The Big Picture

The Big Picture

“We’ve opened our eyes, and it’s changing the view. How big, how blue, how beautiful.” -- Florence Welch

I have dreamed of whale watching for most of my adult life. I will never forget the gum commercial from years ago where the woman is enjoying her her chewing experience so much that she misses the whale as it jumps out of the water. While she is savoring her gum, she hears a spectator celebrate, “IT’S BREATHTAKING!” but the whale is gone when she looks out to sea.

It reminds me of the time I was in San Diego with friends, and we were at the beach. A chipmunk distracted me -- so much so that I didn’t hear a British couple proclaim, “Oh my God! It’s a pod of whales!” so I missed the whales gloriously jumping out of the ocean while I marveled at a cute little land rodent. I have traveled to Florida and California and seen the ocean in its splendor, but I have never been on an actual whale watch until I vacationed in Provincetown, Massachusetts, this past June.

Two of my closest college friends, Jason and Sam, like me, are turning 40 this year, and we have been friends for going on twenty-one years. We decided to go somewhere none of us had been before. Provincetown would be a “rite of passage” trip since each of us had wanted to journey there for years.

On our second, life-changing day in Provincetown -- Friday, June 26, 2015, to be exact --  we walk up and down Commercial Street taking in the sights after an amazing breakfast at Cafe Heaven. We are overwhelmed with the beauty of the locale and the momentous news emanating the air and our brains.

We decide to stop at the “Provincetown Whale Watch” ticket booth as I skip in excitement. It is 11:30 AM, and the boat leaving for the whale watch is allegedly departing at noon. Jason opts not to go but walks with Sam and me down the pier to enjoy the view and send us off to sea. We finally find the appropriate spot to meet for our whale watch just before noon but end up waiting almost forty-five minutes because the boat is late.

We finally make it onto the boat and embark into the ocean. The water is choppy, so I take advantage of the free Dramamine. Although a misty rain has fallen throughout the morning, the clouds begin to scatter and dissipate as the day progresses. The farther out we move, the bluer the sky and the water become. The farther we ride away from land, the more relaxed I become. I suddenly realize the weight of reality. I feel liberated as the magnitude of the ocean lessens everything else.

2015 has proven to be a roller coaster so far: I eliminated debt; I earned a promotion at work; I dated a great deal (pigs are flying); I had tonsillectomy, sinus, and deviated septum surgery (even more traumatic than you can imagine); and none of those previously mentioned dates developed into what I’d hoped. I had so much to be grateful for and proud of, but I was exhausted from the trying parts. Even blessings can cause stress to the body and spirit.

As usual, the state of the world causes me the most stress of all. Since childhood, I have been a great worrier. As of late, my human brain finds it impossible to wrap itself around the fact that much of America is consumed with hate and/or fear over the possibility of marriage equality while there are still crazed bigots opening fire on groups of people because of the color of their skin or burning down churches for the same reason. For my entire life, I have found it impossible that so many Christians seem to forget or ignore God’s message, “the greatest of these is LOVE.”

June 26, 2015: As I venture out to sea with one of my oldest and best friends, all of the worry, anxiety, and negative energy in the world and myself seem to fall into the big, beautiful blue. I see a trio of knowing lighthouses to our right in the distance. Soon enough, there is no land in sight, and we are literally enveloped and enlightened by brilliant blue. Just when I begin to consider that we might not see any whales, the boat engine stops, and the aquatic genius on the intercom informs us we are approaching our first whale sighting.

As promised, a trio of whales surfaces shortly, all at once, as if they are rolling in unison with the current of the ocean. Shades of deep midnight blue flow in and out of the water. Our guide informs us these are Humpback Whales. The entire boat full of people of all ages from all over the world exudes giddiness. Sam and I run all over the outline of the boat and back and forth across it to catch sight of these majestic creatures. I quickly give up on trying to capture a perfect picture of these creatures and focus on embracing each snapshot in my mind. My face and hoody glisten from the spray of water glittering all around us. My mouth tastes the salt in the air; my eyes feel the overflow of happy tears as they witness this moment.

