wide gap in the highway, a small town that has long grown past its glory when it was a vibrant, small farming community in east central Kansas. Greeley Kansas is not remembered for much but from those humble beginnings, Robert B. Mills emerged and would become, in my opinion, the greatest man I have ever met.

Bob’s meager beginnings gave little indication of the way he would make a difference with his life. As a young man he worked with his father and brother on a rented farm where each year they produced barely enough to feed their family. After his brother Rex’s untimely death, due to appendicitis, Bob’s mother was institutionalized following what was called “nervous exhaustion.” Bob’s older sister provided him with the love and support a young boy needs during adolescence, something for which he expressed gratitude for the rest of his life.

Someone once said that “time is an illusion, timing is an art.” I am not sure any of us are in such command of the time in which we come of age but clearly Bob’s timing was exquisite. Deciding that driving a truck for a local grain storage facility wouldn’t lead to much, especially if he wanted to convince his teenage love Mary that marrying him wouldn’t lead to disaster! Instead, since during those months, WWII was closing in on America, he went with a friend to the recruiting station and joined the Navy. His timing was perfect.

It wasn’t long until his superiors noticed Bob’s deep intellect and leadership skills. Through a series of events, Bob was sent with his new bride Mary, to Pensacola Florida as a pilot-in-training at the Naval Aviator School. Bob admitted to me later that it was one of the most difficult things he had ever done. His flight instructor was not a patient man and he spoke to Bob in aggressive and profane ways. He once said to me “I would have quit the training if it hadn’t been for Mary.” As her encouragement boosted the young officer, Bob graduated and was awarded his wings. He was now a Navy Pilot just as the war in the Pacific was igniting.

There is much to add to his story but for the sake of brevity let it suffice to say that Bob used the GI Bill after the Navy to go to college. He did that several times. First he went to KSU to get his bachelor’s degree that led to a brief career as a biology teacher in high school. He returned to school and was awarded a Master’s Degree from the University of Colorado, and finally he studied, did research and wrote his dissertation at KSU and received his Ph.D. in entomology. Following his academic pursuits he became a tenured professor at K State and served in the Entomology department for nearly thirty years.

Today I saw where Bob’s life changed. I walked on the same ground that he had traversed eighty years ago. I saw planes land and take off, in much the same way they had when Bob was training. I saw airplanes that had not only been flown in WWll but also in all the other wars that the US has fought in during both the 20th and 21st century. It was all interesting but looking through the museum I was struck with something more important.

It could be argued that the “Greatest Generation” knew sacrifice, suffering, honor and duty more than the subsequent generations that followed. I hesitate to make such sweeping generalizations. But I do know one man that embodied those qualities. It is easy to make heroes out of those who are no longer among us, overlooking their challenges and mistakes. Bob was not a perfect man but he was great. The greatest man I have ever known. Today I saw where the dreams began. Those dreams led to his research that arguably saved hundreds of thousands of lives in third world countries susceptible to famine and pestilence. That is enough to include him among the giants that have walked among us. But there is one indication that he left us that shows where Bob gives the credit for his formation as a husband, father, father-in-law, grandfather and now great-grandfather. It’s a simple statement that is etched on the grave marker where he was laid to rest. It says, “Robert B. Mills, Navy Pilot.” Today I saw where the dream was realized.

Until next time,

Darrel+

I just turned sixty-three. It’s odd to type that. I once thought that sixty-three would be a blip on the calendar. Nothing here to see, just move on. But I retired last year, right after my birthday. So this past year has had a surreal feel about it. I kept thinking there is something I should be doing. I worked for decades upon decades. It’s hard to break an old habit, like getting up at the break of dawn to push, push, and push some more. It is all different now.

I never imagined I would retire so early. My original plan was to continue on until I was seventy-two. Then the Episcopal Church would pull the plug because seventy-two is the mandatory retirement age. I wanted to go strong, keep preaching, keep learning, keep teaching, keep leading and keep pushing. Interestingly enough, I now look back and wonder why I felt such urgency.

