As Jim Sees It

Well, it certainly feels official now. I am never going to be a member of the Olympic boxing team. Ever since 1976 when I told a buddy, “Shoot, I could take Leon Spinks,” I have piddled around, thinking I can always make the team the on next go round. But, now I am injured and I don’t care what all you positive thinkers say, Dana Torres not-with-standing, fifty-nine is too old to be the light heavyweight medal contender for the USA in 2012. Not to mention the fact that 220 pounds a tad over the limit. I am just assuming a “fighting weight.”

My injury is the sore shoulder that I mentioned a couple of posts ago. That soreness morphed into not being able to raise my left arm and is actually a cervical issue and has nothing to do with a hurt shoulder; other than the bulge in my spine that is shutting down the nerve that runs through my shoulder, making it so weak that if Billy the Kid told me to “reach for the sky” I would be in serious trouble.

All that leads to a date with the neurosurgeon sometime in the next few days. They are going to go in through the front of my neck, clean out three disks, add in some donor disks (or is it discs?), then attach a small brace to the bone and get me in a physical therapy regimen that should have me ready for Greco-Roman wrestling in 2016.

It may have been tacky, since anyone who is willing to let others use their body when they are through with it should be appreciated, but I did have one request concerning the donor tissue. I told them that it would be great if they could put at least one disc in my neck from someone who was able to keep their head down when they hit their long irons on the golf course.

Anyway, since I totally agree with the fellow who said, “The definition of minor surgery is surgery that someone else is having,” I would be grateful for your prayers over the next couple of weeks.

Not long ago a fellow called me “Politically Correct.” I could tell from the context that he didn’t mean it as a compliment and I was about to say, “Partner, you better smile when you say that” when my mind started drifting and I thought to myself, This could be the subject of my next post.

I found it kind of ironic that shortly after writing a post that seemed to endorse vigilante justice for child abusers I would be called politically correct but truth is it wasn’t the first time.

I am intentionally inclusive (that I would even use that word seems to make my adversary’s point) in language that relates to gender, ethnicity, orientation and all that other stuff when I want to make sure that it is understood that God’s invitation is for all ya’ll.

I am also totally comfortable with what I consider to be the sound theological position that God is Spirit and that means that God (notice the avoidance of the word “he” there) is a being that includes and is beyond male and female. That means that sometimes we take comfort in the fact that God’s love closely resembles the doting, protective, providing love of a good Daddy and sometimes we are simply speechless in the presence of the one Anslem called, “beyond that which can be grasped.”

Back to politically correct as an accusation. What was he accusing me of? I have been told that us PC folks are afraid of offending people. That can’t be true. I had apparently offended this guy and I didn’t care.

It seems more likely to me that he wanted permission to offend someone and was irritated at my unwillingness to go along with him. That makes it feel to me like the issue was actually his prejudice toward the group of people we happened to be discussing.

I’m not saying that this so called PC stuff can’t occasionally get out hand. I could give examples of places and times where I think it went over the line but I am not inclined to provide fuel for those who are opposed to what I consider to be good manners and a commitment to precise language.

I am saying that if you ever feel the urge to call me politically correct, here’s how I will take it. First of all, I won’t consider it the end of the discussion. You will have to tell me what you mean by that and you may hear me imply that you need to brush up on your manners. In the end, if you mean that I am trying to be inclusive or trying to not paint everyone in a particular group with the same brush, you got me.

I just got back from a week at our cabin in the North Carolina mountains. It was something of a vacation, spiritual retreat, do some writing, get away that resulted in a sore shoulder from over doing it, a couple of good ideas ( I think ) for potential books, and a realization that I struggle with free time. I am a list guy. Check it off, accomplish something, then feel good about yourself. Not an attitude that makes for a good spiritual retreat and time of contemplation.

Gerald May, in his book, The Awakened Heart, says that we are so caught up with the “important” things in life that we miss that which we most yearn for. He says, “We have difficulty just being; we think we must get on with more important things. We have to be efficient. In becoming adults, we have been conditioned to believe that efficiency is more important than love.”

May goes on to say that efficiency is the “how” of life, our daily living, surviving, our roles. Love is the “why” of life.

All of that is to say that I am giving it a whirl next week too. Kathryn and I are going to Garden City to spend a week with her side of the family, around twenty-five of us. In the midst of card games, fishing, golf, making sand castles with Sarah, sitting on the beach and sitting on the porch, I assure you there won’t be much efficiency. But there will be some remembering the “why” of life.

