Tuesday, August 30, 2005

TURBO

After a recent rainstorm, my daughters found a baby squirrel that had been blown out of its nest. It barely had hair, and its eyes were not yet open. So, being the tenderhearted people they are, they brought it home.




After setting up an old aquarium in the garage, they used one of my syringes (sans needle)—left over from my smack habit—to feed it milk. They soon discovered that it was a he, and they named him Turbo. I don’t know why. Maybe because squirrels are fast...?



They kept up the feedings for a few days, and Turbo seemed to gain strength and vitality. He would crawl around some and cling to them with his little claws when they fed him. But his good health was creating a certain degree of tension in our home.

My wife is a gardner. She raises all kinds of flowers and herbs. She grows some vegetables too; but it’s a hardscrabble life in a yard surrounded by 80 year-old trees giving heavy shade. In her attempt to cultivate a tomato crop each year, she suffers from lack of direct sunlight, and she regularly loses to the ranks of the thieving squirrel population. She’s tried fencing and home remedy repellents; I’ve even trapped squirrels for her and released them outside the city. They call in reinforcements and continue chowing down on the convenient crop. It makes her furious. Damn yard rats.

But after a couple of days I noticed my wife starting to warm to the little fella. I'm not sure she was loving the idea of nurturing a future enemy; but as a mother she saw her daughters caring for a vulnerable creature and it changed her.

Love has a way doesn't it? No matter what your beliefs or experiences; no matter how dogmatic you might be, witnessing the selfless love of another bends you to a new way of thinking. There is nothing quite as beautiful as an act of authentic grace.

Well, after three or four days, Turbo took a turn for the worse. He was showing signs of dehydration and malnutrition. We could mother him, but we didn’t have what his momma had to give. We called the local conservation office to find out what we should do.

"Take it back where you found it."

"Excuse me. It's just a baby; it wouldn't stand a chance."

"It stands a better chance of its mother finding it and caring for it than it does surviving in your care."

This was hard news to take. We were not optimistic. The next day we formed, what looked like a funeral procession, to take Turbo home. We walked the block in silence. When we got to his tree, the girls set him down and covered him with dry leaves, so he would stand a better chance with the neighborhood cats. They considered saying a few words, then decided to just say goodbye for now. The youngest got red-faced and wet-cheeked; she's always had a soft spot for the underdog, the neglected. It was killing her to give up and walk away.

All of a sudden my eyes began to sting.

"It's just a damn squirrel," I told myself.

"It's a wild animal. Wild animals die every day and no one in their world gives a shit. Grow up."

Call me weak and childish, but I couldn't get that squirrel out of my mind.

I went to look for him the next day. I searched and searched; then I saw him. The poor little guy was a couple of feet up the tree, spread out wide, clinging on for dear life, still breathing, but not looking too good.

The next day he was gone.

Maybe his family found him and carried him home. Maybe his aunt is teaching him the fine art of tomato theft at this very moment. Or, maybe he became a meal. Contrary to the anthropomorphizing of Disney, there was no celebration or mourning in the squirrel community. They moved on. Life and death are just part of everyday existence.

But I find myself still thinking about how that vulnerable creature changed our family. How it turned my children into mothers and how it changed my wife's heart.

I think about how, even though he was insignificant, Turbo did not fall to the ground without God's knowledge.

I think about how we don't live in isolated boxes. Our lives affect the world around us.

I think about how we sometimes do the wrong thing, even when our intentions are pure.

I'm not sure what the Lesson, or Higher Purpose was in Turbo's visit to our home; but I'm leaving a tomato out for him.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

WHY I DON'T PRAY IN CLASS

As you may know, I teach at an evangelical Christian university. It seems like a strange fit sometimes, what with my progressive ideologies and occasional snarky attitudes toward the religious right, but on the whole it's a pleasant experience. I don't mind being an enigma. In fact, I quite enjoy it sometimes. I recognize the danger of slipping into my own sanctimonious martyr complex, so I try to engage in regular self-examination and criticism. Valuing honesty over agendas works pretty well for me.


At the University, many of the faculty begin classes and meetings with prayer. Makes sense: Christian school, prayer, etc. I, on the other hand, do not begin classes with prayer. It's a college, not a church. After having my faith questioned by a student a year or so ago, when he challenged me on my class prayer platform, I wrote this essay that I distribute with my syllabi.


WHY I DON’T PRAY IN CLASS

Okay, so I don’t pray in class. This is a relief to some, a concern for others.

You might assume that I am opposed to praying in class. You’d be wrong. You can pray if you want to. I know some praying professors, and I completely support them. If they are compelled by the spirit to begin class with prayer, who am I to discourage, denigrate, or otherwise diminish them in their obedience to God? And it’s not like I’ve never prayed in class. I just don’t make a habit of it.

You might also assume that I am not the praying type. You’d be wrong again. Many mornings (but not as many as I should) at 6:30 a.m. I settle in and center down. I begin with a time of contemplative meditation, where I discipline myself to remove all distraction from my mind except the holy presence of God. I do that in complete stillness and silence for 15 minutes or so, until the spirit of Christ fully inhabits me. I offer my thanks, confess my sins, and ask for help. After that I join my family and my dog. We read scripture and pray together. Justice, the dog, is a canine mystic. She puts her head on her paws and usually lets out a gentle grunt, as though she is in touch with a deeper spirit than we silly humans.

It is rare for me to finish a time of prayer with dry eyes. Something about the truth and grace of it just gets to me. Sometimes it's hard to pull myself out of the world of the spirit and into the step and fetch of the here and now.

