The other day I pulled an old box of souvenirs from a shelf in my closet. My daughter needed a few things for a school presentation, but in addition to the items she needed, I found an old journal of mine.

The pages were yellowing and exuded that musty smell that only comes from the pages of a dusty old book. I thumbed through the various entries I penned over thirty years ago, and it brought back a flood of emotion. I felt all of the anxiety and uncertainty associated with those first few years when you leave home. I read about fun times with friends, trouble with school, and the roller coaster of emotions caused by relationships. I read through my struggles as a missionary and all the people that touched my life. Some of it made me laugh. Some of it made me cry. Some of it needs to be ripped from the journal and burned before anyone else reads it.

On my twentieth birthday, I was in Carmelo, a small coastal town in Uruguay, serving as a missionary, and Branch President. Based on my entries, I was struggling under a heavy load, and very inexperienced at life. On March 6, 1983, I wrote, “Time is a real paradox; you never have enough, yet there is always a little to kill.” As I turn fifty, I couldn’t agree more. Time is an irreplaceable commodity that we often misuse.

Each decade of my life has been full of challenges and accomplishments. As I turned twenty, I was concerned about choosing the right path for my life. As I turned thirty, I was concerned about providing and caring for the children entrusted to my care. When I turned forty, I didn’t know what to expect. I worried that it might all be downhill from there. Now that I have finished my forties, I must admit that they were good years. It was a decade of accomplishment.

Since I turned forty  –

My wife and I adopted two daughters from Russia. When you are driving down the street with your former enemies’ castaways seated comfortably in your new minivan, you won that war.

I bought and paid off a new minivan – not exactly a small feat if you have priced minivans lately.

I ran two marathons. I might have run a couple more, but I got sidetracked with the adoption and back surgery.

I survived a serious back injury and back surgery. I don’t help people move any more, even though I have a truck.

I bought and paid for a new truck. It wasn’t quite as expensive as the minivan, but then again the minivan can’t pull a boat.

I bought a boat. Well, everyone is entitled to a mid-life crisis in their forties. The boat is a beautiful red and black, and it was much cheaper than the mistress, and subsequent divorce that follows. Besides, I share the boat with some great friends.

I made a lot of new friends, and strengthened old friendships. That is not an easy task for a guy that travels for a living and prefers to be alone, but I managed to make friends with some of the best people in the world. I think it’s because of my very friendly wife.

I stayed married to the same woman. Judging from all the sad divorces I have witnessed, I would say that staying married wasn’t an easy task. Unfortunately, I would attribute most of the marital bumps in our road to my personality.

I struggled with the same weaknesses that have plagued me for years. I would like to say that I have overcome many of them, but then I would have to add lying to my list of weaknesses. I still struggle with anger, selfishness, jealousy, and sometimes I allow myself to slip into a state of melancholy. I continue to work on my weaknesses.

I took piano lessons and learned to play basic songs on the piano, but then promptly gave it up for a new hobby that captured my passion.

I started writing. Out of arrogance, I decided that I would write a novel. Who knew how difficult that would be? As of this blog, I haven’t published a novel, but I have written two manuscripts that are being shopped around. I did manage to publish a couple of small essays.

I started this blog. It has been fun and interesting putting my thoughts out there for the world to see. I have been cautious about baring too much of my soul, but I have enjoyed sharing bits of my life through this unique forum.

When I was twenty, forty seemed so far away, and I was certain that the best years of my life would be behind me by my fortieth birthday. Most of my fears about my forties were unfounded, and I look back on the journal entries of my twenty-something self and laugh. My forties were good years. I think of all the decades I have lived so far, I would prefer to repeat my forties more than any other decade.

Now that I am turning fifty, I recognize even more that time is a precious commodity. If I’m going to kill time, I want to work it to death while engaged in some cause worthy of the seconds, minutes, and hours that I will never regain.

“Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.” Kurt Vonnegut

I have been writing this blog for two years now. I have no particular theme or slant. I have written essays from the heart and sprinkled in a few short stories. I started out writing two blogs a month, but then thinned it out to one per month because, frankly, I had less to say, and I didn’t want to waste your time with drivel.

