Not Quite Fall

Sitting on my front porch on a cool Sunday morning is one of my favorite things to do.  I take a deep breath and fill my lungs with the crisp morning air.  I hear the bird sounds and if I pay attention I can identify the different calls in the way one might pick out a particular instrument in an orchestra playing a Mozart concerto. I focus on a particular call, appreciate its tonality, wonder what it means, then pull myself back and listen to it in the context of all of the morning sounds, eventually losing my handle on it but maybe picking up on another interesting call.

The sky is not quite overcast.  Every so often I see shadows appear when the clouds move apart just enough to allow the morning's like to beam through in its full intensity.  After a few minutes the light is diffused again by the could layer and the temperature seems to dip noticeably.   The breeze carries the warmth and the coolness equally.  When the sun is shining a warm, smooth, cuddle of a breeze wafts across the porch and when the sun hides behind the clouds, a crisper, edgy, fall breeze makes its appearance.

It will be warm today, in the mid-80s the weather prognosticators tell us, but they remind us too that we have turned the corner and that fall weather is on its way.  Some people mourn the end of summer.  I, on the other hand, am more inclined to view the coming fall with anticipation and thankfulness.  

I'm not getting old

I'm not old, though I think the specter of being old is not far over the horizon.   Time seems to compress as the years go by, each year accelerating from beginning to end.   No longer are summers long, and filled with excitement as they appeared to my younger school-aged self.  In those days the months between school years seemed to last forever. 

As I sit on the front porch swing, happily enjoying the early morning sun on my shoulders (shout out to John Denver) and listening to the rooster crow at the arrival of this new day,  I try to enjoy this time, moment by moment because the moments pass too quickly.

Finding Home

My brother-in-law, Jeff Miller, passed away recently.  During Jeff's eulogy, the minister talked about "Finding Home" in a way that really struck me.  I don't remember the specifics of what Pastor Dan said, but I took away a new way to think about "Home".  Maybe it's different from the geographical location I always thought it was. Perhaps it is a place, described by what it does for you rather than where it is.

Jeff was a musician, a very talented musician.  He was also a natural teacher and loved to share his knowledge of music and rhythm.  He would lead drum circles where a large group of people would literally sit in a circle and play African-style drums of all sorts.  I have never participated in one but as the minister described them, Jeff would start by teaching a simple rhythm, a rhythm that one could always come back to, I might call it a touchstone.  I guess the drummers in the circle would move on from this home rhythm and explore more complex variations, but not always successfully.  Jeff, the minister said, would remind everyone when things turned into a cacophony that they can always return to the home rhythm; to something simple, something familiar, something comfortable, the foundation.

That is such a wonderful thought for me.  I often come back to it in times of great strife and stress.  When I feel overwhelmed by the noise and activity around me, I try to remind myself to return home.  This doesn't mean to hide or run away.  I don't need to physically move at all.  I have come to understand it as re-engaging with the familiar tools that have worked for me in the past.  To me, now "going home" means to simplify, to return to the natural rhythm that is comfortable, that is foundational, that is trustworthy... that is home.

This was reinforced for me shortly after I returned home from the funeral.  I was doing a common running workout in the early morning. I was working on my tempo, a combination of pace, stride length, and cadence.  It is a high-intensity workout. In the early stages, my pace was a little all over the map and I was getting frustrated.  I could not seem to dial it into something consistent.  I was starting to struggle a little at this higher level of effort and my breathing was becoming labored.  A familiar panic began to set in that often results in aborting the effort entirely.  As I was reaching my crescendo of frustration and anxiety, this thought of a home rhythm came to my conscious mind. I decided to try something.  I began to listen to my breathing and the sound of my feet striking the ground.  I began to hear a natural rhythm, maybe the home rhythm for this run.  My breathing and my stride settled.  I was still working hard, but I was calm.  It allowed me to get into a flow where I could lose myself and become aware only of the pleasure of running.  The rhythm was comfortable.  It was foundational. It was trustworthy.  In the end, I had run faster and further than I had expected.  This experiment with a "returning home" will stay with me for a long time.

Jeff left this world in November of 2022.  He left his wife, his boys, and many people who loved him dearly, but he returned home.  He has left this noisy world, that is full of anxiety, and strife.  His soul went to a place of comfort, relief, and wholeness.  A place where the natural rhythm of all living things has its source.  Maybe that is where true peace is, being part of the home rhythm that is foundational to all things.  

Jeffrey Evans Miller, 72, of Missoula MT and Las Vegas NV, passed away in Sierra Leone, West Africa on November 13, 2022 after a short, sudden illness.

Jeff, born in Texas and raised in Missoula, enlisted in the US Army at the age of 17 and served tours of duty in Vietnam as well as state-side. Jeff also served as a volunteer for the National Disaster Medical Service as a Logistics Officer from 2011 to 2019.  At 50 years of age he earned a pilot license and began a more than 20 year love of airplanes, flying, and sharing that love with many people.

Jeff was an extraordinary musician, sharing his knowledge and love of many music genres and encouraging many beginners.  He was a humble master of the guitar, African drums and Native American-style flute.  He was affectionately known as Uncle Boom to more than 100 children at The Raining Season orphanage in West Africa where he led drumming.

Jeff was preceded in death by his parents Gardner and Mary Miller, his sister Harriet, and brothers Brock and Roger.  Jeff is survived by his wife Cheryl Miller (Limer), his 2 sons in Sierra Leone, Sheku and Sulaiman (Will), and by many beloved nephews and nieces.

The World Was on Autopilot

The world changed the week of March 9th 2020.  Just prior to that, I had actually started to write about how the world seemed to be on auto-pilot.  My thoughts began to orient along that line when my youngest daughter and I went to Texas Roadhouse to get a steak (I had a gift card that I needed to use up).  I didn't think to call ahead, but I figured if we went reasonably early it would be fine.  I was wrong, the place was mobbed.