We continue to follow the Humpback whales at a safe distance. Before the tour of the big, blue, beautiful comes to a close, we catch a slight glimpse of the elusive Fin Whale, the second largest mammal in the world. I barely snatch sight of it just below the water’s surface as it jets past.

As the boat comes back to life and makes the turnaround for land, I gaze again into the vast ocean. I can hear the Florence and the Machine song, “How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful” echoing in my head. I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for this experience. I feel closer to God, the world, and humanity all at once. I know that this is what it’s all about. The details, especially the negative ones that try to diminish us, pale in comparison to these moments that define us.

Back to School Blues and Blessings

I admit it. I kind of get the blues towards the end of each summer. I don't get  much time off (by choice) because I teach workshops for extra money, and that is one of my favorite aspects of my job. I tend to think too much about what I didn't accomplish and how fast the time has flown.

This year seemed a little tougher. I had a couple of disappointments that I won't go into, but I was really excited about some prospects that didn't turn out like I'd hoped.

Every day there seemed to me more horrible news, both locally, throughout the nation, and around the world. My worrisome, over-thinking brain does not handle all the disturbing news so well.

I also go through a "freak out" phase as my birthday nears each year. This year 39 (yes -- THIRTY!NINE!) is staring me in the face like some ridiculous stranger. I still feel like I'm in my twenties, for crying out loud! I have accomplished a great deal in my (almost) 39 years professionally, and developed numerous profound, life-affirming friendships, but there are many areas in my life where I feel like I haven't "arrived" just yet. I haven't met THE ONE and don't know if that's even in the cards (I'm really OK with this). I don't own a condo or a house like I thought I would at this age. I have been ridiculously irresponsible and careless with managing money (I'm working on this and making great strides).

I think it is safe to say that at the end of this summer 2014, I had the blues. One might even say I was dealing with a bit of depression. I knew it would pass, but I just felt that weight that presses down like a darkening, unmoving cloud.

Then I heard the news that Robin Williams committed suicide. That news shattered me a bit. It basically gave me a panic attack. I broke into a complete sweat. My shirt was literally soaked and stuck to my body. I was on my way to meet a huge portion of my family for my aunt's birthday dinner party , and I ended up turning around and going home. I just couldn't bear the thought of being around people. I was embarrassed.

If you've ever known someone personally that has committed suicide (I have known someone), you know it is something you never truly overcome. The message I received about Robin Williams reminded me of that feeling of loss. It also reminded me of being depressed as a kid. I remember what it feels like to be painted into a corner by the darkness that is depression. I mentioned that in last month's blog. I'm sure many of you have felt that weight before, too.

It just breaks my heart that there are people who are painted into those dark corners permanently and cannot find a way out.

A friend posted a status on Facebook after Robin Williams' death, and there was a comment on his status that really resonated with me. It just said #stayhere.

Stay here please. The world needs you.

We may not always realize it, but we are all pieces in this puzzle of a world, and when you take a piece of that puzzle out prematurely, the world is just stunted. We are all a part of that crazy, beautiful puzzle. We are necessary. We are each loved dearly by something Divine. You are loved and necessary. Please stay here.

We make a difference in the world. Our words, our actions, and our kindnesses change the topography of Earth's heart. One of my favorite quotes of all time is from Ram Dass: "We are all just walking each other home." That pretty much says it all.

I am back at work now and getting in the swing of things. Life is grand. I even had the privilege of teaching writing strategies to 75 awesome teachers today! The 35th season of Turtle Creek Chorale is upon us! I get to sing with my turtle brothers. I'm even getting excited about my birthday! Why the heck not?!?!

Most of my favorite novels share similar themes. They have a strong resilient main character who survives the blows of life to end up thriving and experiencing those little victories and joys that life has to offer. Those moments, possibilities, and PEOPLE make life more than worth surviving the dark corners.

A couple of days ago, a friend and colleague (thank you Jennifer Hammett!) sent me a song because she knows me and knew I would love it. She nailed it!

