Leaving the Land of the Numb

Guest Writer: Don Follis

Leaving the Land of the Numb

I grew up in Northwestern Kansas--the land of numb--where everyone was fine: families, teachers, pastors, dogs, and cats. Everyone! Before my Grandmother Follis's funeral, my dad stood in the church foyer, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He was attired in his signature outfit--tweed jacket, white shirt, and Levi jeans--both heavily starched--and handmade alligator-skin boots he had fitted in Dallas. He was a man's man.

Walking up to him, I put my arm around him and said, "Dad, how are you feeling?"

"Just fine, son. How are you?” I smiled and said, "I'm just fine, Dad." You can be sad when your mother dies. You can be relieved if she suffered, but you can't be fine. "Fine," my wife says to me, "is a grade of sandpaper." Like my dad, I have mostly been "Just Fine." But I realized that Jesus isn't only the meek and mild figure so often presented in paintings and liked by everyone.

Being liked was not Jesus' highest value. Like a golden retriever, I always want everyone to be my friend. Not Jesus. And there's the rub. I can't have it both ways--helping others the way I want to while expecting to be liked by everyone. My wife reminds me: "If being liked is your highest value, especially when you have a chance to speak truth to power, you have the wrong value."

Every day I try to be fully present, allowing myself to feel whatever painful and positive emotions come my way. Some days I laugh; some days I cry. It is the only way to live. Jesus is a hero to me because he was fully present emotionally. Not once was he ever "Just fine."

Learning to be fully present has been a long journey. I tell my story of learning to connect my emotional and spiritual lives in my new memoir: Leaving The Land of Numb, now available on Amazon.

Don Follis

Joanna  https://www.joannaseibert.com/

Visiting Places Where Miracles Happen

Visiting Places Where Miracles Happen

“A cancer inexplicably cured. A voice in a dream. It is possible to look at most miracles and find a rational explanation in terms of natural cause and effect. It is possible to look at Rembrandt’s Supper at Emmaus and find a rational explanation in terms of paint and canvas.”—Frederick Buechner in Beyond Words (HarperOne, 2009).

Caravaggio, The Supper at Emmaus, National Gallery London

I believe in miracles. Once a week, I step into a room full of people who are themselves miracles. It is a 12-step recovery group of people who once were crippled by addiction and now are “happy, joyous, and free.” They talk about what it was like then and what it is like now. I have heard some of their stories hundreds of times, but each time I see a few more similarities to my own story and identify more closely with theirs. Sometimes a person’s story is so similar to mine that I think: That IS my story—the differences blur. Everyone in the room is a miracle, and I realize I am, also. And so, each time, I leave that place profoundly grateful.

I see other miracles every day. Someone calls or comes for a visit. I just listen and listen. In my mind, I have no idea what to say. Sometimes words come out of my mouth that seem to help my friend. I am in the dark about where a particular statement might have come from. I know it’s flashing into my mind was a miracle, not of my own making. Some would call it the Spirit working in our lives.

I see people living for many years through cancers that in the past would have killed them in months. These are all miracles. People who find cures are miracle workers. Often these scientists and physicians are inspired by seeing patients die of a particular disease, and are determined not to experience that again.

I remember a conversation with my grandmother when I was a junior in medical school, as we were riding together in the back seat of a car. She told me she could not understand how people do not believe in miracles when they see a newborn baby. I just smiled, but in my mind, I was thinking: “Grandmother, I know how babies develop. I know all the secrets and stages of how they come to be born. These are all facts of science.”

Now fifty years later, I know my grandmother is right, because I have seen so many sick newborns. The birth of every baby is a miracle.

I also know what Buechner talks about when we see Rembrandt’s Supper at Emmaus at the Louvre in Paris. Rembrandt has captured the miracle. So many other works of art qualify as miracles as well. They connect us to the God of our understanding: Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son at the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg; Caravaggio’s Supper at Emmaus in the National Gallery in London; Georges de La Tour’s The Repentant Magdalen at the National Gallery in Washington, D. C.

Buechner challenges us to remember the many works of art that speak individually to us, and to look at them anew. Do we recognize the miracles offered to us in art books for the present—or even better, might we plan a pilgrimage since this pandemic has subsided to see these masterpieces for ourselves as we learn more about miracles in them and ourselves?

Joanna  https://www.joannaseibert.com/

Crossing the Divide

Photography as a Spiritual Practice

Crossing the Divide

Guest Writer: Alan Schlesinger

World War II 98 year old veteran at Normandy signing autographs at Tourist ballgame

My wife and I moved to Asheville, NC, in retirement less than a year ago. The town is nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It is a beautiful cultural center for music and art. It is a Mecca for tourists who enjoy hiking, visiting countless microbreweries, and partaking in the impressive foodie offerings in this quirky mountain town in Western North Carolina. It is fitting, therefore, that the Class A minor league baseball team that plays here in the legendary 100-year-old McCormick Field is named the Asheville Tourists.

Over the years, fans have had the honor of seeing the likes of Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, and Jackie Robinson play in this historic ballpark set into the side of the mountains surrounding Asheville. 

Last week, my wife and I attended a game with some new friends we met in Asheville. It was a beautiful balmy summer evening, and the game was very exciting, as the last-place Tourists beat the Winston-Salem Dash with a score of 6-1. It was a sellout crowd with a huge number of families with young children enjoying America’s pastime and dollar hotdog night, rather than their electronic devices. Two towering home runs by the home team Tourists cleared the tall wall in dead center field and still appeared to be climbing as they left the ballpark. A glorious fireworks display topped off the evening, as this was a “Fireworks Friday”—a weekly tradition at McCormick Field. 

However, the enormous ovation of the night was reserved for a gentleman unknown to me and most of the other fans before that evening—George Sarros—a 98-year-old World War II Navy veteran who threw out the first pitch. He participated in the battle of Normandy at Utah Beach. The crowd’s response to Mr. Sarros did not end with a standing ovation at the beginning of the game. Throughout the entire nine innings, there was a constant parade of people—both young and old—to his seat along the third baseline to meet him, shake his hand, and thank him for his service.

I made this photograph as he answered questions from these three young baseball fans (you can see his signature where the girl on the right had him autograph her cap). He seemed surprised to see such an outpouring of gratitude from the fans at the game. I have to admit that I, too, was caught off guard by the response. In these days of political polarization, where even the definition of the term “patriot” sometimes seems to become divisive, the 4100 people in the sellout crowd (including the progressive “elites” who live in the liberal town of Asheville and the right-leaning citizens from the surrounding rural countryside) came together to celebrate this gentleman and express their gratitude for the sacrifices of this patriot and the countless others of the “greatest generation” who took up arms to save democracy.

 And, as a son of refugees liberated by the Allies in World War II, I was honored to wait my turn, shake his hand, and add my grateful thanks. 

Alan Schlesinger   https://www.joannaseibert.com/

Joanna