As a commercial pilot, the best adjective I can use to describe a successful day is – uneventful. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. I didn’t have to deal with any life-threatening emergency. Everyone behaved. The weather cooperated. Eventful days are the days when things go awry, and I really earn my money. I prefer the uneventful days.

I can’t say that I prefer an uneventful life.

So, here I sit at my computer trying to come up with a blog for February, but nothing is coming to me because January was, you guessed it, uneventful. That’s not to say the nothing happened. We rang in the New Year. I earned my wage with several uneventful days at work. I changed burnt out light bulbs and made the usual household repairs. I went to soccer games, volleyball games, and school events. I enjoyed birthday parties, and social events with friends. I had long talks with my children, and meaningful conversations with my wife. I dealt with the drama of daily life. My calendar was quite full, but for the most part the month was uneventful.

So, where does that leave this blog? Do I waste your time describing an uneventful month?

I recently read a novella titled, “A Short Stay in Hell” by Steven L. Peck. It was an intriguing story where the protagonist dies and finds himself in a special type of hell. He is sent to the Library of Babel, as described in the classic short story by Jorge Luis Borges. It is a vast library that contains one authentic volume perfectly describing each person’s life, along with all the possible variants. It doesn’t sound like such an expansive library, but when you do the math the minimum number of books looks something this – 25^1,312,000.  Based on the average size of a book, the Library of Babel could contain enough books to fill the entire known universe.

The protagonist could leave hell the moment he found the volume that accurately depicted his life. Accurately meaning that it included all the events and had no errors (misprints, misspelled words, incomplete sentences). He was immortal and could take as long as he needed to find the book. Since there was a finite number of books, and he had unlimited time, theoretically, he would eventually find the book and be released from hell. The only problem is that most of the books were full of gibberish, and with that many books on the shelves, that’s a universe full of nonsense.

So what do an uneventful January and the Library of Babel have in common?

The truth is that if we wrote down all of the menial daily events in our lives, much of our book would be filled with pages of insignificant sentences, and paragraphs of empty prose. Who would want to read about every banal act of living? Do you care about my struggle to balance my budget or keep the yard clean? Why would you care to review how I cleaned the kitchen or disinfected the kid’s bathroom? What a snoozer it would be if the book only contained the tale of toil that makes up our daily lives. Like the books in the Library of Babel, our lives can easily be filled with gibberish.

So we press forward everyday, wading through the waters of banality hoping for something eventful. At the same time we fear the unknown lurking beneath that water, and we refuse to plunge into the deep waters of the extraordinary.

Will we accomplish anything today worth reading about a hundred, a thousand, or a million years from now, or will the story of our life be like one of the books in the Library of Babel full of random characters without meaning? How do we put together at least one complete sentence in the story of our life that will stand for eternity?

The other day I bought cinnamon rolls at the supermarket. When the grey-haired gentleman bagging my groceries stuffed the rolls into the bag he said, “My wife used to make these all the time.” I could see tears in his eyes. I could only assume from his age, and the emotion he displayed over the rolls, that his dear wife had passed and left him alone. Would you consider a story about a woman cooking her husband cinnamon rolls significant enough to read? It doesn’t seem like much, but it was enough to evoke deep emotion from the man.

My wife has taught me to value relationships more than things. Admittedly, I have been a slow learner. If we want to fill the book of our life with anything other than gibberish, it must include paragraphs of daring dialogue, pages of shared human experiences, and chapters about our service to others. The only words that will give the prose from our book any lasting meaning, are the words we write in the tablets of the heart.

If we want an eventful life filled with meaning, we must nurture relationships with our fellow human beings. After a thousand years the only sentences that will carry any meaning, are the ones we wrote with the ink of love upon the pages of friendship. This Valentine’s Day write one complete sentence in your life’s book filled with words, and deeds, of love that will stand the test of time.

It was clear winter night with a sliver of a moon and the visibility from thirty-seven thousand feet was a hundred miles. Both the Big Dipper and Orion hung bright in the sky, and I felt like if I stared into that starry sky hard enough, I could look into God’s eyes. But instead, my emotions pulled me, and my gaze, earthward. I was passing over Kentucky.