What was my motivation? I would have denied this a couple of years ago but I now know it to be the truth: I was motivated to excel because of my ego. I wanted to make a difference not to please God or even grow the church. I wanted to be known. I wanted significance. I wanted to be a difference maker. I wanted these things because it is a basic human need to want people to know that a significant life is remembered. There was something deep inside of me desiring to be noticed.

It’s all about me, don’t you know? Well sort of. I was not a narcissist seeking to be noticed even if it meant hurting others. It was a different dysfunction. I used to dream about it, though I would have never admitted it. I wanted to be in one of the most significant Episcopal Church in the country. I wanted that so badly I would cut corners in other areas of my life to make it happen. I used to look at the calendar and make short-term goals on how I could achieve that. I don’t recall praying about it much, except I wanted God to make it happen. “Here I am God, let’s make this happen!” Even if it meant overlooking something that I’ve always claimed were my priorities: relationships.

Joseph taught me more about life than he had a right to do. I was his father. If there was any teaching going on, I was supposed to do it. But teach he did. It was not always in what he said. Sometimes it was in the way he lived. His compassion and love, of both people and nature now speaks to me louder than it did while he was living. “There’s more to life than a well-manicured lawn,” he often said. “Daddy, you need to travel, get out there with Mama and enjoy the world. It’s beautiful,” words I often hear echo deep within my soul.

Once I got a phone call from Joseph telling me he was going to quit his job. “Why?” I asked. “You love your job.” “I know,” he replied. Quickly adding “I’m flying to Florida for a wedding and want to spend a few weeks on the beach.”

Who does that? Not me. I was too concerned about manicured lawns, nice cars, all the new Apple devices, and building a significant church. I am amazed how myopic I can be. I am not sure I have overcome that yet but I am starting to see how wrong I was. Life does not exist in order for my needs to be met, even if those needs seem rather “holy” like building a church. There are beaches to walk on, mountains to see, new areas to explore and people close to me with whom to share.

I did not expect for this to be my journey. There is a part of me that keeps looking over my shoulder to the past or sometimes plotting some church work to do in the future but each day I confront the reality that it is all different now. As I reflect on this in a campground outside of Pensacola Florida I know that, even though I didn’t plan it, tomorrow brings something new with the one person I so desperately want to share it with, Julie. Joseph loved his Mama so much that somehow, through the thin veil that separates us for the time being, I hear him say, “you got it. There’s more to life than pushing. Enjoy it. Have fun. Love my Mama.”

So tomorrow we will go visit the National Navy Aviation Museum. I never thought I would be here but I am so grateful that I am.

Until next time,

Darrel+

Peaches. Wet, succulent and sometimes so sweet they are better than chocolate. I learned a lot about peaches in Texas. I made this amazing discovery in the Hill Country outside of Fredericksburg. I had no idea that there were two basic types of peaches: Clingstone and Freestone. Freestone is my favorite because it means the fruit doesn’t get stuck to the pit. Of course the Clingstone does just the opposite. I have to suck and suck on the seed to get all of the peach off the pit and often I just give up and spit it out.

I think life is too often like a Clingstone peach. I want things to go smoothly like biting into a ripe, juicy and delicious Freestone peach but that rarely happens. That is one of the great disillusionments about life. Perhaps we were sold a bill of goods about how life is supposed to go. I am not sure where we learned this but at least I did. Of course I could have looked around as a child and realized that things were messy, people were unhappy, sudden and unexpected crisis hit and no one was immune. But reality was drowned out by everything from fairy tales to the thirty-minute television show where all problems were solved in a half an hour.

But there is something about Clingstone peaches that, despite an inability to cleanly eat the entire fruit without the mess, they are tasty. They may be frustrating but they are good. So is life. Despite the challenges, the sudden and unexpected disasters and the way things turn out differently than was planned, life is good and rich and full of surprising delight. So instead of complaining, I think I’ll just enjoy.

