I wonder what my mother is doing right this second (Someone is praying for you)

[For LP, LN, & LT: You would be surprised to know how much I fret about your well-being sometimes, but I am confident in the knowledge that joy comes in the morning.]

I will not be long this morning; I have something I really must do. You know I always like to begin each morning with something positive. More often that not, things tend to end just as they begin. If we begin the week on a positive note, perhaps that positivity will carry throughout the week.

But for some strange reason I dreamed about my mother last night. And I know what you are thinking. No, I did not eat pork or anything spicy before I went to bed. In fact, I had a very healthy, very nutritious meal that my wife prepared for me and my family with love and care. But back to my dream.

I dreamed that I was back at home in my mother’s house. I walked through the house calling her name, but she did not answer. Then I stood quietly for a minute and listened, and I could hear her voice coming from behind her bedroom door.

So I knocked on her door, but she did not answer. I knocked again and again but still no answer. I then cracked the door just a little to peek in, and there was my mother on her knees in prayer, her face twisted into a desperate, pleading scowl. As I got even closer, I could see her face shining with sweat as if she had been on her knees for quite some time.

And in my dream I was so unsettled by the whole scene that was playing out in front of me, and so frightened at what might be going on in her life that would cause her to pray with such determined fervor that reaching out, I called to her, but she still did not respond. When I got close enough to her so that I might hear what she was saying, I could hear only the same name being repeated over and over again as if it were a mantra—“Max…Max…Max…Max…”

I began shake her and shake her in an effort to bring her out of the seemingly hypnotic state she was under. And finally she stopped and she looked at me and she smiled. “How are you doing this morning, baby?”

I was practically in tears at this point, but I managed to tell her that I was alright. Through my tears tied to terror, I managed to tell her she could get up now, that I was okay. She need not pray for me any longer. But she just smiled and shook her head, and she told me that she was already assured that I was okay because all this time I had been away, she had been down on her knees praying for me. And she couldn’t stop now, because she knew I was too arrogant and full of myself to get down on my knees and pray for myself.

With that she put her hand to my face, hugged me, and left a kiss on my cheek. And then clasped her hands back in front of her, closed her eyes again, and twisted her face back into a scowl, and began once again to pray, to plead—“Max…Max…Max…Max…”

Evolution Is Beautiful by Nature: The Revolution Inherent in Evolution

This morning I awoke and ventured over to my poet friend Poet Rhythm’s site, SisterGarten, where she has composed a wonderful piece dealing with musical artists and artistic evolution entitled “In the Shadows of Our Younger Selves.”

And even as I was finishing my comment on the post, the phone rang, and on the line was a cousin from home calling to see if I would be coming home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. As I spoke to him, a line from Poet Rhythm’s post suddenly came to mind—“Evolution is beautiful by nature”.

As a young person, everyone has that favorite cousin, that cousin a few years older than you that you completely idolize, that you follow doggedly behind and try to emulate in all things. Well for me, that cousin who phoned this morning is that cousin.

When we were children and young men, we were so close that when someone saw one of us, they naturally looked around for the other. However, as adults there is a certain distance between us, both literally and figuratively.

At one time after I left home, we spoke on the phone frequently, at least once a week. Then the frequency slowed to once every few weeks. Then, we spoke only every few months or so. Now we usually only speak when I drop into town.

And it’s not that my affection for my cousin has lessened in any way. I wish that we could speak more. I really wish that we could find more occasions to laugh together, to enjoy each other’s company. But now our conversations have ceased to be unique; each is an exact facsimile of the rest. The main topics he wishes to discuss are women, cars, and weed,and in that exact order.

Additionally, he still lives with his mother. He has several children by several different women which I suspect he doesn’t support because he only works enough to take care of his car, the only thing he owns. The attention he gives that car baffles me.

He is the same person I idolized as a young man, that I sought to emulate. And that is the problem.

I know so many people, and I meet so many people who seem unwilling or unable to change, to evolve. They are the same people today that they were last year. And the year before. And the year before that.

And I hear these people complaining, bemoaning the fact that they seem to find themselves in a rut, wishing that somehow, someway, something different, something spectacular, something dynamic occurs in their lives to make their lives better, but when you suggest that they might want to change a few things, they balk at the notion. Perhaps the familiar, even if it is inimical to their happiness, to their self-fulfillment, is more desirable than the unfamiliar as suggested by change.

