superb!

He had made thousands of smooth landings in his years as a pilot for Pan Am.  But today he was nervous.  Today he was flying a full plane, and in first class were a group of Russian Naval Intelligence officers traveling from Washington D.C. to New York City.  As they began the descent, George decided this was going to be the smoothest landing those officers had ever experienced.  He worked the controls and guided the plane down until the wheels slid onto the runway.  A "mother's kiss" landing, as it was known to the pilots.  Gentle as a whisper.  When the plane reached the gate and stopped, George took his place at the cockpit door to nod at the passengers.

The Russian Naval Intelligence officers were soon at the door.  The stewardess greeted them and then turned to their leader.  "What did you think of our landing today?" she asked him.

In his deep Russian accent, the man boomed one word.  "SUPERB!" and walked off the plane.  George felt the word echoing through the plane and in his ears all day.  SUPERB!  He loved that word. "Marked to the highest degree by grandeur, excellence, brilliance, or competence."  He loved how he felt when the word was directed at him.  George decided he wanted to use that word regularly.  To find people and actions around him that merited that word.  Every day.  And so he began to look, and notice and pronounce SUPERB! whenever he could.

One day it was the service he received in a diner.  One his check stub he wrote a one word note to the waitress.  SUPERB!  The next day a plane's mechanic heard the word.  The next day it was proclaimed to anyone listening about the subway's efficiency.  And then a sunrise....

George told me this story this week.  Right after our hospice had been rewarded with a loud SUPERB!  The Russian officers had flow with George in 1971.  For over 40 years George has been looking for excellence.  And finding it all around him.

I shared this story with my team the next morning.  I talked about how many times they do amazing work in private.  For one patient, or one family member.  I reminded them of their value and asked them to hear that Russian officer in their minds, looking over their shoulder and exclaiming "SUPERB!"

And then I began my awareness of the superb all around me, to remind me of all there is to be thankful for.

like today -
a toasty heater in my bathroom, cutting the cold
two hot air balloons floating in the crisp, autumn sky as we drove to school
the buzz of coworkers, full of friendly chatter around our long, work table
Urban Burrito's delicious Bonehead salad and a diet coke
speed dial.  And a crystal clear connection that instantly links me to California
the efficiency of the Bilo grocery clerk
the laughter of my three men playing football in the leaves.

SUPERB! indeed.

tough mudders

This came in my email yesterday.

Erin is now a Tough Mudder and the owner of an orange headband.   Orange finisher headbands are never for sale. They can only be earned over 11+ miles of mud, fire, freezing cold water and challenging obstacles....

I still can't believe we did it!



There were awesome highlights.  *Making the trip with 5 really great women - Tough and encouraging! (That's Lisa, me, Heather L, Heather M, Shane, and Tanya taking the picture) 
*The purple Tough Mommas shirts that Heather designed.  
*Ploughing though the mud mile together.  *Spectators cheering the Tough Mommas on.  
*The beautiful  Moree's Sportsman Preserve we ran through.

There were awful parts.  Jumping into a huge trough of ice known as the arctic enema and swimming under a plank.  Not fun.  Getting shocked in the electric eel.  Not fun.   Wishing I had a lot more upper body strength.  Not fun.

But what has stayed with me most all week was an obstacle at the end of the course called Everest.  

Everest is, to quote the website, A quarter-pipe that you’ll have to sprint up and enlist the help of other Mudders to hurl you over this beastly summit. Everest is coated in mud and grease, a combination which will likely send you right back from where you came. Call upon other Mudders to catch you as you run up the quarter-pipe or work together to form a human chain so that you can scale someone’s shoulders to finally summit Everest.

I dreaded Everest all day.  And by the time we got there I was mud caked, beaten and spent.  I worried that the strong men helping people up the wall were probably already tired from aiding all the 90 pound spandexed women up, and might not be thrilled to see me coming.  And I was ready to be done.