Until next time,

Darrel+

I wrote sometime ago that I would reflect on the lessons of serving as a Rector (Lead Pastor) for over 25 years. I felt motivated to do this around the anniversary of my sabbatical and subsequent retirement. I did not deliver on that promise. I have sat in my reading chair for night after night reading and thinking but not writing. It was not that I was afraid to share those reflections. Instead I felt rather agnostic about it. What was my motivation? Was it to get “even” with those with whom I still felt had let me down? What is it to justify any decisions I did or did not make when I served as Rector? Maybe secretly I wanted to make myself a “victim” about issues that I felt still remained? No. I was not going to spend the emotional and spiritual energy to do that. I could not find a reason to go there.

But let me be clear. It was time for me to go.

In my opinion, leading a congregation has very little to do with management and tasks and more to do with emotional and spiritual leadership. Often the expectations of a congregation are that a priest will be an expert in leadership, management, an extraordinary preacher and teacher, and a stunning pastoral counselor who makes magical trips to visit people in the hospital. The great-untold truth is that no one possesses all those gifts. Someone may be a great manager and keep the Vestry focused and inspired but is an awful preacher and teacher. But a greater truth is that the most important role that a pastor/priest has is to mediate the grace of God by being transparent and authentic so that others can see God at work in the life and heart of the priest. That is tough work. All else is child’s work compared to that. And that is why I had to leave.

Before Joseph died, Julie and I stood at the foot of the bed in the hospital and prayed. I anointed him and with the Book of Common Prayer in my hand, I asked God to heal him and allow Joseph to continue his journey here. After all, children do not die before their parents. It is not the way things are supposed to work.

As the clock on his wall kept staring at me, mocking me as if to say time is running out I began to wonder if God would answer my prayer? Surely God would, look at all I had done to extend the kingdom, I reminded God. I had given up so much. Indeed even Joseph had given up so much as we moved from Church to Church, city to city, from friends to new friends over the years. Couldn’t God see that? I have known many people who have lived lives of selfishness and have hurt many people over the years and their children did not die. Surely God would make note of that. My prayers had to be answered.

They were not. At least not in the way I wanted. Joseph died shortly after we allowed the medication that had been coursing through his veins, keeping him alive, to be stopped. Now we had to go home. We had funeral and memorial services to plan. I had to go back to the Church where I had be a pastor/priest again and do the emotional and spiritual work in as transparently a way as I could. I had no idea how I would do this but maybe this time God would tell me. I would know the way. He would come through.

Many of my sermons preached after those days centered on Joseph. But even the mention of his name would bring me to tears. Most people understood and were caring but not all were. But what made it worse was, even though I preached over and over how I was not mad at God, God seemed absent from me. At times I felt amazement but I just didn’t feel God. I knew deeply to lean on God but it felt like an imaginary strength based more on hope than reality. I found myself becoming disappointed in God. Or maybe disappointed in myself. Either I wasn’t doing something right, or God no longer wanted me to continue. The harder I tried the more disillusioned I became. Maybe it was my “Dark Night of the Soul,” but I was not up to challenge. It became clear that it was over for me.

Now that I have some distance between those times and now, I still cannot say that I “feel God” in and around me. I know God is there but God seems to stand afar from me. I still can say that I am not mad at God but I have stopped wondering if I am doing something wrong. God never answers Job until the 38th chapter. I seem to be several chapters from God speaking. So I wait. I have stopped demanding that I hear something and am learning to stand in the tension of unanswered questions.

I have come to realize that God has a purpose for me and that the suffering I went through was not to simply see if I would survive. While being a pastor/priest serving at the local church is holy work, I know that there is something else I am called to do. What is that you might ask? I do not know. My task is to seek it. There’s something more. God is no respecter of selfishness so I have no expectations that God is going to return to me all that I have lost. It simply is not about me. There is a way that God can be glorified through my suffering. That is what I desire. Maybe God will remain silent and if that is my journey, I embrace it.

Perhaps my greatest learning during the last year has been to let go of the regrets, disappointments and disillusionment. It takes too much of my time to keep looking over my shoulder back to something that will never be again. God continues to be God no matter how I feel. It took me a long time to come to an understanding that following Jesus is not about finding an easy path or life fulfillment. The abundant life may be more about holding on through it all and keeping my eyes and life focused on God.

