foil around the rabbit’s

ears lusting for definition.

And if you sat just right

and lifted your leg in the air

sitting next to dad’s chair

and if he didn’t accidentally poke

you with his burning cigarette

then

the picture would be clear

and you’d laugh when prompted

and mom would buy sugary

cereals and dinners prepared in tin

so we could sit and listen and believe

what we were told about

Cuba and

Missiles and the

President’s dead

“he was shot in the head” and

Medgar and

Malcolm and

Martin Luther King

“there goes the dream” and

‘Nam and the

Panthers and the

President lied

“wish he would’ve died” and

hippies and

protests and

love and not war

“what are we fighting for?”

We sat in the living room, the family room,

in the family room, living  – not dying,

and watched the set and didn’t

miss a thing.

I started going to church in the ninth grade and became a believer in Jesus shortly after I started attending. I read the Scriptures and it seemed like God was for the underdog.Here was a place where everyone was equal; no rich or poor, no white or black, no young or old, no Jew nor Greek, no male or female, no smart or retarded. Just people.

Idealistic, I suppose. Church people are like everybody else. They put together groups and don’t want other people to be in them. They’re fearful of people that are different than them. They don’t want to exclude people from church, I mean, they all want people to get saved as long as they aren’t in their groups. As long as they aren’t too demanding. As long as they don’t talk too much or say inappropriate things. As long as they smell okay and fit the definition of “normal.” I’ve known people to quit groups and quit churches because of people they defined as EGR people. Extra Grace Required. Puhleeze.

If you think you’ve never been an EGR person, think again. You drive someone crazy. Someone thinks you talk to much or smell funny or don’t fit their group. Someone things you are needy or poor or retarded. But when it happens to you, oh what an injustice!

We fret about doctrine and crosses and Bible translations and appropriate music and blah, blah, blah, but we can’t grasp the simplest concepts. Love your neighbor. Take care of those in need. If we can’t do that or at least work toward it, we should just shut the doors. What’s the point?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no angel, pretty far from it actually. Just read through my other blogs. But this one is simple. If we can’t treat everyone with kindness, if we can’t open up our gatherings to people different than us, if we want church to be our country club, we don’t get it. Any of it.

I suffer from DFFS. Don’t bother looking that up on WebMD. Actually, as a side note, my doctor said never, ever, ever, look up anything on WebMD. It’s a bad site for a hypochondriac. DFFS is Disappointing Family and Friends Syndrome. It’s debilitating. As a kid I was concerned with how my parents would feel when I reacted to the gifts they gave. I knew they (Mom) cared deeply and wanted to buy the perfect gifts for each of us. She saved money from my Pop’s meager salary to make sure Christmas was special and as the oldest kid I felt responsible to respond correctly.

When I got older and started buying gifts for my siblings and parents, I carried a burden to buy presents that would bring a glimmer of joy into the lives of those I blessed, maybe a glistening tear in the corner of each eye as they unwrapped the present I had overspent on. Didn’t happen often. I let people down. Same with girlfriends. Who buys a girl a $300 star sapphire ring from Zales on a payment plan when you’re fourteen years old and working at Baskin-Robbins? Me. Dumb me. She loved the ring, I’m sure, but she broke up with me before New Years Eve. Probably scared the love right out of her.

Then a wife and kids. Talk about the pressure to not disappoint. I gotta tell you, my family has always been gracious and appreciative of every single gift, it’s not their issue. Regardless, I was disappointed that I couldn’t do more, be more, say more, decorate more, be more insightful, or make the perfect egg nog. I gave up buying gifts for friends. I figure if they are going to be disappointed no matter what, no gift is at least more cost-effective.

And then there is work. Church work. “Ministry” they call it, although rarely does much of what you do in church work constitute “ministry.” The pressure to do a Christmas concert. The expectations of the perfect candlelit Christmas eve service. The desire to sing the same old songs we sing every year, but in a new and fresh way or in an old and traditional way. Some people love Christmas trees, others think they are a pagan symbol of the winter solstice. And don’t even talk about Santa. Honestly, you know that whatever you do, some people are going to be disappointed. It’s depressing.

I know this isn’t curable. I know it’s not anyone’s fault. You don’t catch DFFS from other people when they forget to cough in the crook of their arm. It is genetic. Sorry kids.

Time to self-medicate. Where are those plain old Christmas cookies?

