letter to a graduate

To hear Brandi read the essay instead, click here: https://youtu.be/UvLw--jYcEA

 My oldest child graduates from high school this week, and here is my letter to him.

Marshall,

When you were born, you surprised us all. You came far too early, in a process that began in the middle of the night. I woke up, peed a little, and went to the bathroom (note the order of those actions…you’re welcome). I had heard of water breaking, but I had also heard of losing control of all the things when you are pregnant, so I figured I was in the stage of the 7th month where you just pee on yourself without permission. Still, it felt weird. I got down on our nasty rose-colored carpet and smelled…for what, I’m not sure. My smell test confirmed nothing (except that our carpet looked disgusting and smelled even worse). I got back in bed, and, eventually, we called our doctor, whose advice was utterly useless. A few hours later, we drove to the hospital, trusting our own instincts in defiance of the conventional wisdom we had heard.

An hour later they told us not only had my water broken, but that I was close to transition and you would soon be born. Your dad and I, true to form, were equal parts clueless and confident, and just dumb enough to be super psyched about you coming so fast. As you know, we are loud and very salty people. In that delivery room though, I was silent. I had no energy for anyone but you, and will never forget the feeling of you dropping into place so I could bring you into the world. I knew it was time to push, and I began without telling anyone. Just when I suspected I was not doing well, I heard a NICU nurse lean to another and say, “it looks like we need to help the mom, not the baby.” I was trash at pushing! They offered me a mirror, thinking it would motivate me to push more effectively. “Ummm. Hard pass.” Here’s the lesson though: Failing or not, fabulous or falling apart, sometimes you just have to keep trying. So I did, and you were born.

You started the world tiny, sick and full of tubes. Now you are a grown man, ready to launch into the world. Every time you started a new thing, you were full of anxiety, and often tears. You second guessed yourself, unsure of who you were or where you fit. Your adolescence has transformed you into a different kind of person: Like your dad and me, you are clueless and confident, and you trust your instincts even when they tell you to do something that feels scary. You will soon start a new adventure across the country, and although I keep waiting for you to blink, you are clear eyed and all in.

My favorite thing about you is your love of absurdity. You are fun and funny, and seem to have no problem making a fool of yourself. Finding laughter so easily draws people to you because you create safety and belonging as you connect the people around you together with fun. I’ve seen you work this magic, and know you do it to cheer people up or to help create an “us.” Your ease with yourself invites others to chill out and drop their postures. (I imagine you running through your dorm with a pick in your hair and a tutu on, dropping beats or singing Frozen tunes at the top of your lungs.)

Every thought of you (well…most thoughts of you), bring deep-seated joy. You are more fabulous than any human we hoped to create. I know that is ridiculous, but it’s true. Even when you make terrible choices, I know you know how the wrong happened and why you should stop. Even when you call me out on my bullshit, which you do liberally and often, I’m amazed that you even noticed. You pay attention, and you use what you find for good. Your mix of tomfoolery and deep perceptiveness are remarkable to me. Here are a few tips in case you haven’t noticed them yet.

Get deep with your people, but keep expanding your us. Expect your friends to want to get into the weeds of your life with you, and be a person who will bear them up in struggle as well. Deep friends show up, they lean into the hard, and they simultaneously make absurd memories together. As you find your crew, use that energy to include others. You pay attention, and you notice the hierarchies in every room. I’ve seen you call out injustice and gather in the outsider. Keep being that guy. Keep reaching outside of you to connect with others. Keep using humor to draw people in, choosing to welcome instead of exclude. You are mostly comfortable in your own skin, which means you enjoy a privilege that eludes others daily. Use your sense of belonging to welcome others, knowing you limit yourself when you exclude them. You are powerful within, and you need others to make sense of this life.

Seek wisdom, but keep trusting your instincts. You were born to 2 parents who were in over their heads. We often needed, asked for and received wisdom. Even in our ignorance, we carried some skepticism about “the way things are done.” You are entering an adult world that privileges money, whiteness and men. Reject that mess and be better. When you see a person who understands justice, follow them around until they teach you. Pursue voices of color, voices from other countries, voices of women, voices from different walks of life. If you follow the status quo, you will support systems that hurt people. If you keep score by that standard, you will win, but know this: You can’t win that game without crushing others. Instead, choose to make things right for those around you. You have an instinct for equity, and you know how to step aside to make room for others. Keep being that guy, and shatter the systems that pick winners and losers.