Until next time,

Darrel+

It is easy to talk about vulnerability and transparency. There is nothing more difficult than actually living into both. The twins. They are not quite evil twins but they both look like each other and can bring fear and foreboding. Have you ever had a dream where you were naked in front of a crowd of people? That is the closest example of what comes to mind when thinking about what it is like to be both transparent and vulnerable.

Not everyone agrees that they are the similar. I recently read this definition:

Vulnerable: Susceptible of physical or emotional attack or harm. In need of attention, support, or protection because of age, disability, risk of abuse or neglect.

Transparent: Free from pretense or deceit. Having thoughts, feelings, or motives that are easily perceived.

The author of these definitions also wrote: “When you look at the definitions, you’ll see some pretty glaring differences. Vulnerability requires you to invite people into the moments you need help, feel insecure, shame, or don’t “have it all together.” It requires a significantly higher level of trust in the person you invite into your process. In essence, it means you have to lower your walls of defense and invite people into areas you feel weak. Transparency, on the other hand, you can still have your guard up, but not hold back what you’re feeling in the moment. You are expressing your emotions, but you’re not letting people have an impact on your heart.”

I do not see it the same way. For me, transparency is the removal of defensive barriers that keep people from seeing your struggle. Vulnerability is simply sharing the struggle. Both demand courage and can encourage those who have been entrusted to witness the sharing. But if they are to be helpful to others, one must feel the authenticity in the sharing of the story.

My ministry has been shaped by a willingness to risk both. It came with a price. After preaching in such a way on Sundays, Mondays were awful. I often felt a quiet voice of disapproval. That voice did not come from others, it came from deep inside of me. I understood the power of sharing my struggles but after doing it, I felt like I should have had my life/faith together more than I did. I wanted to let people know that if I, the preacher, struggled, it was alright if they did. But by sharing those intimate times of crisis, I returned to the crisis itself. Even if I had resolved it, telling the story put me right back into the midst of the struggle.

A similar thing happened to me while writing recently. I returned to the hospital where Joseph died. I could smell the smells, see the light, feel the emotions. The more I shared my vulnerability through being transparent in my writings, the more I heard that familiar voice. Why didn’t I have my act together when I walked through the lonely, cold corridors of the hospital? The fear I again felt took my breath away. I wanted to share those moments, but the moments became hours as I tossed and turned in bed following my writing. I felt it important to let others know beyond the simple story that my son got sick and died. But those hours turned into days and the days turned into weeks. I wounded myself by going there.

It is good to confess those feelings. I walked away for awhile from my writing. I had to. The wound was reopened. But here I am again. One might think that I would never do that again. But if that is the thought, it could not be further from where I am.

Brené Brown has written “The point of being vulnerable, authentic, and transparent is to cultivate meaningful connections with other human beings. I truly believe that connection, love, and belonging are the reasons we are all here on this giant spinning rock.” Thank you Ms. Brown. That is how I feel. Why write if I can’t find a way to connect with others. Indeed I could spin a tale about how well my life works. I could share how my faith is so impressive that even in the midst of the death of my son, I stood tall. And no one would connect to that.

So I choose to “go there.” Even if it is painful. Connections make us human. And being human is painful and lovely and inspiring and difficult. But beyond it all, it is a gift. So here I am again. Choosing to stand before you naked with all my imperfections.

Until next time,

DP

Here I am. I am not hiding. Yet I have to confess that it might be easier if I just crouch low behind that pink Himalayan salt and the olive oil-based butter stuff that sits on my table. It is crazy out there. I watch too much news and go online too often to keep immune from the insanity that we are all dealing with. We have become part of this tribe or that tribe and we can no longer speak to one another. It’s because each tribe has its own language and dare I say each has its own reality. And so it is safer to hide.

Maybe it’s just easier to hide. Why engage in a conversation that ultimately leads to name calling and rejection? If one can step back from the carnage, though who can keep flying down the highway when a train wreck is visible over to the left, there is much to learn. I am not sure there is an easy path to take that leads us away from tribalism and into real community, where it is safe to disagree, safe to have a real conversation where each side learns something from the other. But that’s not where we are now.