In the New York Times I read

“Walmart  Employee Trampled to Death”

and wondered what Jdimypai Damour, 34,

who wore a blue smock with Save Money. Live

Better. stitched in yellow thread,

I wondered what he said

as the  tread of Christmas greed stomped

his life away.

Was it the cheap GPS? the out-dated

computer? or something more practical

like a two piece Dark Knight

pajama set for boys, only $4 while they last?

while he lasts?

while he gasps

for his last

breath?

Black Friday doorbusters killed

Jdimypai Damour

34

who temporarily wore a blue smock.

I hope someone purchased

the perfect

present.

I planned on going to church and then to the hospital where, for the past week, I’ve spent five minutes of every hour visiting my sedated mom. I hope she remembers the really funny things I’ve said to her, especially the jokes about her Michael Jackson cocktail and that she wouldn’t want to die on the same day as Ted Kennedy. At 7:30, before I got out of bed, I heard my mom say my name twice. Weird, you say, since I was in Leavenworth and she’s in a hospital in Kansas City, but I’ve heard that before and it means to call her. Think what you will. Anyway, I couldn’t call till 8:30, so I showered and coffeed and whatnotted until I could contact her nurse, Milagro, like the bean field war. She informed me, with a “Gee, I’m sorry to have to tell you this” tone, that the heart pump created a blood clot that blocked circulation to mom’s leg, that her foot was purple and mottled and that they needed to operate right away, would I give consent? How do you say no to a concerned nurse and a mottled foot? I gave the okay, called by sister and brother and left for the hospital.

When I arrived I was met in the lobby by mom’s heart doctor, Dr. Henry, the skilled, kind and straight-shooting surgeon that performed mom’s open-heart procedure. He said because of the loss of circulation it would take a heroic effort on the part of the vascular surgeon to save her leg below the knee. Best case scenario – she might just lose her foot, although there was a slim chance of saving the foot as well. David and Sharon arrived soon after and we huddled up in a circle of green tweed and brown naugahyde chairs and waited for news.

Two hours passed. I knew that the church in Scottsdale was praying for my mom, so I texted a friend and gave him some specifics. Jeanette called and I filled her in. Sharon’s husband Phil shared the request at their church in Gardner, Kansas. My home church in Leavenworth prayed for her. Dozens of Facebook friends prayed like they had all week. When I went to get a cup o’ joe and ran in to the surgeon coming out of the operating room. I shook his scrubbed hand and introduced him to my siblings. The operation went better than expected, they were able to save the foot, circulation looked good and it was pink. He said other things, but I don’t really remember what it was.

Mom’s a long way from recovered. Everyday is like a visit to an emotional amusement park. Sharon is exhausted, Dave is running on empty, and I’m trying to figure out how to make the clothes dryer and the air conditioner stay on at the same time in my mom’s poorly wired house. I don’t know what this week will bring and at some point I need to go home and work and see my peeps, who, I might add, were quite concerned that I was spending my 50th birthday in a hospital waiting room. I love my peeps, they treat me too well. And I appreciate their concern. Yes, my birthday was sad and happy and lonely and exhausting and filled with anxiety and fear and trembling. But I had a special guest at my party.

God showed up. He gave me grace and rest. He gave me hope and assurance. He gave me friends and family. He gave me life and a loving mom and a reason for living. He carried me when I deserved to be dropped. He sustained me when I deserved to be banished. He gave me living water when I found myself in the desert. He is good to me, regardless of the circumstances. Thanks for listening to all of those people God, and for stopping by the hospital to say hey. I appreciate it.

1. I have a musician friend, a very nice guy who struggles with addiction issues and therefore is homeless. He recently went to the emergency room of one of Scottsdale’s finest hospitals because he has severe heart trouble. He doesn’t have insurance, I mean, come on, he doesn’t even have a house. They ran some tests, discovered he needed a pacemaker, installed it (or whatever you call putting a contraption in your body to tell your heart what to do), and sent him on his merry way. Cost? $0. Unfortunately, the pacemaker doesn’t work well with his heart, so back to the hospital. They put him up on the lift for an oil change and decided he needs a different pacemaker, so they scheduled the installation for a few weeks from now. Still, no cost. Good thing he didn’t have lousy health insurance, it would have cost him a fortune.