I have taught at the University for eight years, and I have seen hundreds of meetings and gatherings begin with prayer. Sometimes it strikes me as humble and genuine, but too often it is sort of like calling a meeting to order - like a pledge of allegiance or a national anthem.

I take this cue from Jesus’ teaching in the Gospel According to Matthew:

And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. When you are praying, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do; for they think that they will be heard because of their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.

I don’t pray in class because prayer shakes me, it shatters me, it breaks me into a thousand pieces, and puts me back together. It gets me lost and finds me. It tears me up and mends me. It’s like nudity: beautiful and grim, and rarely appropriate for public consumption. I know that every prayer doesn’t have to be so intimate and intense. I do pray in a “normal” way at times. But, I’m not a big fan of “normal.”

Now that I’ve told you far more than you ever wanted to know, you understand why I don’t pray in class. Feel free to disagree, and even criticize me if you wish; but if you do, I may ask you to join me at 6:30 in the morning.

Monday, August 08, 2005

PERSPECTIVE

In April I wrote about this ill-fated battle to save a neighborhood school. Well, blow the bugle and sound the shofar; they're baaaaaack. The School Closers are back and they’re packing multiple warheads. It’s not just about one or two small schools this time. They are discussing a proposal to abandon a dozen neighborhood elementary schools with the aim of consolidating them into regional education supercenters.

Among the targeted is Rountree School, in my neighborhood. My kids went there. Their grandpa went there. Many of our friends are graduates. It's more than just an educational institution, this 90 year-old, red brick structure is the heart that pumps the life through our little part of the city. At the very least, Rountree acts like a matriarch, shaping each new generation of neighbors in her image. As each new resident moves into the 'hood, or grows to the age of awareness, the old girl slows them down, fills their hearts with history, and puts a healthy glow on their faces. They learn that places aren't just spaces; they are meaning-makers that influence the way we inhabit the world. The gaggle of young voices passing by on the sidewalk each morning is not an insignificant curtain of sound; it is a sound and a sight that cuts a goove in our hearts.

The district hired an outside consultant, who has determined that small historic school buildings do not "achieve maximized facility usage" standards. Yeah? Maximize this.

He would have us believe that modern buildings, housing 500 students, are far more economical and conducive to education than decrepit old buildings that drive students and teachers to failure and mayhem. He's wrong.

Well, true to our reputation as an activist community, the Rountree neighbors have rallied, organized, protested, and persuaded. We continue to fight for, not only our school, but all the small schools that anchor neighborhoods throughout the city.

I have spent countless hours researching, writing, calling, etc. I hate what the Walmartization of education does to us as individuals and as communities. The good news is that I'm building buns of steel, what with the angry butt-clenching all day. Righteous indignation can be liberating. But it keeps me up at night. It's exhausting.

Friday night I got some perspective.

I watched Born Into Brothels. It's a documentary about an American photographer, Zana Briski, who befriends a group of children in Calcutta's red light district. Their mothers are prostitutes and the men in their lives are criminals and drug addicts. Zana gives them cameras and teaches them photography. The result is beautiful and heartbreaking. The work they produce is quite good, and they garner a great deal of international attention for their art. However, in her attempt to get the kids into boarding schools and out of the hellhole they're in, Zana is only partially successful. Some of these amazing children are doomed to a life of poverty, humiliation, and violence.

As documentaries go, it isn’t the most amazing piece of cinema I’ve ever seen; but the story vandalized any notion I had that my life was difficult. It didn't lessen my resolve to continue fighting for my neighborhood and the value of community; but it gave me perspective.

If we win and our school is preserved, it will be hard to go home, prop my feet up, and feel like we’ve actually done something, when Gour, Puja, Manik, Shanti, and Suchitra are still searching for a chance to escape the red light district.

When I pray tonight, I will pray that the consumeristic minds of my generation loosen their grip on the worlds within their fists. May we reach beyond the convenient. May we see beyond our desires. May "the least of these" be moved to the front of the line.

God help us.


Monday, August 01, 2005

MY HERO

I have been away, mentally and physically, for the past couple of days. I may try to unravel the incredibly tangled web we created with that last post. I just don't have the energy or desire at the moment.

I spent this afternoon with her and her family.

I sat in the courtroom, at the county courthouse, in my college town, watching a preliminary hearing. My presence was motivated by nothing but her desire to be surrounded by people who cared about her.

What a weekend. She graduated on Friday, and this on Monday.

She sat up there on the witness stand, still in her neck collar, and was the bravest person I've ever met. She told all the awful details to the judge, the attorneys, a room full of people, and the accused. She never faltered, never wavered. When she pointed at him, in his orange jump suit, she looked at him for a moment, then she was done. He would maintain no hold on her today.

She made it look easy, even though I'm sure it was excruciating. I know I hurt. I know I couldn't stop thinking about my daughters, until I had to force myself to stop thinking about them so I wouldn't start weeping or cursing. But something about her courage and strength rebuked me. In a strange way, I felt like she was supporting me. Her faith and her bravery surpass anything I've seen lately. I lost the urge to romanticize my pain as a father. She revoked my permission to grieve as a dad. I had no right. We didn't dwell on destruction, we moved on to live and love another day.

When she was talking with her counselor at home, she said, "I'm glad it was me."

What?

"There are a lot of women who wouldn't have been able to handle this. I can. I'm glad it was me and not one of them."

That's one of the most disturbing and beautiful things I've ever heard.