Often I get caught up in the noise. It triggers something deep inside of me. Maybe it pushes the button of some ancient hurt that I only vaguely know. But a few words, an obtuse accusation can set me off. And there I go like a untimely launched rocket, whizzing in the air, making more noise than causing explosive damage. Yet I can easily convince myself that the verbal volleys that I have launched have caused the change we have all impatiently awaited. But that is not the case.

So I emerge from the hidden places that are only too easy to find. I put myself out there, acknowledging the hurt that I create and the woundedness that I experience. Hiding isn’t the answer. There may not be an answer. I keep looking for the thirty minute solution to a systemic wound. I can see why I do. I watched too many thirty minute television programs that followed a familiar pattern. The issue was announced, the conflict experienced, and the solution found. If Ward Cleaver could find a way out of the chaos in thirty minutes, why can’t I?

So here I am. Not solving a thing. I can only say that I see the problem. Somehow tribalism has to give way to real community. But how? Maybe I will leave that for another day. I haven’t thirty minutes tonight to find the answer.

Until next time,

DP

We can all agree that chaos is bad. Right? The mere mention of the word conjures up feelings of anxiety and thoughts of confusion. Chaos means that we are out of control. We envision messy closets and desk drawers full of trash, old magazines and articles we thought we would file. There is nothing about chaos that is attractive. In fact if we are to have a good life we should read a book that will show us how to get control. Or listen to a podcast. Preferably from an organized podcast app on our organized iPhone. Control is good and chaos is bad. Right?

Wait a minute. I recently went online and quickly found that chaos is regularly considered synonymously with a lack of productivity. If one is to be productive, one must be in control. Or so I am told. Don’t get me wrong, I love a clean closet. One day I even plan on having a clean garage. I love when all my pens in my drawer are lined up in the same direction and if a cap is missing, then the pen will soon follow. Who in their right mind would say that chaos is a good thing?

I am sitting in my office tonight and I love the fact that all my books are lined up on my bookshelves perfectly. There is no dust on my desk and even my computer screen is smudge free. My laundry is done, the whole house is clean and even my little dog Sancho has been outside to do his business. No chaos here. I have slain the beast.

Not quite. What might look clean and orderly on the outside may just hide what may be going on in the inside. Control over one’s life is an illusion that can cripple. Indeed it leads to fear and paralysis. I suspect that is why people love to think that chaos is the enemy. If it can be controlled then tomorrow will not be a surprise. No chaos means no disasters, no tragedies, no problems.

I can see why this is so attractive. Who wants to live a life that feels out of control. Slay the chaos brother and sister so that you won’t have to face the unknown. Keep life under control so that the phone call late at night won’t come. You won’t get the unexpected email or that text from your boss will never arrive. What a life! Everything as it should be.

I am wondering if you, the reader, have that kind of life? Do you have everything under control? Are you on top of things so much that you never face the unexpected? Of course not.

Over the past several years I have been taken with something called “chaos theory,” particularly as it might help us see how what seems like random confusion, may be part of something more complex. If you are not familiar with chaos theory it can be explained as a mathematical theory that can be used to explain complex systems such as weather, astronomy, politics, economics and even life itself. It suggests that many complex systems may appear to behave in a random manner, but in reality, there is an underlying order that may be difficult to see.

Sounds like of a life of faith to me. What if all the energy we spend on trying to control the chaos around us was redirected? Instead of control we sought to simply embrace. There are unexpected tragedies in life. Sometimes the phone call comes late at night. People lose their jobs, businesses go bankrupt and even churches close. What if those seemingly random events that cause such anxiety were simply embraced as part of life? What if we stopped trying to slay the chaos and simply moved our chairs up close to the chaos and embraced it? I suppose the only way to do that is to understand, like the writer of the book Hebrews told us, that faith is being certain about what we cannot see. What if we were certain that God was at work, even in the midst of our fear of the unknown?

I am learning this. God is good. God’s love is deeper than we can conceive. God is not surprised by that phone call or that unexpected event that we thought we might be able to control. Beyond that, God is intricately at work, building on all we thought we could control. By trying to slay the chaos, we might be working at cross purposes to the underlying beauty God is building in our lives and in the world around us. Even out of tragedy.