But I believe change to be necessary. I see change as inevitable. In fact, to not change or evolve is unnatural. If you are the same person right now that you were last week, or last month, or last year, or five or ten years ago, something is wrong. To change, to embrace change, to embrace evolution is naturally beautiful.

To be able to stand back and take account of yourself, to be able to honestly assess and admit your faults and shortcomings, is a necessary part of change, of evolution, and is truly a revolutionary act. Most of us would rather close our eyes to the worst parts of ourselves and remain stagnant rather than evolve into the best person that we can possibly be.

But back to my cousin. I last saw him this past summer. In the cool of the evening, we sat under a shade tree in his mother’s front yard just as did as young people. We talked, we laughed, and we teased one another just as we did as young people.

And at some point in the evening we decided to walk to the corner grocery just as we had as young people. To my surprise, the corner grocery had not changed all that much since I had last been there about twenty years ago, except then it was owned by a Jewish family, and now it is owned by a Palestinian family.

When we returned from the store, he uncapped his quart of Colt 45 malt liquor, poured out just a bit for the brothers no longer with us, tilted the bottle to his lips, and took a long, deep swig. He then held the bottle in my direction just as he would have when we were young people. But at that moment I hesitated for just a moment before finally accepting the bottle and taking my turn.

When I gave the bottle back, he looked at me for a long second. And as he examined my face, I suddenly felt ashamed. I felt out of place. Suddenly this familiar front yard of this familiar house is this familiar neighborhood felt so strange, so foreign.

“You’ve changed,” he finally told me as he gazed at some unidentifiable point across the street. And as I struggled to come up with a rebuttal, as I struggled to come up with a reasonable argument to defend myself, he let me know that it didn’t matter. That he was proud of my change. He was proud of the man I had become. That he wished he too could change, but he simply did not know how.

I AM (The Joy Is in the Struggle)

For those of you who follow this blog regularly, you know that I like to begin each morning with a positive thought. My grandmother always said that everything ends just as it begins; if you want something to end right, make sure it begins on the correct note.

If we begin the week yelling and shouting at each other and rehashing the absurdity of the weekend, we will carry that negative energy with us into the new week. And the problems of the world will not be solved today. There will be enough time to discuss them on tomorrow.

With that being said, I will not hold you long this morning; I will be brief. Besides, sometimes I feel I prattle on much too long. And this morning I have an early meeting, so I’ll need to run soon anyway.

But the positive word for this morning is I AM. Nothing else, just I AM.

I think it is the philosopher Wittgenstein who wrote that the statement I AM is perhaps the most powerful phrase a human being could ever utter. These two words work to form a complete thought, a declarative statement. It is a statement which confirms one’s existence. It confirms one’s place within the universe. It is a confirmation of life which, after all, is the greatest gift.

So I embrace life; I am thankful for this gift. However, I know that in another couple of hours, the foolishness will surely begin. When I leave my front door and come in contact with the outside, all hell will break loose, regardless of my attitude.

But I will face it nonetheless.

I have dominion over my own thoughts, my own actions, but unfortunately, I do not have dominion over the thoughts, the actions of others. And when they come against me, I will whisper I AM.

And in the upcoming week, when I find myself locked within the vicissitudes of living, the uncertainty of being, I will encourage myself with a reassuring I AM.

When I am tired, so tired that I feel it impossible to carry on, I will close my eyes, gather my strength, bite my lip and mutter, I AM.

When faced with an especially difficult task, I will say I AM, and set myself to the task at hand.

In all things, whether positive or negative, I will repeat as if it is a mantra, I am, I AM, I. AM.

I exist. I am alive. I am a viable part of the universe. And though I realize life is not without its trials, I embrace the good with the bad; the true joy is in the struggle.

I AM.

Love yourself, and be a blessing to somebody.

Good Morning, Mama

Mom and Pops Reddick cut a rug at my sister's wedding

“Mama may have, papa may have

But God bless the child thats got his own

Thats got his own.”

“God Bless the Child,” Written by Arthur Herzog, Jr.

Good morning, Mother. How are you and Dad doing this morning?

You know I thought of you often last week, more often than usual. I thought of all those times you told me that someday I would wish I were back in your house, under your roof. I remember you told me that someday reality would finally catch up with me, and I would long for those days when you and Dad were there to make sure all my needs were met, when you and Dad would suddenly swoop in and clean up all my messes. Well, that someday was last week.