But there is a no whining rule on the Tough Mudder course.  So I sucked it up and made a run for it.  Up to the wall as far as I could run.  I reached for the outstretched hands and made contact.  Then slipped out of their grasp and thudded back down the wall into a heap at the bottom.  Embarrassed, I stepped off the course.  At least I tried.

A photographer was standing nearby.  "You can do it!" He pep talked me.  "You have come this far.  I will help you.  You just need a little push from behind."  So I headed back to the starting line, and made the run again. Run, stretch, grab the hands, slip, fall.  Only this time I took out the photographer on my way down. 

A staff member was watching.  He had a shaved head, wore the bright yellow Mudder shirt and had helped countless others today.  He grabbed my hand and pulled me off the bottom of the half pipe where I was crumpled.  "We are doing this."  He said confidently.  "It is my mission in life to get you over this wall."  By now a crowd had gathered.  The event's main announcer was perched on the wall giving commentary on my attempts.  I was shaking and mortified.  Yellow man and the photographer ran with me up the pipe.  But I couldn't grab the outstretched hands tight enough and again I slid down.  

Yellow man stood me in front of the pipe.  Then he ran around the back and climbed up.  He leaned way over the ledge, calling for other guys to hold his legs.  Then he yelled for me to run hard.  Once again I ran, I reached, I grabbed.  But this time he was the one to catch me and he held on tight. He pulled me up and yelled for others to get my legs.  Suddenly I was over the ledge and laying on the top of Everest. The announcer was screaming "She did it!  She did it!"   I realized I was crying and saying "thank you" over and over. 

I have 19 little bruises on my legs and arms from Everest.  They are totally worth it.  I hope my yellow shirted hero fared better, but I bet he has some marks from it too.  I'm still embarrassed, still humbled, but most of all still so very grateful.  I continue to be so moved by his willingness to do whatever it took to get me over that wall.


With the adrenaline from this crazy event wearing off, I've been philosophical.  I've been thinking about so many other times in my life when I've faced daunting walls and slipped, crashed, and failed.  I keeping thinking of all the yellow shirts in my life who have encouraged, pushed and pulled me over when I could not do it myself.

All week I have pictured my yellow shirted hero leaning over the edge with arms outstretched.  I want to be that for others.  I've been inspired by that picture while I sit with my patients.  I want to be that kind of parent and that kind of friend.

Someday I will finish this ultimate obstacle course.   I will join a whole host of survivors who grabbed on to Jesus' outstretched hands, and realize just how far He had to lean out to hold us.  I will see the marks where He was was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities.  Instead of a orange tough mudder head band I will be given a robe of righteousness.  One without a single thread of my own ability.  A total gift wrapped tightly around me.  I will be done with the mud forever and will loudly claim this promise for eternity.

Now to Him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you spotless before the presence of His glory with great joy.  Jude 1:24

backpacks

On my summer booklist was Cheryl Strayed's Wild: from lost to found on the Pacific Crest Trail.  Though I'm not a backpacker, the great writing and universal story of grief and transformation captured me from page one.  "With warmth and humor, Wild vividly captures the terrors and pleasures of one young woman forging ahead against all odds on a journey that maddened, strengthened, and ultimately healed her."  I finished the last quarter of the book while curled up on a plane heading to California.

Two days later my parents introduced me to the movie The Way, -the story of Tom and the international group of people he meets making a pilgrimage on the "El Camino de Santiago" from France to Spain.  Tom's journey also frustrated, strengthened and healed him.  In ways that touched my heart.

With my mind full of life changing adventures, it felt so right to strap on my beloved pewter back pack.  Instead of the high sierras or a French countryside, I backpacked through Greenville airport, then Houston, then Ontario and then back.  But this was a pilgrimage, nevertheless.

In the quiet of my plane seat I determined that my Wild experience, my Camino journey was 14 months of CPE training in a Spartinburg hospital.  But I've had many Hajj moments and seasons.  From school and church days to my current tour with my hospice team. 

If a pilgrimage is a search of moral or spiritual significance, then every time I dust off my backpack alone or journey to a new space with others, my quest is expanded and enriched.