I wasn't going to share this piece of writing because I didn't want it to seem too dark and negative (I promise you there is a FUNNY blog post in the works!). But that song gave it the positive spin it needed. And you know what? Darkness is a part of life. I just hope we can ALL pull together and hold on in spite of the darkness. Please stay here. Let's be a light for one another and a light in the world. It takes a village to keep this messy puzzle together.

"To be humble, to be kind. It is the giving of the peace in your mind. To a stranger, to a friend, to give in such a way that has no end...Heroes don't look like they used to; they look like you do. … We are loved. We are one. We are how we treat each other when the day is done." -- The Alternate Routes

Listen here. It's a life-changer :-)  The Alternate Routes -- Nothing More

Pride, Prejudice, and Bravery

     It was a church service to celebrate the 4^th of July. I was reluctant to go, but my mom thought I would enjoy the music. Every now and again it seems fitting to attend church with your mother, so I relented and even looked forward to hearing the pianist. 

     The service went well at first. The patriotic music ceremony included a moving tribute to veterans. As promised, the pianist played beautifully.
     Then it came time for the pastor to preach his sermon. He walked up to the pulpit and began. I can’t remember exactly what he said, to be honest, but I certainly remember how it made me feel. He was complaining about President Obama’s calling a lesbian couple to congratulate them on their marriage.  It wasn’t even what he said that disturbed me so; it was the tone of utter disgust in his voice.  There was also a disdaining, self-righteous rumble from some of the congregation. 

     I sat stunned and mortified.
     I used to live in fear that this would happen. As a timid, shy, gay child growing up in a southern baptist church, I shouldered intolerance time and again. And I shouldered it alone. I kept myself locked in the closet, but it was anything but secure. Honestly, I can only remember a few times homosexuality was directly mentioned in sermons or sunday school or youth assemblies, but they occurred. There were plenty of jokes and slurs (not directed at me, but they hit, anyway) throughout my growing up in church, as there were everywhere back then. I can remember, specifically, one summer I was home from college, and I went to a college group sunday school class, and the speaker talked specifically about how everyone, including the church, was becoming TOO tolerant of "the gays."
     Regardless, I associated church with shame, guilt, and unworthiness. Sometimes worship services made me literally nauseous. I enjoyed the hymns, but there was something sad and weighted about the praise and worship songs. I remember thinking to myself, "This doesn't apply to me. I'm gay. I'm bad." I was a very sad little boy, and church was a huge source of that sadness. No child should ever have to feel that way. Especially not in church.
     I went through several phases of "praying the gay away" and bargaining with God growing up. I always knew I was gay even before I knew what it was. I can't explain it, but I knew. I thought when I became a Christian at eight-years-old, it would go away. It did not. I thought if I "surrendered my life to Christian ministry and service" (at a ridiculously and amusingly young age), it would go away. It did not. I can even remember having suicidal thoughts and how scary that was, even though I never would have acted on those thoughts. I resorted to rededicating my life several times. I remember once at a Disciple Now, I was so filled with shame I convinced myself that I hadn't REALLY become a Christian the first time since I was so obviously still gay as a tinseled Christmas tree. It all seems so preposterous now, but I was so scared and convinced at the time that I was bound for hell; it all seemed only natural.
     I would even go out to Lake Brownwood during my first year of college (of course I went to Howard Payne University -- baptist) to pray -- no -- beg God to make me "normal" and straight.
     I'm so glad He didn't. It never went away. God, instead, convinced me that She loved me as is. I am a whole human being. I am a compassionate, funny, quirky, musical, literary, gay person, and that is absolutely fantastic. I wonder how my childhood, adolescence, and even adulthood would be different if I had realized that decades ago.
     I should emphasize that there are many people in that church who were angels through all the years I went there. My family could not have survived and thrived after my father's death if it wasn't for our church family. I especially remember Joe Browder taking me aside at church camp when I was little. He saw that I was in turmoil. I will never forget his looking me straight in the eye and telling me that Jesus loved me, Rusty Weeks, no matter what. NO. MATTER. WHAT. I believe that now more than ever. I believe that God loves every last one of us equally and wonderfully. Why would there be a God otherwise?

