DARTed Again

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It has been a couple of weeks since this happened. This is the first time I have felt like I could take the time to stop and write something down. I may miss a detail or two, but it has happened to me often enough that I will surely have pulled from some other time. Let me start by saying that I’m not making any blanket statements about the people who work for DART. In fact, for every bad experience I have had I can point to countless good experiences. Many a driver has gone out of his or her way to help me get where I needed to go. I tell this story not to beat up on DART, but in hope that my story will help everyone to stop and consider the unintended consequences of their actions when they don’t feel like following the rules.

It was Monday before last. I had been going to the office all week because I was not able to connect to the office network from home. Finally my laptop was rebuilt and I packed up to hurry home early. I was expecting my new home computer to be shipped that day and I wanted to be there to get it. I made the train on time and arrived at the Arapaho Center station where I transfer to a bus with approximately a 10 minute window before the bus was to arrive. At the bus terminal, all of the busses have marked stops. I know where mine is, and it hadn’t changed. I do have a little vision, so I opted to wait inside the enclosed shelter from where I could see the bus pull up to the designated stop. The arrival time came and went, but no bus ever stopped at that birth. A couple of times a bus pulled passed the stop and maybe slowed a little, but if anyone else had been waiting inside the shelter I don’t think they would have had time to react either. It’s likely the driver was late and didn’t want to bother stopping if there was no one waiting.

Admittedly, I’ve been a DART rider long enough that I should have known better. I should have been standing right out by the pole with the sign on it, particularly after the bus was late. I have this terrible hang-up though. I expect people to do what they are supposed to do. I will never know whether that driver even arrived that day, but past experience suggests that he or she did not stop in the correct place either because of lateness or some personal quirk. All I really know is that I was stuck waiting for another hour for the next bus to come. I missed my shipment.

In my case the consequences were no worse than a delay in getting what I wanted and a great deal of frustration at being a slave to someone else’s incompetence. Blindness offers many challenges, but at least for me the worst by far is the lack of the freedom of movement. However, I always think in these situations, what if it were something more critical? I once met a man at a bus stop who was late for a job interview because the bus did not arrive on time. Sometimes those things are unavoidable. Traffic, construction, broken equipment, etc are all part of life, but a driver simply not doing what he is supposed to do is not acceptable

Let’s All Hold Hands

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Here’s the second installment in my project to relocate anything I think might be worth saving from my old web site. For a few years there I got the idea that maybe I had some talent for poetry and song writing. The song writing bit is a little out there since I never learned music, not to mention anything about the quality of the lyrics. J This one was meant to be done to a driving dance beat with synthesized electric guitar providing a dark background. I’ll spare you any attempt at describing what I’m hearing in my head.

I think this marks the beginning of my dissatisfaction with all the ritual of traditional church services, regardless of flavor. The pastor at the time liked to have us all join hands at some point in the service, and it always struck me as contrived community. We would all stand there holding hands for what seemed like forever as he went on and on. Disheartened and longing for even a glimpse of the things that once drew me to that body, I wrote this.

Let’s All Hold Hands

 

Let’s all get together.
Let’s sing a song.
Let’s listen to the preacher
Tell us right from wrong.
Let’s all get together.
Let’s all shake hands.
I will tell you that I love you
But don’t make demands.

Let’s all hold hands.
That’s what the man said.
Let’s all hold hands
Looking solemn as the dead.
Let’s all hold hands
Until the monologue ends.
Let’s all hold hands
And pretend we’re friends.

Let’s all get together
Over here and over there.
Behind invisible walls
in the room we share.
Let’s all get together
And go our separate ways.
Let’s all get together
In another seven days.

Let’s all hold hands.
That’s what the man said.
Let’s all hold hands
Looking solemn as the dead.
Let’s all hold hands
Until the monologue ends.
Let’s all hold hands
And pretend we’re friends.

Let’s all get together.
Did somebody sneeze?
Let’s all get together
And spread the disease.
We’re so glad that you could join us.
If you stay here long.
One of us may take you in
And you can learn our song.
Let’s all get together
But not too near.
Under synthetic fragrances
we hide the smell of fear.

Let’s all hold hands.
That’s what the man said.
Let’s all hold hands
Looking solemn as the dead.
Let’s all hold hands
Until the monologue ends.
Let’s all hold hands
And pretend we’re friends.

© 2001 Larry Thacker Jr.

Desert Flower

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I’ve got an idea in my head to eventually move all the material from my dated and neglected web site to the blog and move the blog to the main web site address. Since I’m about to get a new PC and have no desire to install the obsolete FrontPage software on it, now would be a good time to start. Since it’s Valentine’s Day, I thought it would be fun to share the little story I wrote for Linda that initiated a rapid move from casual friendship to something much more. I delivered this in February, proposed in April, and we were married on June 19, 2004.