I love this review of The Way.  "Gradually the experience of the Camino works its way into the spirits of the pilgrims. They become mirrors for each other, helping to strip away the protective layers that have preserved their pain and isolation, and with their new vulnerability, freeing them to feel and connect once more. In the end, the message of this poignant film is that opening our hearts to others is the real miracle. Connecting with them through kindness and laughter and joy is the magic that invites the presence of God."

Blessed are those whose strength is in You, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.   Psalms 84:5 NIV

pastor

My text message alerted me to call one of my patients immediately.  I quickly dialed, expecting to jump in my car and rush over.  Instead it was a simple question. "Chaplain? We are filling out a form for the funeral home and it asks us to lists our pastor.  We don't have a pastor.  Can we put your name down?

Mary pulled me aside during a visit with her dying mother.  "We just want a simple graveside service, but mother was never part of a church here.  Would you be our pastor?"

I love this about my job. Some of my patients are fully connected in active churches.  I'm the pitch hitter.  Some of my patients have slipped away from their churches.  I'm the reconnecter.  Some of my patients make it very clear they don't anything to do with church or religion.  I'm just part of the team, building a relationship, trust and providing a new picture of spiritual care. But for any of my patients that don't have one and want one, I'm their pastor.  What a privilege.

I've been thinking a lot about what it means to have a pastor.

It used to be so cut and dry.  You went to church.  You had a pastor.  That one person was responsible for your spiritual needs and your spiritual inspiration.  Not only did that person marry and bury you, they also provided guidance and nurture, connection and community.

But it has gotten more complicated.  I have some friends who are members of a church in another state but have been greatly let down by their current pastor. They feel betrayed and disappointed.  I have friends who don't have a church in the area their jobs have taken them to, and they feel anchorless.  I have friends who felt no need of a church community until tragedy struck and now they long for someone to speak the words of hope and promise they learned as children.  And then there are others of us who have a church we love, but sometimes going there brings up all manners of pain, and we create a distance to protect ourselves.

Recently an atheist friend of my parents called them and said "I need to come over and talk to you as my pastor."  "What did he mean by that?"  I asked.  "I think he wanted a safe place to process his journey and be listened to."  Dad responded.

Who doesn't need that?  Maybe the pastors in our lives can't always be identified by the collar they wear or the location of their office.  I think about my friend Vicki.  Just out of chaplain training we felt the need for added spiritual direction.  Vicki invited me and a couple other women and arranged for us to meet in a little side room of her beautiful and historical All Souls Episcopal Cathedral in Biltmore.  With stained glass and wooden pews, it was a reverent place to pray, read and share our hearts.  (sadly for me, Vicki moved across the country to pastor a whole, lucky congregation.)

I think of my friend Audra who drove 45 minutes each way, at night, to visit me when my dad had a stroke.   I think of my running buddies who pound the pavement, one slow, sweaty mile at a time with me.  They celebrate and mourn the every day stuff with me.  It is as far from a "church setting" as one can get.  But it is healing and affirming.  Sometimes it just takes Matthew West singing Strong Enough or Chris August singing Starry Night on my car radio to move my soul to a better place.

Maybe the best ministry happened to me this summer during a long conversation with my mom and dad about how important it is for people to have a pastor.  As a person who "puts out" spiritually for a living, I continue to realize that I need to be more aware and more intentional about getting pastored. Who is inspiring me?  Who keeps me accountable?  Who is part of my true community?  And how can I better reflect those qualities to my patients and my friends?  In the priesthood of all believers, who are my pastors?

Last Friday night was an awful night for our family.  In the space of two hours, our beloved french bull dog went from seemingly fine to rush-to-the-vet sick.  And then she died.  We spent the night shocked and heart broken.  Saturday afternoon there was a knock on our door.  Our pastor Bryan and his wife Sharon had heard of Maeve's passing.  They are dog lovers and knew our pain.  They sat in our living room and talked about Maeve and school and summer.  We shed a few tears and enjoyed some needed laughter.  After 30 minutes or so, they hugged us and took off.  In the quiet after they left, Josh said "You can really tell pastor Bryan is a pastor."  "Why do you say that?" I asked.  "He knew we were sad and he came over." Josh replied with a shrug.