2. My mom struggles with heart issues. During the last two years she has spent several weeks in the hospital: putting in stents, surviving a major heart attack, hooked up to ventilators and heart pumps and more meds than Michael Jackson. Last year the hospital called and told me to come home, it didn’t look like she was going to make it. She made it, traveled to Scottsdale for my daughter Allyse’s wedding, went on a sleigh ride, drove herself around town and did her own grocery shopping. This year, major surgery, open-heart surgery to fix a plethora of issues. She’s unconscious now, but they removed the heart pump tonight and we wait. Her recovery is tenuous. I pray that over the next few days they will reduce the meds and get her on her feet. She turns 82 in two weeks. Cost to her? $0. She has Medicare and good supplemental insurance from her ex-employer.

I know there are other stories, sad ones, tragic ones like a friend of mine who died from a simple fall because she wasn’t aware that she had severe diabetes and didn’t go to the doctor because she couldn’t afford it. That part we need to fix. So please don’t misunderstand me.

We do have a health care crisis. But it’s different than what we hear from the chattering pundits on both sides of the issue . The indigent and the elderly, at least in my experience, are well taken care of. It’s the young, the lower middle class and the working poor who struggle. We do need a fix, another option, but some of it starts at home. How many people who don’t have healthcare have expensive car payments, overloaded credit card debt, cell phones, cable television, high speed internet, HD TV and a Tivo box so they won’t miss an episode of “So You Think You Can Dance?” Why is it considered a right to have healthcare? When is a person’s fiscal irresponsibility considered? If people can afford expensive luxuries, why can’t they afford some form of healthcare? Catastrophic health insurance for a young person is not unreasonable, probably less per month than their texting service. Our priorities are odd. The healthcare system, the one that produces some of the greatest medications and technologies in the world needs tweaking, not overhauling. The part that needs overhauling is people taking responsibility for themselves.

Five years ago I weighed in at a svelte 299 pounds. Granted, I’m big-boned, but tipping the scales at nearly 3 Benjamin’s takes the cake. And the cookies. I decided to lose a bunch of blubber so I started bike riding. I did the South Beach Diet. I bought a road bike and signed up to pedal across Kansas. I got down to 250 and couldn’t get past it, so I gave up, although some of my eating habits did change and my lifestyle became healthier. Two fifty was healthy enough until I went to the doctor to get some medicine refilled. Blood tests revealed that my blood sugar was “borderline.” So I started up the weight loss plan again. This time it was different.

I bought a Wii. I limited my calories to 1800 a day. I started working out. Since March I’ve trimmed off 40 pounds. My pant size is in the 30′s for the first time since junior high. I actually run a little bit. I rejoined the gym, started doing squats, and got the road bike off the hook in the garage and started riding again. I’ve bought new pants, shirts and belts and contributed a lot of clothes to charity for obese homeless men.

But there are some problems. People say to me all the time “I bet you feel a lot better.” I don’t. I feel worse. I used to spend most of my days sitting in a chair and acting important, which can cause some butt pain and the need to occasionally visit a chiropractor, but not much more than that. I hurt everyday. My knee, my back, my shoulder, my ego, me elbow, all causing me issues because of the ding-danged working out. And did I mention guilt? The guilt of not working out one day or the guilt of nibbling a cookie or having a brewski. It’s better than giving myself shots, I get that, but I don’t feel better.

Also, and this one is weird, when I tell people I am trying to reach a goal of 180 they look kinda worried. “Oh, that’s a lot. My (fill in the blank here with the name of a young child or an elderly woman) weighs that much. You’ll look emaciated.” That concerned look confuses me, so let me clarify some things. I’m keeping the food I eat in me, I’m not bulemic. I’m eating food every day, I’m not anorexic. I look at myself in the mirror every day, I have a pretty realistic view of what is still there. It’s going to be okay.

One more thing. I’ve always had man-boobs. Developed them as a sixth grader. Every shirt I wore from 6th grade until, oh I don’t know, last week, had a special pinch mark in the center of the chest from pulling the shirt away from my DD’s. It looks like a third nipple. All us chubby guys do it. Just watch. Anyway, because my boobs got fat first, I think they’re leaving last. Bothersome. When all of me was puffy, they seemed to fit in, but now they are approaching a Ripley’s Believe it or Not category. I look like a middle-aged woman from the Discovery Channel’s “We Live With The Tribe.”