     As soon as I realized the topic of this pastor's rant, I shut down and stopped listening. This was the same man who had shaken my hand and welcomed me to this church numerous times. This was the man who stood at the altar and proclaimed to the congregation once before that "all are welcomed and loved here!" I looked over at my mother, who looked like she'd been slapped as she mouthed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You should go.” How could she have known? I know she wanted to get up and leave with me. 

     I shrugged my shoulders and looked over at my 8 and 11-year-old nieces who were also there with us. “I have to leave; I’ll see you at lunch.” They just looked up at me blankly -- confused. Looking back on it, I wish I had asked them if they wanted to leave with me, but it all happened so fast. 
     I have felt blatantly marginalized for being gay, since I came out, a total of three times. The first time I was tutoring a group of students that weren't actually in my class. I went over to redirect a seventh grade girl who wasn't working. As I walked away from her desk, I heard her whisper, "gay motherfucker," under her breath. The second time I was at the House of Blues to hear Joshua Radin perform. There were some drunk girls behind my group, and we couldn't hear Josh over their inebriated rambling. I turned around and asked them to be quiet. A guy next to them said, "You fucking faggot." My friend Latoya heard him say it, too. As harmful as these instances were, they paled in comparison to the indignity I suffered that day last summer in church. 
     I was PISSED.
     The angry part of me wasn't angry for myself. I was angry for all of the little kids sitting in that church who were gay. I was angry for the ones who were questioning, too. I was angry that any child in that service was hearing it. And I was angry at the people in the congregation who were encouraging the hurt that spewed from the pulpit with their rumbling grunts. How could this be happening in 2013?! In a holiday service? I do not need anyone to feel sorry for me, but I am asking you to feel for those kids. 
     The church had stadium-like seating, and we were seated to the right side of the auditorium and just a few rows back. In order to make my most graceful exit of the auditorium (“sanctuary” doesn’t seem appropriate for me, here), I walked down the steps towards the pulpit and made my way around the corner. So when I rounded the corner, I was facing the entire congregation seated on the ground floor. This was a long, lonely, awkward, but empowering walk. I have no idea how a human being can feel completely annihilated and liberated at the same time, but I did. I walked proudly with my head held high out of that giant red room. I tried to look people in the eye as I was marching out, but no one seemed to return my gaze. I did not look back.
     I do not plan on going back unless I go to pay respects to someone who passes, like Joe Browder. That church is filled with Christ-like, wonderful people. I'm convinced of that. But how could I go back into that building with a shred of dignity and self-respect? I probably should have gone back one last time and given that pastor a piece of my mind or just sat down calmly and talked to him about my concerns regarding his sermon. I have no idea if he has a clue that his words hurt anyone.
     It's time to let this one go. Gay people aren't going anywhere. And some of us are getting married. Let go of the "Love the sinner, hate the gay sin" BS, too. I'm not even going to justify that with words and the justification of my disgust over it. I'm also fed up with people's assertions that their right to vote against a gay person's right to marry is religious freedom. That's my freedom you're trying to take away.
     So much going through my head as I kept walking out of that church and through the enormous, hot parking lot to my car. When I sat in my car, I put in a mix cd and played "All I Ever Have to Be" by Amy Grant (Written by Gary Chapman -- See YouTube link below), and the words meant more to me than ever. I wish I could have hugged every kid in that service and played them that song. It pretty much got me through childhood and adolescence.
     I also posted something on Facebook that still resonates with me and hopefully many of you, as well. "I'm glad my faith is stronger than the words and walls of man." Then I drove to the Chili's parking lot in Casa Linda and waited on my family and friends for lunch. When we were finally seated, my oldest niece sat down next to me and reached over and squeezed my hand.
     I have made it my life's mission to do my best to pour light on others and the world instead of casting shadows. My being gay has only given me even more lenses to see the world through and enabled me to shed and share more light. Peace to all.