Maybe it is as simple as that.

gold medals

After weeks of build up to the Summer Olympics, I couldn't wait for them to start. I tuned in with the other estimated 1 billion people watching on TV, the 60,000 spectating live in London (including Kate Middleton, Prince William, Michelle Obama and David Beckham, to name a few.)  to watch over 2,500 volunteer performers in the $42 million Olympic Stadium opening ceremonies.


I'm always impressed by the athlete's skill, and the amazing quality and ability of their bodies.  And love having a few I know enough about to root for by name.


It does seem half a world away though.  A whole other world actually. Pure, peak, physical perfection.  Hhhmmm. Nope.  Can't relate.


I found this quote this morning and read it at our hospice team meeting.


In 'The World According to Mr. Rogers' Fred Rogers writes  A high school student wrote to ask, "What was the greatest event in American history?"  I can't say.  However, I suspect that like so many 'great' events, it was something very simple and very quiet with little or no fanfare (such as someone forgiving someone else for a deep hurt that eventually changed the course of history.)  The really important 'great' things are never center stage of life's dramas; they're always "in the wings." That's why it's so essential for us to be mindful of the humble and the deep rather than the flashy and the superficial.


Just picture a world where gold medals were given for bathing an elderly man with senile dementia, holding a lonely woman's hand, playing ping pong with your son even though you are tired, including your sibling as you play with your friends, taking a warm meal to a hurting family or making room in your row at church, for a person who arrived alone. Pure, peak, unselfish love.


I love Hebrews 12:1's reminder of how important this perspective is, and that we are being rooted for by name.  


Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.


Mindful of the humble and the deep.  The essential.  Let's go for the gold!

me and Nita

This week I picked up the recent issue of Vanity Fair, and found a story I could not put down.  (just ask my mom, who listened patiently as I followed her around her house, reading paragraphs aloud to her:)


The article introduced me to Nita Ambani.  I was interested in reading about her attempts to raise three grounded, outwardly focused children.  I was intrigued that she transformed herself with a 100 lb weight loss through yoga and diet,  And how could I not want to know more about her just-finished-creation of the largest and most expensive house in the world?


But even more compelling was how Nita Ambani gives back to the world.  Read a small excerpt about her, in James Reginato's words, from the article.


In the past years Nita has built a series of enterprises that are proud success stories in contemporary India, including an international preparatory school, a premiere League cricket team, the nation's first Braille newspaper in Hindi, and a 400 acre model township that houses 12,000 people and stands adjacent to the world's largest oil refinery.  A 400 bed hospital wing is under construction and plans are proceeding for a world class university on 1000 acres of property.


While it is true that all of these undertakings are owned or financed by her husband, Mukesh, the richest person in India and the 19th richest in the world, Nita has earned respect in her own right through the country for her vision, drive and willingness to get her jeweled and manicured fingers dirty.


In 1997, when Mukesh was building the world's largest oil refinery, he put Nita in charge of creating an entire town from scratch in order to house the facility's work force of 4,800 and their families.  Located in the remote desert near the city of Jamnagar, in Gujarat, the new town required a hospital, a school, recreational centers, and shopping facilities, in addition to housing.  For about two years, she commuted to the site three times a week, leaving at seven am on one of the company plans for the hour long flight to Jamnagar, where she worked out of tin sheds in blistering heat, wading through brambles and bushes to various construction sites.


While the township has been recognized world wide as a model project, what Nita accomplished in the arid countryside around it is just as extraordinary.  She and Mukesh planted 138,000 mango trees on what was once barren land, to create the largest mango orchard in Asia.  Planting another 2.4 million mangrove trees for good measure, they basically built their own rain forest, which has altered the area's micro-climate and eco-system: the trees have brought rain, which in turn has brought migratory birds and animals.   