Years ago I read a science fiction short story by Philip José Farmer that I have never forgotten. The crew of an experimental starship manages to exit the outer boundary of our universe only to find other “universes” floating in space. When they realize where they are, it takes everything in them not to panic from the homesick feeling that overcomes them.  He wrote - “It takes a special type of man or woman to lose himself from Earth or his native planet, to go out among the stars so far that the natal sun is not even a faint glimmer. It also takes special conditioning for the special type of man. He has to believe, in the deepest part of his unconscious, that his ship is a piece of Mother Earth. He has to believe; otherwise, he goes to pieces.”

No matter how far we go. No matter how high we fly. No matter the distance through time or space. We always anchor ourselves in a singular reference – Home.

We were travelling west and our flight path took us just south of Lexington, almost over the top of Elizabethtown. Off to my left the lights of Nashville beckoned, as they have beckoned to many a dreamy-eyed singer hoping for country-music fame. On my right the lights of Louisville and all its commerce filled the horizon. A ribbon of highway full of headlights and taillights connected the two cities. My eyes were looking for the lights of the truck stop on I-65 not far from the farm where my parents still live.

A strange feeling gripped me as I followed the lights and zeroed in on the farm. I felt like a little child standing in front of the living room window with his nose against the glass as the ice cream truck ambles by. I felt like the child at the school bus window as he watches his mother wave goodbye and disappear from sight. I felt like the lonely college student stuck on campus during the holidays because he didn’t have enough money to go home. I felt like the soldier deployed to a far away land staring at the horizon wondering about his family. I felt like the tourist on vacation that even amidst all the fun and revelry, suddenly feels empty. Yes, we have all felt that feeling, and even after all these years of traveling for a living, I was homesick.

Homesick is a funny word. It almost sounds like you are sick of home, which is the feeling that most teenagers feel as they approach the age of maturity and can’t wait to get away from home. Or maybe a sickness has invaded the home. Using the word “sick” leads one to believe that it is an actual illness. Judging from the feeling in my stomach that night, I would describe it as a sick feeling indeed. Interestingly enough, it is a sickness for which there is no cure. You can suppress it, distract it, and work it to death, but you can’t eradicate that feeling. You can temporarily suspend it by going home, but as soon as you leave the comfort of your home, the deadly disease comes right back. Homesickness simply has no cure.

Within a matter of minutes we crossed the Mississippi river and put Kentucky behind us.

I sat there pondering the nature of our modern society and the speed at which it moves. With a click of a button we can connect to thousands, perhaps even millions, of people all over the world. We can share a snapshot of our life and display it for anyone, and everyone, to see right from the palm of our hand. In a matter of hours, not days, we can cross the globe in relative comfort and ease. We rush from place to place in planes, trains and automobiles always trying to arrive somewhere. We seem to have this incredible itch to move and connect that can never be satisfied.

A while later on the same flight, we passed just north of the little town of Burkburnett, Texas. Once again I followed the lights of the highways and streets and could barely pick out the first house my wife and I built. That feeling of homesickness came right back, but this time I was sick for the family she and I had made together. I thought about the memories of that house in north Texas, and all the other houses we have lived in. I thought about all the birthday parties, family dinners, school functions, sporting events, and trips to the emergency room. I got the overwhelming sensation that I was detached from life and watching it from a distance. Homesickness has no cure.

I was nervous when I got out the big ladder and prepared to climb up on the roof. It had been several years since I had ventured up there to put up Christmas lights, and the last time I went up there, I broke a tile. I’m not afraid of heights, but I’m not too keen about falling. I had on a new pair of running shoes with lots of grip when I climbed up the ladder and shimmied onto the roof over the garage.

For several years I let my older boys do all the work on the roof. That made me nervous too, but I figured they were much more nimble than I was, and besides they are young and recover from injury much more quickly. Last year I paid the kids to put up the lights. They needed the money, and I didn’t really have time to get them up. This year I had a few days off before Thanksgiving and decided to tackle the job myself.

I made the first trip to Lowe’s and got replacement lights, but when I got home, my wife informed me that she wanted to change out all of our Christmas lights. Back I went to Lowe’s, but I was smart enough to insist that she come along and pick out the lights. (I’m not a newlywed.) She picked out multicolored LED lights for the house, and color-coordinated lights for the trees. I couldn’t see it working out that well, but I saluted smartly and paid for the lights.