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, they will forget what you did, but they will never forget how you made them feel." -- Maya Angelou

   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ohkdMXx_JlQ

When the weight of all my dreams
Is resting heavy on my head
And the thoughtful words of help and hope
Have all been nicely said
But I'm still hurting wondering if I'll ever be the one
I think I am -- I think I am

Then You gently re-remind me
That You've made me from the first
And the more I try to be the best
The more I get the worst
And I realized the good in me is only there because of who You are
Who You are…

And all I ever have to be is what You've made me
Any more or less would be a step out of your plan
As you daily re-create me help me always keep in mind
That I only have to do what I can find
And all I ever have to be
All I have to be
All I ever have to be is what You've made me.

Amy Grant Gary Chapman Copyright New Spring Publishing

   

Blessed Are the Peacemakers

When I was in high school , I read I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD sings. It was so raw and disturbing, yet hopeful. I still remember the way it made me feel. So much power in that. 

I didn't realize when I sent this short paragraph in an e-mail to a dear friend today that it was so indicative of Dr. Maya Angelou herself. Her quote:

"People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

She did that. I had the option to choose an autobiography in a high school english class, and I chose Dr. Maya Angelou's I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS. I must admit, I don't remember numerous details about the book. I do remember it was very raw and HONEST and disturbing, yet HOPEFUL. And it made me FEEL.

Maya Angelou survived a LOT. She survived abuse and many other horrors. She was mute for a time. BUT she lived and survived and wrote and spoke and thrived. These are things I remember about the book. It made me feel like I could survive whatever life brought my way, too. Not only could I survive, I could thrive. 

"You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them." -- Maya Angelou 

I've been a fan of Dr. Angelou's since I read that book. I've admired and read her poetry throughout the years. I've been moved when she read things aloud…just the sound of her voice…so calming, smooth and slow. I've been amazed that she was revered by three very different American Presidents, G.W. Bush, Clinton, and Obama. She has been greatly celebrated by each of them and so many others. I, too, celebrate her. I've even been the guy who follows her on Facebook and shares her posts.

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." -- Maya Angelou

I celebrate her ability and her courage to tell her truth and to celebrate all our truths. She inspires me and encourages me to tell my story.

Something else I admire most about her life and legacy is that she didn't preach AT anyone. She talked to us and taught us with her words and her spirit. She was a spiritual, Christian person, but she didn't say, "I'm a spiritual, Christian person!" She just lived and loved and wrote and spoke her truth and shared what she believed could help others. 

I share the next part because it is part of my truth. A Facebook friend posted an amazing clip on Facebook today from Oprah's Super Soul Sunday show. In it, Maya Angelou was talking about how God loves her, and she was overcome with emotion. Oprah asked Dr. Angelou where she goes for comfort and solace. Dr. Angelou literally buckled forward in tears. Here is an excerpt from her response (google "Maya Angelou Oprah God Loves Me"…you need to hear her say it):

"God loves me! It still humbles me that this force which made leaves and fleas and stars and rivers and YOU…loves ME…Maya Angelou. It's AMAZING! I can do anything. And do it well! Any GOOD thing, I can do it. That's why I am who I am. YES! Because God loves me, and I'm amazed at it and grateful for it!"

Today, when I read the news of Maya Angelou's death, I was overcome with emotion. I decided to walk to the front of the school where my office is housed and check the mail. As I walked, I felt peace. I felt riveting, comforting chill bumps on my arms. I felt like I was witnessing the birth of an angel. And I was reminded of a phenomenal poem, and a particular passage sticks with me:

"A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
til the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky…" -- Maya Angelou

There she goes...

Snow

I have loved snow for as long as I can remember. Maybe love isn't the right word. I have revered it with a sacred obsession. I'm not sure why. I know there are parts of the world that encounter it daily as routine. I realize there are places that are devastated by it (especially this winter, and yes, I'm tired of the cold, dreary weather presently…how do people do this every winter?)

But for me and my experience, snow has always been a divine gift. I've revisited this topic far too many times, I'm sure.