Wow!  Right?  And this is only a small taste of her accomplishments.  What?  You want to know more?  How about this....

...Emboldened, Nita decided Mumbai needed a first-rate preparatory school that was up to international standards.  Before the Dhirubhai Ambani International School opened its doors, in 2003, she attended to its every detail, riding school buses to assess their comfort, designing uniforms, choosing fabric for upholstery, sampling the cafeteria fare, as well as planning the curriculum and overseeing faculty appointments.  The school is now ranked as one of the best in India.  Vanity Fair June 2012  James Reginato

This woman is a tornado of plans, resources and energy.  O.K. I'm putting the magazine down.  Even though that means I can't write about how Nita remodeled the nation's scrubby rugby team into victorious champions...


Here's what learning about Nita made me think about personally.


1.  When I day dream about being, say for example, the 19th richest person in the world, my thoughts usually go to what I won't have to do any more.  Permanent vacation from work, never have to scrub another toilet, no more trying to figure out what's for dinner because my chef will have that covered.  Etc, etc, etc. Harmless, I think, since there is no danger of me actually becoming filthy rich.  But still, I'm so inspired that someone who actually has that kind of money spends so much time looking for ways to help others.  To the extent of revolutionizing educational systems and developing new rain forests.  Wow again.  Surely there can be ways I can be more like that, more generous, less selfish, even on a budget.


2.  This article reminded me again of how big our world is.  For the most part my world is Buncombe country.  All 660 square miles of it. And yes, I am the center of this little universe.  And then I read about this remarkable woman, who I have never heard of, in a place I know nothing about.  It's humbling to be reminded of my place in this global community.  To continue to grow and flourish in my little place, but to be thoughtful and compassionate to my world.  Tonight I am anticipating the Olympics in London, and am grieving with the families in Aurora, Colorado.  It's a start.


Thank you Nita.  Keep up the good work!

poetry

As I walked down the long, dark hall to their bedroom I could hear her lilting voice, strong and sure.  He was in bed with his eyes closed, and she sat beside him.  I joined her and after a little small talk, I asked about the beautiful words I had heard her reading to him.

She laughed and said it was just lines from their favorite poems, that they always would quote to each other.  She thought it might feel comforting for him to hear those familiar words filling their room again.

I had never heard these poems before.  But I am always mesmerized by the power of words.  Lyrical and evocative. Novel and appealing.  I scribbled down a few notes so I could look  the poems up later. 

Though my soul may set in darkness, 

it will rise in perfect light; 

I have loved the stars too fondly 

to be fearful of the night.

The Old Astronomer to His Pupil by Sarah Williams.

and

   In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of

             pleasures. For in the dew of little things, does the heart find its morning and is refreshed.”  The Prophet by Khalil Gilbran

As I watched this couple, in their mid nineties, I again realized what a different world they grew up in.  Not to idealize the past.... but picture a world light years before Mario Kart, skater brands, Jack Ass 3 or mopeds.  Men wore ties and hats, they danced gracefully, they hand-wrote letters and opened car doors.  And they read, memorized and quoted poetry to the women they were wooing.


Pardon me while I swoon for a moment.


It was a different time.  Quentin Tarantino summed it up by saying "You can't write poetry on the computer."


Close your eyes and have someone read these words to you.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs. 

And as silently steal away. 

The Day is Done by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Now tell me you aren't transported somewhere else.


Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement  wrote Christopher Fry.  Maybe that is part of what moves us.  Being reminded to wonder and be amazed. To slow down and listen well. To invest in a rhythm and imagery.  To let beautiful words become a part of our conversation and character.


I did what I could tonight.  Amidst piles of laundry, I pulled my trusty volume of Robert Frost off the shelf.  I made my eleven year old boy and my twelve year old boy put down their Nintendo DS's and listen to Fences Make Good Neighbors and Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening.  They aren't converts yet.  But I feel better knowing their souls are the tiniest bit infused with poetry.  

Sunshine cannot bleach the snow, 
Nor time unmake what poets know. 
~Ralph Waldo Emerson