I decided to tackle the lower lights first. I got up the first section and turned them on. They weren’t as bright as I thought they were going to be, but after consulting with the wife, I pressed on. That’s when I realized that I was going to be short some fasteners and went back Lowe’s for more. Of course, they were out of the fasteners I needed. I headed to Home Depot, and thankfully, I found them. So after four trips to the store, I was ready to climb up on the roof.

It was late afternoon when I tiptoed across the tile roof and got into position to hang the upper lights. The weather was perfect – no breeze, clear skies, and seventy degrees. All of you living in Northern climates, eat your heart out. I strung out the lights and started hanging them on the upper eaves of the house, carefully watching my foot placement and avoiding the edges of the roof. After a few minutes I got comfortable, but as soon as I realized that I was comfortable, I made myself get nervous again. Complacency kills. I didn’t want my gravestone reading, “Died while hanging Christmas lights.”

 A funny thing happened while I was up there on my roof. Neighbors began to stop and talk to me as if I were standing in my front yard. Now, I live on a street akin to Mayberry, or maybe Beaver Cleaver’s neighborhood. So, it isn’t uncommon to see people out in their front yards prattling on about life, but I guess I never expected it to happen while I was hanging out up on the roof of my house.

One neighbor and I chatted about the recent election and gun sales, two things that seem unrelated, yet are not. Another stopped and related a story from his recent mission trip to Ghana to build a school. I was fascinated and moved by his compassion, but I was more impressed by the response of the people he helped. It made me realize how ungrateful I am for modern conveniences. Another neighbor stopped and talked to me about his job and invited me to check out their new facility (an aircraft maintenance hangar). I visited with the neighbor kids across the street while they jumped on the trampoline. People waved and greeted me as they went to the mailbox, or took their dogs for a walk. It was like being on the roof made me more accessible, or friendly, or maybe they were just worried that I would fall and they wanted to make sure their last words to me were friendly ones.

In spite of all the friendly interruptions, I managed to hang all the lights on the upper roofline and climb down without breaking any tiles or falling off. As the darkness approached, I stood in the street and admired the lights. The color scheme my wife picked out was perfect. The lights, although simple, brought the holiday spirit. I have to admit I enjoyed getting up on the roof this year. I especially liked how it attracted passing neighbors, and wondered if maybe I should get up there more often.

My experience on the roof reminded me of the scripture from Matthew, “What I tell you in darkness, that speak ye in light: and what ye hear in the ear, that preach ye upon the housetops.” (Matthew 10:27) The colorful lights weren’t the reason for the season. I went to the garage and pulled out my favorite part of the decorations – the nativity scene. I fixed the spotlight over the nativity scene, centered it on the baby Jesus, and illuminated a depiction of the most important birth in the history of mankind.

Merry Christmas!

I found out the other day that because of my political support of a specific candidate that I am pro slavery. This came as quite a surprise to me. I have never owned a slave (even though my children accuse me of working them to death). I have never promoted slavery in any form. I consider the institution of slavery vile and morally reprehensible. How could someone even think that I am pro slavery?

An old high school buddy had posted the blanket statement – anybody that will vote for Mitt must love slavery.

I stewed over the comment for a while, and then decided that I couldn’t let something so egregious go unanswered. I posted – Do you really think that because I support Romney that makes me pro slavery? I fail to see the connection in any way and I'm disturbed that you would make such a racial comparison.

I grew up in southern Kentucky. As a young man racism raised its ugly head in my hometown from time to time. I can still remember gossip and rumors about who belonged to the KKK. However, because I was taught NOT to be racist at home, the entire idea of judging another human being based on the color of their skin seemed ludicrous. I saw it for what it was, an ugly form of dehumanizing an entire race.

I knew when I posted the response I was probably in for some counterattacks, but it wasn’t an issue I was willing to let pass. I knew that my buddy was a fair-minded person and didn’t mind some dissent, but I figured a lot of his friends would probably agree with him. They didn’t disappoint me.