As a little boy growing up in Mesquite, Texas, I can remember my mom waking me and leading me to the sliding glass door to see our back yard blanketed in white wonder. I could count on one hand these  moments. Snow made the world look different…softer and much more peaceful. As a little boy who worried too much about everything, peacefulness was always welcomed.

Each snow (or in some cases ice) connects concretely to profound memories over the years: I can remember building snowmen with my family and sliding on these plastic, circular "sleds" and being overwhelmed by all of the white. I remember making my sister take pictures of me in the snow as a teenager. I remember that feeling of realizing school was cancelled. As I grew older I remember having stolen days with roommates and friends and savoring each moment. Walking down the street or to the park was a magical adventure. I remember braving a drive to see RENT at the movies with a group of friends. The "snow" made it all the better, of course.

Last Thursday, as I drove to work, tiny crystal flurries began to fall onto my windshield. I grinned and recalled hubbubs about the flurries we might receive and didn't think much of it. The farther I drove, the bigger and bolder the snow became. I was absolutely struck by the way it moved across the pavement on the highway. I'd never seen it do that before. It looked like some potion was spilling out of the sky and gracefully dancing for us. 

When I got out of the car at work, the world had been transformed. Not visually, but the sound and feel of everything was different. It has always fascinated me that the "sound" of snowfall makes the rest of the world fall more silent. I could already feel the difference in the ground and anticipated the "thwa, thwa" sound of my shoes crunching the snow on the way to my car later. 

Throughout work/school that day, I found myself lingering by doors and windows repeatedly. I'm worse than the kids. At one point, I snuck into a friend's empty classroom at lunch and just stared out the window and watched it fall for a few minutes.

For the past year, I've been thinking about, reading about, and writing about a topic for my ABYDOS Literacy Writing Trainer Recertification. I started the project after a series of heartbreaking, devastating, and disturbing events took place in our nation and world. School and movie shootings, explosions, and bombings to name a few. The purpose of my topic is my belief that writing helps us cope and grow more brave in a very scary world. 

I can be a bit of a romantic cheese ball, but I'm also a realist. I am very aware of the horrors we face in life, and I've experienced some personally.  BUT I don't believe those dark demons have to destroy us.

I've talked about this with some of my closest friends, but my favorite books and movies aren't action packed or fast-paced. Most of them have very similar themes. Life is hard, and we have to work daily to make our way in it, but there are these brilliant, profound, joy-filled moments that fall like a dusting of snow in our lives every now and then, and they can outweigh those dark times. They make it all worthwhile.

I was watching Downton Abbey recently (some of you smile; some of you roll your eyes… I know). Three of the central characters who had experienced raw, unimaginable grief were sitting in a room together talking. It was just a simple conversation where they each recalled a moment filled with vivid love and joy in their lives. Even though those moments had passed, they stayed with each of them. They still brought them joy and made it all worth it in the midst of great sorrow. 

I hope you find peace and joy. I hope there's something, for you, that makes the world softer and more than just bearable. I guess snow symbolizes that for me. And while I am BEYOND ready for some sunshine and warmer weather after this extraordinarily cold winter we've had in the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex, I'm sure I'll be waiting impatiently next winter if I haven't seen any snowfall by February.

January 5…30 Years Later

Disclaimer: ironically, this is a blog about resilience, faith, hope, and beauty in the world.

30 years ago today, my dad died of cancer. I cannot put into words how dizzyingly mind-boggling this fact is to my mom, my sister, and me. It's not fair that we've lived much more of our lives without him than we had with him (my sister gets credit for that thought). And the last two years we had with him he was battling the cancer.

I was eight years old when he died. I can still remember the physical discomfort of it… the feeling of weights pulling on my stomach and heart. That feeling stayed with me for years afterwards. I was pretty introverted as a child (even when I pretended not to be). I always felt different than other kids; I was different than most kids, and I was trying to come to terms with that throughout childhood and adolescence. My father's death was just another issue added to my already tumultuous growing pains. Some days were unbearably, nauseatingly dark.

