Stoic

 

We are the silent sufferers; the ones’ who never complain.

Brave and alone we are to endure, whatever the problem be.

“Oh, he never cried.”  They all would say, though he was in great pain.  “He kept a happy face. He seemed never to fret”.

Is this some kind of virtue, like honesty and love?
Are we to embrace pain and hide it from our friends?

This, we are told from an age quite young.

“Big boys don’t cry,” every young lad is reminded when after falling off the bike, a broken arm has made.

“Don’t be a ninny. Be strong Instead”; a message that even girls are told.

That, they say, is what it means to be an adult.

“Keep moving, don’t give up, nor give in. Fight to the end, true and bold”.

Has this become our mantra?

 

But, what if this is all a fancy façade, a way to pretend that we are tough?

Lo, our pain is real, whatever the cause. Should we keep it to ourselves and not let the world in?

 

Remember childlike innocence, when you said what you meant. If we were in pain, others were told. We did not keep it to ourselves. That was honest. That was real.

Ah, but we are adults. We are not to act like “little kids” full of emotion and strife. Instead we are chastised to be strong and composed, to remain above the fray.

And yet. . .  On a sacred day long ago, the Man-God was sentenced to die. On a cross he hung, vulnerable and alone. His life was to end, though his mission was peace, ahead only violence lay.

On at cross, in the midst of that pain, in the presence of that rejection, he cried as below the people gathered. “Why have you forsaken me”? He wailed. Yeah, he was not composed, neither was he singing or smiling the day away.

 

Earlier he had cried when his good friend died. Later he shed tears of blood when, in the garden he waited for that which was to come.

 

There was something real in his sorrow. This was not one who stoically endured.

He was not afraid of emotion. He showed anger as well as love. He was both tender and strong. He was full of passion.

 

Passion is the opposite of stoic. Is that not who we really are?

When I am in pain, I cry. When I am angry I get mad. These are just emotions. They are not to be ignored, though they ought to be tamed.

 

Are we the silent sufferers? Are we the stoic and brave?

Or do we tremble with fear and yell out in pain?

Be strong and be open also

Embrace passion just as The Passionate One embraced us

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Short notice

This is what happened. I just returned from a vacation, and immediately got a call to go to work—in one hour. I hate short notice. For I had plans, I had things that I wanted to do: to write, to read, to think. . . But those will have to wait. Plans have been thwarted.

That is how life is. I am usually lucky in that I do not have such short notice. But it can occur.

There are people who are constantly interrupted, whose job seems to entail a series of short notices. Some of these are parents—for kids are always interrupting with some emergency or problem—doctors, especially those in a hospital where an emergency may occur at any moment— police and fire fighters who never receive notice. They always must be ready at a moment’s notice. . .

Semper Paratus is the Coast Guard motto. It means “always ready”. That is a good description of them. Something happens, a call is made, and off they go to rescue or search.

I am not naturally inclined to that. I like things planned, methodical and researched. Yet sometimes I feel the inclination to just go—to be spontaneous. But usuallythis is short-lived. I generally like my schedule.

So, off I go to work. It’ll be ok. I tend to over think, anyway. Now I can avoid that. I only have time to react. It may be better that way.

Worry

Worry

I’ve heard it said it’s wrong to worry

That it shows a lack of faith

A lack of hope

For it allows anxieties to mount

And fears to grow

 

“Let not your heart be troubled”,

For

“His eye is on the sparrow”

I hear them say

With helpful hearts

 

But with hand-wringing, heart-pumping,

 Quickened-breathing I worry

About this

And, about that

 

I worry that I worry

I worry that I should worry

I worry that maybe I worry too much

Oh, the cursed feeling, why must I fret?

 

“Have Peace!” Faith tells me

I listen, hoping . . .

That next, I will given a key

To solve my worry

 

Yet, no key arrives.

Only a soft Voice

From deep within

Calming yet bold

 

I worry that I may not have heard the Voice right

Was there more?

I worry that I will be told to give up on “worry”

I worry what I will do then!

 

The future needs not to be known

As it will be told in time

I need to relax and believe

That all will be fine

 

But, is ignorance truly bliss? Is it better not to know. . .

And go through life

Without plan, without purpose

Then, will there be nothing for us to worry?

 

Worry it seems, is a part of us

For we worry that others will be safe

When they leave us

Or when illness strikes

 

We worry because we do not know

We worry because we are afraid

We worry because we care

We worry because we are human

 

Doubt is worry’s cousin

They both rule this world

“We look through a glass dimly”

And seek the One beyond our Seeking

 

God made us,

And God . . .

Made worry to be within us

Why? I do not know. . .

 

But, that is not mine to worry about

Or is it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Little Things

Little Things

I like little things. I do not know why, but I tend to interested in things that are “different”, out of the ordinary and unique. I seek out the details that others miss. Things that are little are often overlooked.

I am also a geographer, and understand the role of “scale”. Tiny animals like spiders, bugs and ants exist on a much smaller scale than humans do. What for us, is just a few steps is for them a journey. Yet they not only live, but seem to survive quite nicely.

There is something comforting to me about the fact that, in the midst of human chaos, life goes on. For example, at work one day I looked down and, there just inches from a heavily-travelled road was a line of ants. They seemed oblivious to the loud cars and trucks overhead. Instead they walked along the white line, in search of food, or water, or mates or whatever. Maybe that white line was a highway for the ants, and they were on a journey to visit other ant-friends a few ant-miles away (which for us would be a few feet).

Another time I was in an argument --a very heated discussion that had moved to a neighborhood park. I, and the person with whom I was losing the argument to, thought that going to the park would help to calm the situation. When we sat a picnic table, a tiny green bug, about the size of a comma, walked across the tabletop. I pointed it out. And stared at it, since staring at my argument opponent was not in my best interest.

Something happened! Quickly, the problem that had brought us to that picnic table seemed to—at least for a while—float away. We were both engrossed in the happenings of this tiny bug. It went between the wood planks, but did not fall. It traveled, as if on a mission, across the table top. In a moment the world seemed simpler, less complex, for this tiny bug had no knowledge that it was on a table, or was being spied upon by others who were not seeking prey.


Tiny little things are all around, be they small ants along a road, tiny bugs on a table, or small fish in the backyard pond. All these living things exist in spite of human interference and encroachment. Not only that but they seem content, and at peace with their space. That to me is a nice thought.