Take yourself seriously, and don’t take yourself seriously. As you and your friends love to remind me, “We’re adults now. What are you gonna do?” First of all: I disagree. To the point though, you are, in fact, an adult! You are right. So, own your shit. This phrase is cross-stitched in our kitchen, and I hope you will bury it deep within. For good and for bad, own all of it. Everything matters from here on out. Every experience helps you find your core, your voice, your habits, your presence, your passion. You are becoming the person you will be. AND, you very likely will never reach the stage where you have arrived. You are aiming for a target that is not there. Don’t take yourself too seriously. Failure is the stuff, and blowing something up teaches you an awful lot about who you are and what you’ll go to bat for.  Take a lil piece of your dad (“chill out, it’ll be okay”) and a lil piece of me (“everything matters! if you don’t care, who will?”), and find your path between ours.

Marshall Josiah, you got the best of us and the worst of us. You were born into a lot of uncertain, fumbling absurdity, but we found our way! We honestly adore you and we believe in the way you are walking down the road you have chosen. I pray you will find truth to anchor you when you fail spectacularly. I pray you will trust the voice inside as the voice of God, your Maker. I pray you will embrace stillness, silence and solitude as you practice the presence of God’s love in your life. I pray you will receive the grace of daily bread and new beginnings that Jesus offers you. I pray you will realize your story is connected to many others, and your life is best used in serving your community. I pray you will love God, and love others, every day, on purpose.

on mirrors and voices

To hear Brandi read this essay instead, click here: https://youtu.be/M3I3-ng5PrY

A friend told me recently that everyone agreed it was really great that I was embracing my gray hair.

Aren’t friends great?!

Today I’d like to talk about the tensions between how we see ourselves in the world and how others see us in the world. When I received this kind affirmation, I felt a few things: Baffled by the unasked-for endorsement of a choice I didn’t know I was making. Annoyed that “everyone” had discussed my non-choice. Amused at the type of math a person does before telling another person what I had been told.

Mostly though, I felt like that’s about right for how I move through the world. I regularly leave the rest room at work shocked by the revelation of the mirror. How have I walked through the day not knowing about my hair and face situations?

We recently got a full length mirror, the first one we have had since moving to Nashville 15 years ago. It has been…disorienting. Because I often don’t know what I actually look like, it is strange to see my full self every morning. It has reminded me that I am perceived as often as I perceive. Apparently, all day I interact with other people whose eyes work. This is a ridiculous revelation, but it feels like one. I have spent a lot of my adult life learning to seek out and learn from the perspectives of others, de-centering and tempering my own my thoughts with their experiences. And yet, a simple mirror in my bathroom has shocked me by reminding me that I am biased toward my own perspective every minute of the day.

What do we do with the fact that we are always on display?

Walter Benjamin is a Jewish philosopher who lived and worked in the early 20th century. His thinking has shaped my own in a lot of ways, and he has relevant thoughts here. He argues, regarding art and our ability to mindlessly reproduce art, that “the public is an examiner, but an absent-minded one.” He claims that when we produce art for the purpose of public consumption, we lose authenticity. When we focus on the way we will be perceived rather than engaging in the moment as our creative, present selves, we likely diminish our connection to ourselves and others. Do you feel that? I experience it often before I speak or expose my ideas to a new crowd. Rather than celebrating the connection I feel when I find a new way of making sense of our experience, I sometimes fixate on how it will be received, who will be offended, and how I will handle the tension that arises. When I am consumed with how I look instead of how I am, it is impossible to be present with others.

Walker Percy, writing a lot later from a different context and continent, suggests that when we live lives of public display (as many of us do), we—perhaps unknowingly—“need others to certify [our] experience as genuine.” According to Percy, when we choose to see ourselves through the eyes of others, we hand our power over to them, asking them to name us as valuable, as worthy, as authentic. In so doing, what takes “place is a radical loss of sovereignty over that which is” ours. When we see ourselves in the mirror, rather than seeing the world through our eyes, we give our power away. I hope this resonates too? When I’m concerned with the reactions to my self, I lose the ability to find value in my perspective. I become consumed with where I am positioned rather than positioning myself. I can only find value if another calls me valuable, rather than living out my identity as a person made in the divine imprint, sharing a community with other creature with different points of view. When I am worried about how others see me, it is hard to see myself, let alone offer what I can to my community.