Not only did I wish I were back in your house, several times I peeked outside the door of my office and around the corner, wishing I would see you coming around the corner with that big Bible with the picture of White Jesus on the front, fully prepared to clown on my behalf, to defend me, like you did when I was in school.

And several times, I even picked up the phone to dial your number. One or two times I even dialed the area code and the first two or three digits of your number before I hung up.

I know you would have welcomed the call. I know that your voice would have been warm and soothing. I know you would have said all the right things to comfort me. I know I would have felt the love radiating even through the phone lines. And I know that sometimes everybody needs to feel they are somebody’s child.

But, in the same instance, I know you would not have wanted your grown son, your oldest son, to call you whining and complaining because he faced seemingly insurmountable obstacles, because things were not exactly going his way, because he felt maligned and misused by those around him. And I know this because you did not raise me that way. So, I did what you would have done, what Dad would have done.

I simply smiled your smile (Everyone seems to think I have your smile.). And I grunted Dad’s peculiar little laugh (Everyone seems to think I got that laugh from him.). I stood up straight—proud and erect, and I stuck my chest out. And I took on each and every obstacle that stood in my path. And when things did not go my way, I simply grabbed the snake by the head, as Grandmother used to say, and I kept working with it until I bent it to my will.

And for those people who maligned me, who wished to misuse me, your smile and Dad’s laugh and my upright carriage proved enough. When they saw they could not discourage me, when they realized they could not dissuade me from my goals, my purpose, they simply slinked away, cursing themselves.

But I still wish I were there in your house right now having a cup of coffee with you, enjoying the morning meal with you. That way I could feel your kiss and accept your embrace and feel Dad’s firm hand on my shoulder as I told you of how I faced self-pity and certain defeat but came out victorious. And then I could look in each of your faces and see your pride in the man that I have become.

Love always,

Maxwell René

In This House, On This Morning (Max Returns to the Mourners' Bench)

This morning a call from Pops Reddick woke me up way too early. It seems the Right Reverend Pops Reddick has been tagged to give the key note address at some conference or another, and he wanted me to critique his sermon.

And I listened despite the earliness of the hour. I have finally come to the age when I can admit that my dad is actually a very interesting individual. He is like the mad scientist of the theological community. Currently, he is consumed by his own pseudo science which he calls theosophy, a marriage of theology and philosophy.

But anyway, the conversation turned toward church liturgy for some reason or another, and I informed him that I thought the most powerful part of any church service was the culminating altar call or Mourners’ Bench. So, Pops Reddick proceeded to inform me of the psychology undergirding the Mourners’ Bench. And it’s not all about securing one’s place in heaven.

Sitting on the Mourners’ Bench is tantamount to a public confession. And according to Michel Foucault, the public confession accomplishes two things: the public confession establishes guilt and recognizes power. In the instance of the Mourners’ Bench you confess that you are nothing more than a dirty low down sinner and you recognize and give yourself over to the omnipotency of a higher power.

Please stick with me. I am hurrying toward my main point, but first I just had to establish a few things.

Pops Reddick broke it down further in secular terms. At that moment, you must do a bit of soul-searching (excuse the pun). You must weigh yourself. You must decide just who and what you are and where you stand and just who and what you are and where you wish to be.

And the public spectacle is required so that others might bear witness to your moment of transformation and provide you support as well as hold you accountable.

Let me simplify this for the Facebook and Twitter crowd. It’s just like setting up your spiritual profile. Except you have to be really, really honest or your friends and/or followers might call you out.

So, I’ve been contemplating the knowledge Pops Reddick bestowed upon me. And as I enter middle age, I am trying to get a firm grasp on just who or what I am and where I wish to be. In doing so I realize that I have not achieved many of the goals I set for myself so long ago. I realize I am nowhere near where I wish to be personally or professionally. And I need some spiritual help as well.

And I am returning to the Mourners’ Bench to publically confess my shortcomings, to say publically that at this time in my life, I am not yet who or what I wish to be and additionally, recognize my power to be able to change that. I am the only one person with any real bearing on my future, on my success, and I will not give that power over to others by blaming them for my own personal shortcomings and failures.

The door to the realization of my aims and dreams is right in front of me and all I must do is to compel myself to move forward and reach for the door handle, and once I enter, leave the door slightly ajar for those coming behind me.

And I am confessing it here so that you might bear witness to my confession and provide me support as well as hold me accountable.

Do you need to return to the Mourners’ Bench? Have you taken account lately? Do you really know who and what you are and where you are heading personally and professionally? The doors of the church are open.