When we arrived there were already people waiting outside.  We checked in with the hostess.  She rattled some memorized, scripted statements so quickly that I could not even comprehend what she said.  She then handed me a pager and I got the general idea of what to do.  We waded back through the sea of humanity gathered in the waiting area and managed to find a place to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with dozens of other people queued up in a long narrow waiting room.  Twenty minutes later the pager buzzed and we returned to the hostess who took the pager and motion us to another waiting line.  Eventually, we were seated.  The waitress arrived and muttered some memorized lines in a completely insincere tone of voice and handed us menus.  I'm sure it began "Hi, welcome to Texas Roadhouse, I'm <insert name>. Have you been here before?"  I thought to myself that this is not a restaurant, it is a feeding factory.  It is the Walmart of steak places.  The staff was completely on auto-pilot.

A couple of days later I was getting a blood test.  I arrived at the lab in the hospital when it opened first thing in the morning.  I was the third person in line.  When it was my turn to check-in, I walked up to the desk.  I was treated with a well-rehearsed set of instructions that included providing my insurance card and identification.  It was identical to what I had already heard twice.  There was no acknowledgment of any of us as actual human beings with identities.  We represented "blood draws" or "needle sticks".  The attitude was professional and respectful but was completely rehearsed and lacked any notion of sincerity or compassion.  I was in a laboratory test factory.  The staff was on autopilot.  

I understand that seeing everyone as an individual slows things down.  I get that it takes some effort to remember all of what you need to cover if you don't say the same thing, the same way every time.

A skill that actors are required to develop is the ability to make their lines "new" every time they perform.  This audience hasn't heard them yet.  They deserve the best.  I understand though that these are not professional actors.  They are simply people who fight the boredom involved in repeating the same process over and over again.  Tomorrow will be the same as today and the day after.  The brain-numbing repetition must be terrible.

Then I went to the dentist.  After my regular bi-annual cleaning we set up the next appointment for six months hence.  I remember saying that that would be fine.  The audacity of my statement in retrospect was amazing.  It was not fine.  Everything would change, and change again, and again as we navigated through the COVID pandemic, the lockdowns, the masking, the cancelations and the fear.

It seems that there will never be a return to "normal".  How can we?  Nothing is clear and literally, everyone is impacted. There is only tomorrow, we cannot see beyond that.  The steak factory is shut down.  Lab testing has new rules to even get through the front door.  What awaits us is a mystery.  Perhaps it's always been that way and we somehow failed to understand it.

And now, after only a month, people are demanding an end to the "lockdown".  They view it as a personal front to their personal liberty.  It is not that.  It is actually a sign of respect for our community.  We are not hiding from the virus.  We are avoiding the potential to pass it along if we are afflicted with it.  We are looking out for our neighbor.  That would be a good new normal, but I suspect it is a wasted lesson in most cases.

A Father's Thoughts on his Daughter's Wedding Day

On a spring day in May, nearly a quarter-century ago, God, in His infinite wisdom, decided that my wife and I should be given responsibility for another new soul.  Having patiently waited so long and prayed so diligently, God gave us the very special blessing of a daughter.

I remember holding this delicate, newborn girl in my arms and wondering what the future would hold for her and, yes, even then, praying that she would, in God's time, find a partner to spend her life with.  Sometimes as I rocked her to sleep I'd look into the tiny cherub's face and try to imagine how it would feel when I might have the honor of walking her down the aisle as she began a new life.  

So here we are, the day has arrived and I no longer need to guess about how would feel.  I will try to explain this feeling even though words fail in many ways to do it justice.

Over the years, I think I have figured out that God has a special recipe for daughters.  I think He begins with a spirit of kindness, caring, and grace for he knows those who are frightened, alone, and in need will be drawn to her.  He puts into her a spirit of strength, courage, and determination for the times when she must lead, encourage, and defend.  He adds to this a spirit of wisdom for He knows she will be a teacher, and a spirit of humility, and cooperation because He desires for her to be a partner.

Sometimes, just for a challenge, He spices the mix with a little, sassy spunk which takes about 13 years to make an appearance and another 10 to learn to manage.

Most importantly, when God gives a man a daughter, he takes a large chunk of the father's heart and a heaping portion of the father's spirit and mixes it in.  But here is the thing, He doesn't remove it first.  Therein lies the mystery.  I think that a father is forever joined with his daughter in a very special way, his heart in her heart, his spirit in her spirit.

...as I danced with Cinderella...

I see it as natural that a son strives to separate himself from his father, become independent, and honor his father through imitation and thoughtful refinement.  A daughter, it seems to me, is different in that way.  I think she nurtures this special connection with her dad like she might take care of a fruit tree; pruning here and there as old ways become memories while feeding the roots and encouraging the tree to continue to bear its fruit. 

It seems fitting to me that a man can give his whole heart to his wife, and still share it in a special way with their daughter(s).  It is magical and mystical.  

When God decides to find a partner for a daughter, it is time for a father's role to change. It is a bittersweet change because, though the world he had known is forever changed, his heart and his spirit have become part of something new, and it transforms him and his world grows larger.  ...and this is the thing that the prince never knew.  

So I pray for this newly married couple, this new partnership, this newly blessed covenant.  May they make a warm home, and a loving family.  May they love without bounds and, if they are blessed with a daughter, may Kyle feel the wonder of someday seeing his heart and spirit carried away in love as a new world spins into creation. 

Cheryl and Kyle Melnyk, October 21, 2022

...thank you to Steven Curtis Chapman for the beautiful song "Dancing with Cinderella" and for reminding us fathers to appreciate the moments we have with our daughters