I am still going to keep my books organized in my office but I will no longer try to control the chaos. Instead I will embrace it. Because in the midst of chaos, God is. And where God is, beauty resides.

Until next time,

DP

Over the past several months when I meet people I introduce myself as a writer. I have to admit that I feel a bit presumptuous when I do that. It is not a lie. In fact this blog proves the truth in that statement. But self-publishing on a website that I own and pay for doesn’t quite feel like I deserve to be called an author. What makes matters worse is that I recently met a prolific writer. He has published several books and more articles in national magazines that I can count. I looked at his bibliography and compared it to mine. Not a good idea.

Writing is an odd occupation. Unless you are a best-selling author, there isn’t money to be made. Nor are there benefits like health insurance or a retirement plan. I don’t suppose many children say they want to be an author when they grow up. Despite the mythology that everyone wants to write the great American novel, I suspect that is a stretch at best. So why write?

When I was a senior in high school, my English teacher assigned a project. We were asked to write a short story. My academic pursuits back then were minimal at best. I loved to play football, chase girls and drink beer but studying was not a priority. Yet I attacked this assignment as if it were a meal for a starving person. I am not sure why but I decided to spend the time thinking through what I would write and when I put pencil to paper, I felt like I was doing something important. It was fun. I was invigorated. I didn’t even care if my teacher liked the result. That wasn’t why I wrote. I wrote because it made me come alive.

As it turns out, my teacher loved the short story. So much so that for the rest of the year that is all I did. I sat in the back the room and wrote. I wrote short stories, a couple of plays and several essays. I avoided the hard work of diagramming sentences that my classmates were tasked with completing. That was fine by me but I might have learned a few grammatical rules that would have served me later on. But I was introduced to writing. I loved it.

Now I have the time to return to that love. I have plans to be published. I will submit a few articles to a couple of journals and websites. I still feel as if I have several books imbedded within me. But like my first experience with spending time doing nothing more than simply putting pen to paper (or now pecking out words on my computer), I am not concerned about the result that might come from writing. I just do it because I feel alive and invigorated when I do. I have something to say but that is not as important to me as simply saying it.

So here I sit and write on a Saturday night. I enjoyed meeting someone who has had great success writing. But I wonder if success has more to do with simply doing it and leaving the results to unfold as they may. In the meantime, I will continue to give expression to that which lies deep within me.

Until next time,

DP

According to dictionary.com, the “Dog Days of Summer” are:

1. The sultry part of the summer, supposed to occur during the period of Sirius, the Dog Star, rises at the same time as the sun: now often reckoned from July 3 to August 11.

2. A period marked by lethargy, inactivity, or indolence.

The second part of the definition resonates with me. Today is another hot and sultry day, hovering around 100 degrees. There is promise of cooler days ahead, but today feels like yesterday and will feel like tomorrow. Keeping the blinds closed and the air conditioner humming along is about the best one can do.

Beyond the heat and humidity of the day, “dog days” can bring an overwhelming sense of being stuck. It takes effort to get outdoors, to run errands or to achieve much of anything. Even reading a book seems like a monumental task. I have two dogs who live with me and when I see them just sleeping, eating, and sleeping again, I sense that they personify the very essence of “lethargy, inactivity, or indolence.” The question that needs to be asked is: can I do anything to overcome the dog days of summer?

I once read that courage does not mean the absence of fear but taking action in the midst of fear. I think there is a deep truth in that. Perhaps that is the key to overcoming the sense of being stuck. I have begun a habit of writing down things that need to be accomplished during the week. When I look at the list, I do not always “feel” like accomplishing the tasks. But if I wait until I feel like doing something, I may never move out of my favorite chair.

As the saying goes “if it’s not one thing, it’s another.” Life is full of distractions, excuses and challenges that can paralyze and keep one stuck in the dog days of summer. Taking action, even if one does not feel like it, is the key to overcoming inaction.

Tomorrow is not here yet and yesterday is gone forever. But I have today. So I commit myself to not being manipulated either by outside forces or an inner sense of malaise. I can take action. How about you?

Until next time,

DP