Desert Flower

I found a flower growing in a barren, arid place. I would almost say that it found me, for its vivid brightness seemed to call to me from the side of the path. It was a beautiful flower, so out of place in the desolate landscape where it grew. It looked so delicate, yet to be here in this place it must be hardy indeed. I gazed at it with admiration. I thought to pluck it up and take it with me on my journey. Oh what a hasty and tragic thing to do, for then its life would be but for a moment, and no one would ever have joy from it again. I can hardly bear to leave it in this place with no gardener to care for it and make it grow, yet I know that it does have a gardener, far better than I could be. No earthly gardener makes anything grow, but He does. We only help as He has shown us the way. I have water with me. Dare I share some of it? What if I share too little? What if I share too much? I fear even to touch it, lest even that be unwelcome. I put forth a tentative finger to feel the delicate peddles. I wonder if it would grow in my own garden where I and all who pass my way would be blessed by its bright beauty, but I cannot think of that now. Perhaps it was meant to thrive right where it is. Perhaps it is meant for someone else’s garden. Those questions do not have answers now, and do not need them. I only want to be the Gardener’s hand. In this short time, I have come to love the flower, and I want most of all to see it in the fullness of its glory, growing and reflecting back the rays of the sun in the profusion of color that is its potential. I will tend it wherever it grows best until the Gardner stays or stills my hands.

The H Word

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I choose to laugh. The alternative is no fun. Anyone living with an obvious disability has experienced it. People go into verbal contortions to avoid using certain words deemed to be insensitive. Sometimes I just tell people I’m blind now. It’s easier to say and quite true for legal purposes. I’ve used the term visually impaired most often I suppose because it’s really more accurate, but that too is a clunky PC construction. “Almost blind” is my new favorite. It’s really the closest I can get to the truth of the situation, though I don’t think of myself that way. This is all I’ve ever had, so to me it’s perfect vision.

I think the most uncomfortable appellation I’ve been saddled with is “sightless.” What clueless liberal dreamed that one up? Thankfully I have not encountered it often. I’m a big fan of calling a thing what it is. All of us facing some kind of mental or physical insufficiency are lumped into one big category that has also acquired various PC labels over the years. We’ve been disabled, a term I still use for the sake of peaceful coexistence. We’ve been physically or mentally challenged. We’ve been people with disabilities. Then there are the real aberrations such as “differently able.” What on earth is that supposed to mean?

My favorite is probably the most politically incorrect of the bunch. I think handicapped is actually the best word. A common objection to this word is that it has its origin in the idea that people with disabilities had no option but to beg. They had a cap in hand. First of all, this is not true. I generally do not recommend Snopes as a good source of information, but this particular article does a good job of explaining the real etymology of the word.

Second, we get way too wrapped up in what was instead of what is. Even if the supposed history of the word were correct, no one understands it to have that meaning today. We know it to refer to one of two things. It is either descriptive of a person with a disability or a term used in competition to indicate an encumbrance placed on a contestant to equalize the field. In fact, the latter is the true history of the word. The handicap is put on the best horse to give the others a chance, so why would I resent that? Bring it on. I’m still going to win.

Open Letter to an Old Friend

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If I worked hard enough I suppose I could find you. If I cared as much as I’m about to say that I do, maybe I would. The last I knew you were not doing well and had decided not to come back to school in Fayetteville, Arkansas. I hope you’re still around, but I don’t really know how bad your health was. If you’ve left us, I hope I’ll see you again in Heaven.

That’s what I think about when you come to mind. I was such a young fool. I had much to learn about life and my place in it. On the other side of a painful divorce, much of the arrogance you saw in me was shattered. That kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to a preacher’s kid who thought some day he would be a preacher too. As I reflected on our brief friendship I realized that I didn’t model for you the kind of life I advocated. In many ways I was the classic hypocrite. If only I had the understanding then that I do now, but I guess that’s what growing up is all about.

What sticks out in my memory, though no longer distinctly is that toward the end of our time together you began to say some troubling things. I remember the night we prayed together. I remember it was you who took the initiative to accept Jesus as lord of your life. It is among my most precious memories. I’ve always taken the blame for the doubts you began to express. Even after that night I didn’t live the part consistently, and sometimes I enlisted your help in my error. Ultimately you are responsible to God, but I should have been a help and not a hindrance. My church was no help either. If I had acted properly I would have immediately begun looking for a place with real Christians in it who would have accepted both of us, but you were left with only a young fool for support who was too self-absorbed to even know what he was doing.

Here I am, twenty years later still thinking about it and wondering if you ever found your way back. This letter will probably never find you, but if it did, I would want you to know that though much has been shaken, my faith remains. I wish I could have the opportunity to talk with you about it. At least I can talk to everyone else about it, and I hope that my life now is a clearer reflection of the truth then it was when you knew me. I express myself best when writing, so that’s what I do when I can make the time. All I want now is to here “Well done, good and faithful servant” when I leave this earthly life.

I still can’t help wondering from time to time if at least one person, namely you, will be there with me. I pray you didn’t let my folly drive you away from Him. His love is perfect. It never fails. I on the other hand have never stopped failing. My only hope is that God has a remarkable tendency to take even our failures and make something beautiful of them. That’s the only way I can explain the life I have now. If I’ve learned nothing else, I know that I am nothing without Him. I don’t know where this would find you, but if it is not a good place, I say that even now it is not too late.