I could have wallowed in those dark places. I could have let my situation be an excuse to give up and quit trying (and those thoughts crossed my mind many times).

But I didn't.

I kept trying. I kept getting up every day along with the sun (hehehe…later than the sun, but I got up) and giving it a go. Eventually, it got easier. It got better. Life was more than worth it. I decided to quit dwelling on the fact that my dad was gone. Of course it was unfair and horrible and unimaginable. But it WAS. God and/or the universe "allowed" my dad to die very young or however you want to label it or look at it. I'll be the first to admit that I spent too much time dwelling on it, but I quit. There were plenty of blessings in my world to keep dwelling on. My mom had the strength,  humor, and will of two parents. She never ceased to amaze me. My sister was as "big sister" as they come, but she was also my rock and my common sense compass (and still is). I have an extended family support system and friends that grow and astound me to this day.

Most importantly, I realized I had a lot to offer this world. I could sing and write. I could be kind and generous to a fault. I was FUNNY. I'm not a big talker, but when I say something, it's usually worth hearing.

I've been reminded of all of this over the past several days. A former coworker of mine lost her husband to cancer. They have two young daughters. My heart breaks for them. A friend of mine from college lost her father just this week unexpectedly, and I cannot imagine how that feels to have your world snatched from under you in an instant.

This world can be a devastatingly dark place. Life can knock you down and kick you repeatedly. In my lifetime, we have seen atrocities in our nation and beyond: tsunamis, bombings, shootings, and so on. We can chose to live in the shadow of those dark places, or we can live in the light. Light shines all around us. Even better, we can create the light and be the light. That remains my life's goal, and I plan to keep it that way until my last breath.

I still have sad moments, and I'm glad I do. That means I haven't forgotten my father, and he still matters to me. What I wouldn't give to have a cup of coffee with his 69-year old self. What I wouldn't give to know what he thinks of me and my life and my strengths and flaws. This year at my Turtle Creek Chorale Christmas concerts, we sold poinsettia ornaments to honor our memorialize loved ones. I bought one for my dad (his name was Roger Dale Weeks by the way). I wish he could have seen one of our shows. I'm sure he sees them in his own way, but that's another blog post.


The point I'm trying to make with all of my rambling is that it DOES get better. It gets much easier, and the joy of living returns. At least it has for me. 30 years later, and I'm a happy, thriving 38-year old man. Light is all around.

Sometimes you just have to crawl out of the shadows and find beauty in this world. Or create it yourself.

The Possibility of Hope

The Possibility of Hope

“These are the words I want on my gravestone: that I was a helper, and that I danced.” – Anne Lamott

In January, my roommate, Teresa, and I went to see THE IMPOSSIBLE, a movie about a family’s survival of the Tsunami in Indonesia. We had seen the preview several months earlier. I remembered it vividly because the strapping man sitting next to me was moved to tears just by the preview. He was audibly crying, and it prompted him to reach for his wife’s hand.  It was one of those “pull-out-all-the stops” trailers that sucked you in and made you want to see the movie instantly.

While we knew it would be a difficult movie to watch, the preview assured us it would ultimately be inspiring and uplifting.  We headed to the Angelika at Mockingbird Station on a crisp January afternoon. We had been waiting for this movie for MONTHS, so We. Were. Excited!

As the credits opened, we sat in a crowded theatre and took in the beautiful scene.  Ewan McGreggor, Naomi Watts, and their precious movie children lit up the screen as they headed to an Indonesian resort for a family vacation. It didn’t take long for the chaos to ensue. One moment the family was at the resort pool having the time of their life, and in an instant, the Tsunami hit.

From the offset of the demonic storm, it was obvious that the director of the film wanted the audience to FEEL like they were in the eye of the Tsunami. He succeeded. You felt every blow from the mother’s perspective. We were thrust under the crashing, swirling, violent water with the mother (Naomi Watt’s character). We were tossed around with her and bludgeoned by the debris as it tore around her.  There were many moments where Teresa and I both had our hands splayed over our eyes, peaking through fingers to soften the blows. This went on for about an hour, both during the storm, and during the exhausting aftermath. There was a moment when Teresa and I looked at each other and said, “What have we gotten ourselves into?” with our eyes.