I can’t talk more about this without Michael Foucault, although I realize that in mentioning him I am getting really close to obnoxious. (I’ll make it quick and then get to the point.) Foucault helpfully describes the power of the “Gaze” to control behavior, even when the gaze-r is unknown or unseen. He describes prisons whose discipline system is founded on the Panopticon: a central tower with a line of sight into every room. Foucault says a person watching or even the possibility of being watched controls the behavior of the inmates. (Tolkien surely agreed, as his embodied metaphor for evil control was literally an all-seeing eye. Sauron, anyone?)

My college students write a paper that gives them the chance to grapple with these issues: Does engagement on social media platforms (where, one could argue, users willingly submit their lives to the eyes of others) give power to the poster or the viewer?

I want to pose a similar question to us as we think about how we live in the world. Do we sense that we are always being watched, performing for others in the choices we make, the positions we assume, the people we champion or ignore? Does the gaze of others make you question your worth? Or, do you know your own voice and respect your ability to find your path? It is terribly important to listen to the ideas of others, but not in a way the removes our ability to find our own perspectives. Our communities only work if we all contribute in sacrificial and fulfilling ways. To do that, you need to find your voice, your passion, your purpose. You can’t do that by obsessing over your reflection; you have to pay attention to what you see out of your experience.

Mirrors are helpful. Noticing how I am perceived by others can make me kinder and more supportive of those around me. When the voices of others are louder than my voice, however, I’m afraid I begin to lose my sovereignty, my power. I diminish my voice and sense of meaningful calling, replacing it with the alleged thoughts of others. When I make choices and take stances in order to please those who seem to be in the know, I chase an uncatchable rabbit. Performing for others becomes a greedy way of life, and as I chase the approval of the all-seeing eye, I lose the ability to name my own thoughts or convictions. When this happens, we all lose because every voice matters, including yours.

Weigh the balance between how you see and how you think you are seen. Step away from the mirror, and get to know your own voice. We need your kind of you in the world, so consider this my invitation for you to step into your own circle and share your story. Battle for yourself, and remember you matter. Do not let the gaze of others make you small. Stand tall and speak up so your voice adds to the symphony we share!

spring gonna spring

To hear Brandi read the essay instead, click here: https://youtu.be/iQMJ-dkg-hA

Spring is trying to spring, but the cold is putting up a fight. My hook by the door is loaded with all the seasonal gear at once: thick puffer coats and wool hats, light rain coats, heavy vests, and sunny visors. It is basically nonfunctional, and spits things on the floor after I hang them there, precariously. The American South, where I live, is nearly groaning for the release that dependable sunshine and warmer weather will bring.

My parents love Spring. They come home from working days to spend another shift outside. They weed beds, prune trees, spread mulch, cultivate vines, and plant a massive garden. Determined to grow 80% of what they eat most of the year, they don’t plant plants. They plant seeds. My mom—who calls herself a “domestic goddess,” and is one—has a work table in her sun room. On it, she grows fruits and vegetables from seeds in old strawberry containers. (She has 13 grandchildren, but she is always hungry for more.) She plants her little seeds, coaxing them to life in the warmth of her house, praying over them as she moves them outside, burying them in the earth. The infuriatingly relentless cycle of April frosts have killed some of her seed babies, but she persists. The work table again becomes full of soil, then sprouts, then thin green stalks, reaching for the sky.

Spring is hard for us, full of memories that brought bad news. “This was the day they told us…” “This is the month it felt like we raced death to find more life, more time together.” It isn’t surprising to me when Mom, hands in the dirt, cultivating life, looks up and shares that death is on her mind. It often is. This weekend, she showed me her little green wonders, growing up and away. She has a magical gift about her, and can access awed excitement about nearly anything. She demanded I come closer, wanting me to catch her amazement over the plant she helped grow. She soon reached a new level of joy, turning toward me, her face inches from a fragile stalk of oregano. “Look! That is a part of the dead seed, sitting on top of the highest little leaf. She wears it like a hat, the seed that died to give her life. Isn’t that amazing? All the little deaths we face have the potential to grow a new thing within.”

She talks like that, part oracle, part enchanted pied piper, part nomadic weirdo in the desert. This weekend, I was here for it. She found the little dead seed hats all over her plants, and she kept reminding me that we are people made for cycles who prefer straight lines. Most of us don’t get to know the why or pick the when of our stories. As Spring keeps peeking through the clouds only to hide away again, I’m trying to remember that on most days, the best I can do is to show up for the glimpse of the sun. To pay attention as my energy and work and mood and relationships cycle through. To grieve the small deaths and to celebrate the tiny new life. Enjoy the small wins, dear friends, and keep looking for Spring.