They countered my post with comments about the “divisive nature” of the RNC and how those policies affected the poor. I outlined a few of the RNC policies that he touched on and asked him again if he thought I supported slavery just because I supported Romney. Finally he answered with a simple “No,” but not on the thread itself. The conversation remained pointed, but not uncivil, so I stayed engaged. I was told that “…most whites don’t (understand) and you will never make them understand.” “The Gop’s underlying tone is one of prejudice as a whole.” “Taking back the white house…” was a racial comment. “You can’t get it (meaning that it was impossible for me to understand their plight).” “…they don't teach you the truth about America that Abraham Lincoln aint so honest and George Washington ain't so great…”

After spending a month in Russia (an experience I recommend to anyone that likes to complain about this country), I entered passport control at LAX with two newly adopted daughters and a mountain of paperwork. The lady that helped me was black. Her two coworkers were Asian and Hispanic. They laughed and joked with one another. They were friendly and clearly respected each other. It was an amiable and productive atmosphere.

I interrupted them, and with tears in my eyes, I told them how happy I was to be back in the USA. I went on to explain that over the last month I had been in and out of government offices in Russia where smiles were rare, laughter was unheard of, and diversity was only a word in the dictionary. Watching that everyday scene of mutual respect and ethnic diversity made me proud to be a US citizen.

It is easy to vilify a group because we view the group as impersonal and faceless. When we move from the inhuman group to the individual, it is much more difficult to demonize. That’s why I asked the direct question and made my buddy look me in the eye (speaking figuratively) and tell me that I am pro slavery, which he could not do.

The entire conversation disturbed me. I turned the comments over and over again in my mind trying to come to grips with the feelings of those I disagreed with. How could they possibly feel that way? How could they possibly make that connection?

I posted – If I understand you correctly, I will never “get it” simply because I am white. Does that mean I am automatically racist because I am white?

        

The philosophy that I, because I am white, can’t possibly be capable of understanding or caring for the black position is the same philosophy that was used to establish the Jim Crow laws of the South. They argued that blacks weren’t smart enough, or clean enough, or civilized enough to occupy the same space as whites. They argued that blacks would never “get it.” If it was bad for blacks, and it most certainly was bad for blacks and our nation, then how is it an appropriate philosophy for blacks to adopt?”

The whole argument seemed like such a non-sequitur to me that it rang absurd. But that wasn’t what they thought or felt, and I wanted to understand why. I couldn’t deny their experiences and feelings any more than they could correctly judge my motives.

I called a friend of mine. He grew up in the bad part of Saint Louis, the youngest of six children to a single mother. He has no idea who is father is. By all odds, he should never have made it, but he did. He is a successful businessman and father. He is a black man married to a white woman. He knows firsthand the struggles that blacks still face in this country.

My friend spoke candidly of his feelings. He still feels mistrusted by many whites, and blacks view him as a sellout. If he speaks like an educated man, people say that he’s a “smooth talker.” If he speaks like someone from “the hood” they view him as uneducated and not to be taken seriously. Even the friendship with his best friend started with a fight over a racial comment. It took them years for them to understand each other. He feels unaccepted in one world, and disenfranchised in the other.

Race is an issue that is charged with emotion because for too many years we haven’t talked about it candidly. We have swept it under the rug and danced around the topic afraid that we would be labeled with ugly names. Slavery ended a long time ago in this country, but we never got the closure we needed. Race issues become politicized and manipulated, but never solved. They affect our interaction in the marketplace, in religion, and in social settings. Racism is still a festering wound that needs to heal once and for all.

If we want to heal the wounds of racism, we must avoid the same mindset that has kept racism in this country alive for way too long. We cannot let our negative experiences with specific individuals taint our view of entire groups. We must avoid assigning a dark motive to everything that happens to us. If we are treated with bias, we must avoid the pitfall of applying the same philosophy of bias that has been used against us. We must carefully examine our lens and keep it free from any tint that might distort the true colors of life.

It’s time we open up and had a frank conversation about our feelings and experiences with racism. I encourage you to sit down with someone of a different race, and really listen to how they feel. Try to empathize with their feelings. Like me, you may not agree with their philosophy or point of view, but you cannot discount their feelings. You cannot deny their experiences any more than they can judge your motives.