Fast forward several scenes. The mother and oldest son are separated from the father and the youngest two children. The mother can barely walk, and yes, it shows a gaping, bloody wound on her leg as seen through her son’s eyes.  Place hands over eyes...

Fast forward again. The mother and son are found by a native Indonesian and taken to a small village. I was touched and awed by how several women in that village circled around her to wash her and take care of her. They were practically fighting to help her. It was an amazing scene. They eventually transport her to a makeshift “hospital” so she can receive the care she needs. It was a horrific scene.

I was suddenly pulled out of the movie by reality when I began to hear a commotion on the row directly in front of me. A man was yelling at his wife to his left and shaking her gently. As I looked directly in front of me, I saw the woman’s head turned awkwardly upward towards the ceiling. Her eyes and mouth were wide open, but she appeared to be unconscious. It was horrifying.  Her husband was yelling, “Honey! HONEY! Wake up! Wake up! Is there a doctor?! Someone get a doctor!!!! PLEASE!” Imagine any cliché from movies or television, and it took place over the next few moments. The lights came up in the theater. The movie stopped, and the screen went white. All eyes were on the couple right in front of me. The man got on his knees and looked up at the woman sitting to my right and pleaded, “She’s my wife!” with tears in his eyes and anguish in his voice. It’s like we were all witnessing the worst moment in his life.

There were now people approaching the couple and offering assistance, and a nurse who happened to be in the theatre stepped in. The woman having the seizure (or whatever it was) came to and began to make a low howling sound. They laid her out, and the nurse put the woman’s head in her lap and tried to soothe her. I cannot even count how many people were calling 911.

“What’s the address? What’s the address?” a woman shouted repeatedly.

Someone else proclaimed, “It’s Mockingbird Station! I think they can find it!”

At this point, I realized I was standing and alternating on each foot, as if awkwardly  dancing. I wanted to do something to help, but I felt trapped. My roommate looked up at me and calmly said, “Russ…just sit down.” As I sat down, I realized I had apparently, involuntarily unbuttoned my shirt entirely while I was standing distressed. Thank God for cold weather and layers. Teresa and I giggled at that point out of necessity.

The manager of the theatre came in with bottled water for the victim and her husband. Both denied it. A doctor, I assume from the lobby or another theatre came in and talked to the husband and the victim. Everyone in the theatre had a unified look of grave concern on their faces. I looked at the woman to my right, and we had a moment.

“This is insane,” I said.

“I know,” she replied, “the movie was stressful enough.”

After what seemed like forever (actually about 15-20 minutes, I think), the paramedics arrived and gingerly placed the woman on a stretcher. A woman down the row began to ask, almost chanting, “Did someone get her purse? Did they get her jacket? Huh? Did someone get her purse and jacket?”

Someone finally responded, “Yes! See! Her husband has her things.”

We all began to try to get settled.  Some movie goers went out to the bar for drinks. The manager came back into the theater and announced, “OK. If it’s alright with everyone, we will now play the rest of the movie.” You heard a collective sigh as if we were all saying, “Here we go…we’d better brace ourselves.”

Then someone yelled out, “Could you rewind it about five minutes?!”

I’m pretty sure I whispered a four-letter word in reply, but the manager agreed.

We continued to watch the movie. There were many more rough scenes, but there were some profoundly touching ones, as well.

The scene that stood out to me the most was when the mother was lying on the cot in the makeshift hospital, and she looked over at her son. “You should go help people,” she said to him lovingly, “You’re so good at it.”

And he did.

When we left the Angelika that day, we were absolutely spent by the traumatic experience. I prayed for days that the woman in the audience was OK. The movie and the surrounding situation reminded me of life’s fragility, and how powerless we can be, but it also reminded me that as long as humanity maintains its drive to help each other in the face of adversity, this world still has some hope.