It’s Just a Number

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That’s what I’ve been telling all my friends as they hit forty. Now it’s my turn. Do I really feel that way? Yes and no. Yes, because very little really depends on physical age. We all do inevitably run down over time and it takes time to build maturity; but how we use the time we have has a tremendous impact on who and what we are by a certain age. One may make some very broad generalizations about someone based on age, but the individual has much to do with what it really means.

No, because I have this vague but unshakeable idea of some person that I should be by the age of forty and reality doesn’t reflect that image. Each passing year caries away opportunities only glimpsed if seen at all as they flash by. Each year moves faster than the next. Each mistake is potentially more costly as time accelerates. Arrogance and brashness are replaced by caution and awareness of vulnerability. One may learn from experience without growing from it, especially if he learns the wrong lesson.

So I find myself looking back at my life as I approach this particular number, but that is nothing new for me. My challenge is to look forward. I cannot change what has already happened. I can decide what to do next. I look to Yahweh for guidance, because I don’t have a clear idea what that should be.

This I do know. There is no shame in age. The ravages of physical decline are lamentable, but I hate to hear people speaking of being old as if it diminishes them in some way. Women in particular seem preoccupied with the subject as their physical appearance changes. Take it from the blind guy. Who you are has very little to do with how you look. If you spent as much time on internal improvement as you spent on external trivialities your reward would be far greater.

I’ve never been one to respect age for its own sake, though the Bible teaches respect for elders. What I do recognize is that with age comes the potential for increased wisdom. If I’m looking for wisdom from a human source, I’m going to go to someone who has had time to accumulate more of it. Our society errs in its degradation of age. It reflects our focus on the superficial rather than the meaningful. My hope is that I enter the second half of my life growing in wisdom and sharing it with those who will come after me.

There’s just one more thing I need to say before I stop rambling. My Facebook friends already know that I’ve chosen to donate my fortieth birthday to a cause that I see as the next step in furthering my above stated goal. I’d like to see this be the year that we launch Mission Accessible in a big way. If you’re on Facebook, you can donate here. If not, you can donate directly from the Mission Accessible web site.

Fresh Word for the New Year

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No, I’m not about to offer any prophetic utterance. I’m just excited about something I found this morning while looking for new ways to study the Bible. I know too little to have a considered opinion of the quality of the English Standard Version (ESV) translation, but I am encouraged by the material I found. Admittedly it was all from the publisher, but I feel reasonably confident that I will not be led far astray by using this translation. I am excited for a fresh perspective on the scripture and a reading plan that is similar to the one I have followed for years and allows me to use the RSS approach that has kept me on track for the past year. The MP3 alternative is a bonus. I can take those with me when I travel and need not be concerned with getting it on my phone. I would be interested in opinions from my scholarly friends on the ESV translation.

Christmas Spirit

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All I want for Christmas is a bucket to upchuck it.
Saw it coming; couldn’t duck it.

Why must I be happy to see this glee of red and green fallacy?

Lend me your ear; give me a beer; shed a tear
for love lost, permafrost, forgotten death on a cross.

To be a friend you have to spend; do defend your greed to the end
a poison blend of piety and pretend.

This is peace on Earth? Forgotten birth; plastic mirth; the worthless given worth?

Gifts for all are at the mall but please don’t call if you should fall from favor.
We believe and we receive and guard our saccharine flavor.

Can’t buy me love but I can try. Don’t cry.
Just take it back. Here’s the sack. I lost track of what you lack.
Hapless hack just talking’ smack; please leave me out of this.

Compassion in fashion; no reason; just the season
Stroke the ego. Where do we go when the big day comes and passes?
It was molasses now quick silver and the bills are due. Merry Christmas to you too.

Unspoken

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Thoughts prowling the dark places of the mind and heart
Hideous creatures barely contained behind gates with many locks
Fear, love, cold calculation, all not quite enough
Raging, growling, snarling, smashing against the bars!
They must be controlled, lest they break free to rend and kill and destroy.

I am the keeper, slave, and master.
I love them, loathe them, and always feed them.
I am the food that sustains them.
What will be the end when no strength is left to hold the locks?

Dear God

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Dear God,

I hope this letter reaches You, for it seems my prayers cannot. Empty words fall to the ground and cover it that no life may be found. Oh that You would answer me! Drive the doubts from my mind. Your silence kills me. Do You find so much evil in me? May I not hear Your voice and know You?

Dear God,

Daily I write to You, thoughts in my head like a box of jigsaw pieces all from different puzzles and none of them complete. I write and do not speak because in the writing is the illusion of coherence. I beg that You will guide my hand, but You are not the author of confusion.

Dear God,

What do I know of faith? Some tell me I haven’t enough. It may be said of all of us, but I take it to heart. You do not answer, so I do not speak except to utter prefab phrases that tickle the ear and leave the heart cold.

Dear God,

What do I know of love? I know neither how to give it nor how to receive it. I proclaim it and pursue it and still do not understand it. How can You love me? If I had not that hope I would have left this world already, yet still I call and You do not answer. And so I hide my despair in secret letters, fearing to come close enough for words.

And yet, dear God, I remain sincerely Yours.