Author: Susan Minarik

Today is Father’s Day here in the USA, and I’ve been thinking about my own dad, a good man, loved by all who knew him. Dads matter, you know. If you’re a dad, I wish you an outstanding day. If you have a dad, think about how lucky you are, and tell him.

If your father has passed away, I’m posting this story from last year again especially for you. Its ending gave my heart a warm glow as I thought of my own dad, and of other dear ones who have gone.

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This is one of those little hometown stories you don’t hear much any more. It’s about my neighbor’s son-in-law, Shawn.

Shawn worked as a meat cutter at the big chain grocery store up the road a couple miles. He’d always nod and smile when he saw me. But ahead of his job, the passion of his life was his membership in the township’s Volunteer Fire Department.

Last winter, Shawn took ill and was diagnosed with one of those “turbo-cancers” that have sprung up in the past couple years. They develop quickly and effect different areas of the body simultaneously or in rapid succession.

Shawn fought it valiantly. But last Tuesday the doctors said there was no more they could do and sent him home to die surrounded by his family.

The family set up a bed for him in the living room where he could look out the front door at the neighborhood. There was something special coming, they told him, they wanted him to see.

A few hours later, as a light rain fell from a pale sky, the sound of a fire truck’s siren ripped through the air, followed by another, and another, and another. Trucks had come from departments all around the county. One even came from E. Palestine, Ohio. Shawn hadn’t been able to fight the fire the night of the derailment there last winter, but his wife went, fighting along with the rest of the department.

The bond among fire-fighters is strong. They came this night to tell Shawn they loved and respected him, to honor his years of service. The red and white lights of their trucks glistened in the rain as they drove in a slow parade all around his block, sirens wailing.

Shawn watched from his bed, smiling. Two days later, he was gone.

My heart goes out to the family. They’ve been through the wringer the past couple years. But it never got them down.

I was thinking about Shawn and his family yesterday when I came across a short story called “The Black Telephone.” It’s a beautiful little story and worth a read. In one part of it, the story-teller’s pet canary dies. He’s just a little kid at the time and the death confuses him. He goes to a wise older friend. Here’s the excerpt from the story:

I asked her, “Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?”

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Wayne, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.”

Somehow I felt better.

I felt better, too. For a minute, I imagined a grinning Shawn giving rides to smiling children and puppies in a big shiny fire truck up in some corner of heaven.

You know, it can be a tough world. There’s a lot of pain and sorrow here. Remember to be kind. And when you lose someone dear, take comfort in remembering that there are other worlds to sing in.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by Steven Iodice from Pixabay}

I thought I’d chat with you today about the bravery game and the unexpected gift that it brought me. The game goes like this. . .

To play, you accept the premise that anything can happen – dire things you haven’t ever entertained, even in your nightmares. But real life is like the bravery game. In it, catastrophes happen. In different times, in different ways, to different folks, suddenly the whole world is irrevocably changed,

The point of the game is to enhance your bravery. You start by asking yourself, “What’s the worst that can happen?” It’s not death. That’s for sure. There are things far, far worse. Try to imagine a real answer to that question, an answer that touches on your own pet nightmare scenario. “What’s the worst that can happen?”,

So I’ll tell you mine: It’s having the same nightmare happen to everyone at once. In it, everything and everyone you know is damaged or destroyed, but you’re still standing. Some “anything” you never expected to happen happened. (Good things happen, too, of course, all the time. As I sometime remind myself, you do have to hold open the possibility that things could turn out just fine. But that’s another story that requires a different kind of courage. What we’re talking about here is the bravery it takes to face the worst.)

The next step in this game, this process, is to ask yourself, “In the face of this stunning situation, what can I do? Who do I want to be?”

Then you do it and be it. Except you have to answer both questions first. Deciding what you can do and what kind of person you want to be, calls for choices. Look at the possibilities and pick the one that works for you. Then act the part, and keep on acting until you become who you chose to be.

As for the nightmare scenario, yours is whatever it is. The point is to face it, and decide how you will respond. Then, whatever befalls you, you’ll already know who you’re going to be, how you’re going to manage it, what attitudes and inner resources you’re going to take along. It makes you feel strong.

But it does something else, too. Something unexpected.

At least that was my experience with it today. I was driving along on a perfect late spring day, the air fresh after a morning rain and everything sparkling. The sunlight was just low enough to take on that golden not-yet-sunset sheen and was spilling long purple shadows over everything.

I was casually noticing how pretty it was, when all of a sudden I happened to notice my eyes blink. It was just a routine, automatic, eye-wetting blink, nothing special. But as I noticed it, an inner voice said, “That quickly, it can change.”

Having played the nightmare game, instead of feeling fear, I became fully alert and gave the scene my full attention. No danger was in view. Instead, the world before me was fully alive and unspeakably beautiful. And I realized that’s the case wherever we are, all the time. When you’re not afraid of unexpected change, when you already know how to respond, you’re free to see the world’s wonders. 

That face before you. That familiar scene. This particular moment in time. No matter what stories you’ve built around them, imagine them suddenly demolished. Snap! In the blink of an eye. See? See how priceless they become to you? See all that they represent? Appreciate them. Wrap yourself in gratitude for the experiences they give. Because we can hold on to nothing but what our hearts and souls contain.

Besides, what’s so new about change, whether we experience it as sudden or not? Everything is changing, everything and everyone, right this very now. (It’s a big place, now. Big enough, they say, to hold everything that anyone anywhere ever imagines and more.)

If it feels like we’re all subject to some imminent cosmic convergence of events, that’s because we are. Don’t be afraid. That’s what things do here in this world. They come together and dance apart. It’s like living inside a kaleidoscope. Everything changes, all the time. Everything is in motion.

But here’s the cool thing. We have a say in the way we’ll experience and respond to change. We get to decide what we will do and who we are choosing to be. And knowing that can produce some powerful results.

I think it was Deepak Chopra who said our thoughts are like bait we toss into the cosmic soup [where infinite possibilities exist]. What you’ll reel in depends, to a great extent, on the kind of bait you toss out. I say throw some shining, wiggling hopes out here. Your best and brightest ones. And believe that the guy who’s holding the pole (That’s you.) knows exactly what he’ll do with whatever he reels in. Because he knows that anything can happen. In the blink of an eye. And he’s not afraid.

Wishing you a week in which you cannot be fazed. Forward, my brave friends!

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by RENE RAUSCHENBERGER from Pixabay}