I’m healthier, I’m sure. I feel better about most of my body than I did. Sometimes I miss my belly. There’s no where to lean reading material or hold my coffee cup. I’ve lost depth in my belly button, eliminating my dip cup for holding Cheez Whiz while I eat Ritz crackers. I realize that there have to be sacrifices for health reasons, I just wasn’t ready for all of the implications. So long, belly. Would you give my boobies a call and invite them to join you wherever you are?

Here’s the problem. As long as I’ve known me, and some would question whether I really know me yet, most of what I think about is what is coming up next in my life, or what could be done next to improve on what is being done now. Professionally, that’s a good way to be, trying to stay one step ahead so you’re current when everyone else is behind. It worked well when I ran a band and I think it works well in church work, although there are certainly those who would heartily disagree. I sit in a worship service and wonder, what if we did this or that? I look at the structure of church government and think, there has to be a better way to do that. I think about expanding ministry and doing stuff other churches wouldn’t dare do and try to be creative in serving other people. And for the most part, all of that is fine and good.

But in my personal life, living for the next robs me, holds me captive, makes me empty my wallet of any content (this isn’t CONtent its conTENT. I thought it was cute. It’s mostly confusing) I can muster and leaves me with a pocket full of washed out receipts for things I barely remember doing. When I’m reading a book, I can’t wait to get done so I can read the next book. When I’m listening to a song, I rarely let it finish till I move on to the next song. When I’m sitting with friends I want to be in my office writing and when I am writing I want to be on the patio smoking a cigar. When I’m on vacation all I think about is getting back to work, while I’m at work . . . I think you get the general picture. It’s joyless and empty. Sure, I get a lot of stuff done. But so frickin’ what. (I stopped cussing, ‘nother story) When I’m dead and gone people aren’t going to ooh and aah because I got a lot done. They’re going to say, “ I think he was a nice guy, but he was too busy for me.” And speaking about death, it’s the ultimate next, so as an nextite, I’m always thinking about when I’m going to die and what I need to accomplish before I die and what people are going to say about me after I die. Like at that point I care.

So I’m making myself slow down. I’m working to enjoy the moment and let the next take care of itself. Not easy. I know I can’t do that all day, been a nextite for too long, so I’ve limited the hours I get to think about the future and started taking time to sit and listen to people and enjoy their company. Funny thing, they all become more likable and I care about them more when they’re just people and not part of my next plan or next event or next activity.

Later tonight, during my future thinking hour, I’m going to figure out what to write about next.

Then you read “how-to” books and you get this feeling that poets are reclusive navel gazers that don’t have time for people or interruptions, instead they need quiet, alone time to contemplate the hows and whys of the universe. You build an office but you call it a studio. You lock your things away so you feel free to mine the depths of your soul without fear of having to explain yourself to someone who loves you and reads your stuff and is convinced you need therapy. Then they lock away the sharp objects in the house, making it difficult to slice cheese when your other poet friends come over for a nice gouda on some expensive cracker and a bottle of the finest cabernet. Like I have other poet friends. Work pressure encroached on my writing time, my time to compose verse that would change the minds and attitudes of the non-poetic little people and express my romantic, reminiscent side. I snapped at work, I mean really snapped, scary snapped, and decided that my alone time had been put off too long and I needed a quiet retreat far, far away in order to find myself and rejuvenate my creative juices. So I came to Oregon. It’s beautiful. I’ve seen beautiful things. And I made a beautiful discovery.

I AM A PEOPLE PERSON.

There is nothing wrong with a little alone time, but for crying out loud, all this time with just me is making me crazy. How do you people that have to spend time with me stand it? I like people. I want to be with people. And like an old friend told me, investing in people is the most important thing I can do. So I’m coming home restored (in some ways) to who I used to be, a person who wants to be around people, wants to care about people, wants to encourage and lead people, who wants friendships that are meaningful and who wants to stop thinking about himself all the damned time. And I want to quit cussing. I still want to write poetry and there will be times when people are driving me crazy and I’m going to need a break. I want to go to grad school and get an MFA and get better at this poetry thing. I’m going to write a “how-to” book debunking all that mysterioso poet bs. (told you I was going to stop cussing) But I’m also going to see myself in a different light and feed the part of me that’s been shoved in the closet shadows for five years. Say hello when you see me and this time I’ll see you back.