But, I had it on my list to do a post before I left so there you go. See you next week.

First two things: 1) Yes Erin, this is a continuation of the last one. 2) Honestly, this one goes against all that I truly believe makes our nation great, and excepting Genesis, chapter 34, it is probably not scriptural. (You can look it up.)

It was told to me as true by a person that isn’t known for making stuff up. OK, he loves to embellish a story, and that’s a good thing, but he doesn’t just fabricate.

Seems a Grand Daddy from upstate South Carolina, we will call him Mr. Black, discovered that a man, we will call him Mr. Jones, molested his grand daughter. Mr. Black didn’t deliberate at all, he got in his truck and headed over to Mr. Jones’. Mrs. Black knew that was no good, so she called the sheriff’s office. “My husband just found out that Mr. Jones hurt our grand daughter and he’s gone over there! Please send somebody right now because I don’t know what he’s gonna do!”

The dispatcher sent Deputy Williams. A few minutes later Deputy Williams radioed in, “This is Williams, I’m at the Jones house and Mr. Black’s truck is here.”

The dispatcher replied, “Do you see Mr. Black?”

Slight pause, “I do.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s in the front yard.”

“What’s he doing?”

Longer pause, “He’s beating Mr. Jones with a tire tool.” Another pause, “Please advise.”

I know it’s bad, but if Williams ever runs for sheriff of my county, he can count on my support.

In the summer of 1970 I was seventeen, very caught up in myself, and my mother’s sister, Mary Lou, was dying from lung cancer. Because I was convinced that there was a host of stuff more important than saying good-bye to an amazing aunt and being there for your family in an awful time, I missed two very important conversations.

I heard about one of them a couple years later when my mother told me that, one afternoon as she sat with Mary Lou, she unloaded all her worries about me on her sister. Those worries were certainly justified but Mary Lou, who was pretty much on her death bed, said firmly, “Don’t worry about Jimmy. He’ll be OK.” Momma telling me about my aunt’s words of confidence and hope has had a profound impact on my life. I would like to think, save a couple stupid seasons, Mary Lou was right.

I didn’t know about the other conversation until last night when I called my father to check in. I'm not sure how we got there but somehow, as we chatted about this and that, I learned that while my aunt was dying and my uncle was completely distracted, there was a certain twenty-four year old baseball coach that was showing an inappropriate interest in a certain thirteen year old girl score keeper, my cousin, Belinda.

I hadn’t thought about that fellow for thirty-eight years, but as my father talked, I remembered being amazed that a man, seven years older than me was posing as a legitimate boyfriend to my younger cousin. Belinda was cute for sure, in a cousin sort of way. Mostly, I thought of her as one tough basketball player. She and I, on more that one occasion, beat a couple of neighborhood fellows in games of two on two. That’s pretty cool, but come on, she was thirteen. When she wasn’t whipping boys on the basketball court and dating twenty-four year old men, she was playing with Barbie dolls!

One night, when Coach I’m-so-cool-I-date-little-girls came up in conversation, my mother lamented, “Somebody needs to do something!” Not long after that, somebody did.

Seems my Dad, you remember him from a couple posts back, was over at my aunt’s house one night when Coach Wonderful came by. Dad answered the door.

“I’d like to see Belinda for a minute,” said Elvis.

“You don’t have anything to say to her,” said Uncle I’m-sick-and-damn-tired-of-nobody-doing-anything.

“Five minutes?”

“Four and a half.”

When two hundred seventy seconds were up, my Dad said, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

I didn’t get the conversation verbatim, but here’s the two main points: It was ridiculous for a man his age to be hanging around a girl Belinda’s age. And, if Uncle Look-me-in-the-eye-do-I-look-I’m-teasing? ever heard of him coming around again, something bad was going to happen. Coach I-don’t-want-nothing-bad-to-happen never came around again.

When he was done, I told my Dad, “That’s a great story! I’m adding it to my collection of family lore immediately.”

Dad chuckled and said, “I don’t know if I handled all that the right way or not.”

“I think you handled it perfectly!”

“It may have been effective but I’m not sure about perfect.”

To that I said, from the depths of my heart, “When you are protecting your family and keeping children safe, effective and perfect are the same thing.”