I was driving down the street with my daughter the other day and pulled in behind a vehicle with a vanity license plate. You know, the kind that tells the world how cool you are in a coded message of seven characters or less. This particular plate read – LYVSGR8, and judging from the make and model of the vehicle, they did indeed seem to have a great life, or at least a nice car. I asked if her she could understand the message on the plate, and with a little help from me, she deciphered it as well. Then she asked, “Why don’t we have one of those?”

Granted, my life is great, and I have very little to complain about, but I still find things anyway. However, I have never felt the need to advertise some symbolic message in the seven letters of a license plate. I shrugged and kept driving, but her question and recent writing exercise made me think. What would I put on my plate that could symbolize my life?

I don’t think I have any life symbols that I use regularly. I don’t have a Rolex timepiece, but I do have a Casio that synchs up with the Naval Observatory every night and is always correct. I don’t have a gun case full of antique guns, but I do own a shotgun. (I do have three daughters after all.) Maybe I could count my iPhone, but I’ve only had it about a year. Maybe I could count the boat, but I even share that with a couple of good buddies, so it’s not exclusive. Maybe my running shoes, but I wear out a pair every six months.

The truth is that if my house were on fire and I could rush in and grab only one keepsake that defined me, I would probably just stand on the curb and dial 911.

It’s not that I don’t have material possessions. I just spent half a day cleaning out my garage because I had too much junk. It’s not that I don’t like physical items to help me remember who I am. I have a large trophy in the closet and a small bin of certificates, awards, and decorations tucked away under my bed. It’s not that my life isn’t centered on specific beliefs or traditions. My life is one continuum of personal and public rituals that define who I am and what I believe.

I would love to say that this condition was brought on by my incredible modesty and humility, but most of you that read this blog know better. Why don’t I have any symbols in my life that a stranger could use to better understand who I am?

My mother loves to shop for bargains. She frequents garage sales, flea markets, and discount retailers on a regular basis. She has purchased enough luggage to outfit the flight crew of a Boeing 747, minus the catalog cases that they store in the cockpit. (Come to think of it, she has found a few of those as well.) She has bought enough socks to outfit an army platoon. She has found enough good deals on children’s clothing to clothe a small orphanage in Mexico. She has discovered enough hidden deals on kitchen utensils to provide gifts for a year’s worth of wedding receptions. She doesn’t need any of it. Every last bargain was for someone else. All of that bargain hunting is symbolic of her life and her love for shopping for other people. I think her license plate would say – SHP4LUV.

My wife likes to quilt and scrapbook. She has produced some award-winning scrapbooks, (yes they do give out awards for such things) and a variety of quilts. As the kids grow older they love to pull out the scrapbooks and turn the pages of time. They still curl up on the couch in the quilts she made for each of them. They are symbols of her love for her children and her desire to give each of them something to remember her by. Her license plate should say – SCRPQEN or QILTMOM.

I have two brothers that love BMW motorcycles. (Admittedly, they are the best-built motorcycle in the world.) They have both logged thousand of miles in the saddle, but in addition to riding them, they also like to tinker with them. They both scour craigslist for old BMW bikes that they can buy and part out, or fix up. They make a little money in the process and support their riding habit. Maybe they need license plates that say – IRDBMW or BMWMOTO.

When I got married, my Dad told us, “Mowing hay is the next best thing to sex. So, make hay while the sun shines.” He spent a lot of time making hay. I know. I had to haul it all to the barn. He also had ten kids. You figure it out. He still spends hours out on the riding mower every week. The best symbol of his life would probably be a tractor out mowing hay. I think I would pick – MAKEHAY- as his plate moniker.

I want my life to be defined by the way I have lived. I want to be remembered for my mistakes. I want to be remembered for those few moments of greatness. I want to be remembered for my bold attempts, and my tragic failures. The bottom line is that I eschew symbolic items that define who I am today, because tomorrow I might want to be somebody different, somebody better.

I will never know what might have happened if I had jumped that day. I don’t regret my life. I have lived a life more exciting and rewarding than any one man should be allowed to experience. But I have always wished I had jumped. Perhaps, if I had jumped off the ledge that day, I would have preserved the reckless abandon of youth long enough to achieve more of the impossible dreams I once had. Somewhere, suspended in the air above a deep green pool of water hangs the reckless exuberance of youth, waiting for me to jump.