The Unforseen Treasure

Work dinners. Feared. Dreaded. Mandatory.

Shortly after I started working at my current job, I was required to attend a fancy dinner after hours, and I was petrified. Sure, I am with the same people at work, but still being new, I felt it would be awkward to interact on a strictly social level and undergo a communion with them and their spouses, the whole time wearing a face crippling smile. Not only was I new, I was also single, and the prospect of facing a large group of couples made my stomach turn over, so I did what any rational person would do in this situation: I refused to go alone. I asked my best, single guy friend to come along, and most likely hearing the panic in my voice, he took pity on me and graciously agreed to be my date. That's how I made it through the first dinner.

Now that I've been working for the company awhile, I feel much more comfortable and relaxed with my co-workers and do not hesitate to interact with them and their families after hours. After all, once you work with a group of people in tight quarters for 40 hours every week, in every season, you pretty much know their life stories, the horrible things right along with the interesting things. They've become family.

So as I walked alone into the Campbell House for a work dinner last night, I felt nothing resembling trepidation, only hunger and delight at the prospect of having someone wait on me in a fancy dining room, while devouring expensive food, and drinking the beer of my choice. The occasion for this particular dinner was an annual conference which is put on for our customers. This means, mingle, be on your best behaviour, and smile even more than usual. Totally do-able. The first hour was dedicated to drinking, standing around, and or course, talking (laughing was not mandatory but certainly appreciated). I was introduced to a few customers, but mostly I spent the time talking with a co-worker's wife who is from Columbia and is really interesting.

When it was time to sit down for dinner, I walked over to where I saw some of my familiars settling in. However, on approaching the table, my boss, who's in charge of the whole event, says I should mingle with customers aka strangers and give them a good impression of our company. What??? Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself, I'm told that I must leave my comfort zone!! It's true what they say, there really is no such thing as a free meal.

Reluctantly, I shuffled to the other side of the room, looking for a table where the occupants didn't look too intimidating. I must tell you that this was not an easy task. The room was filled predominately with men. Business men. Old, grouchy, bizarre, dull, awkward men, many of whom host strange, unpleasant odors. I headed to a table in the corner that was only half full and asked a man sitting there if the seat next to him was taken. It wasn't. I sat down, and providentially, within 30 seconds one of the few women in the room sat down next to me.

She was the wife of one of the men at the conference, and she was amazing. I talked to almost everyone at the large round table of course, but for the most part, I listened to the stories of the woman sitting next to me. Estimating ages has never been my strongest skill, but I'd guess she was in her mid to late 60's. She and her husband met in college, fell in love, and it was obvious to me that they are still deeply in love. They had children and went the "traditional" family route, but they also accomplished highly impressive feats. She started her own company and he a consulting firm, which they merged and now work at successfully together. She's written a series of children's books on teaching manners and respect. They travel constantly, nationally and internationally, and they both have a zest for life (and golf). She used to teach elementary school and she told me stories about her experiences; the exciting and the discouraging. She encouraged me with my future goals as a teacher and told me she could tell I would go far. I've never enjoyed talking with anyone more, and the night flew by. Hours passed and it was time to go home.

As I said goodbye and made my way to my car, I was overflowing with gratitude to no one in particular. How incredible to briefly interact with another person who you know you'll never see again, and to feel you've gained something. When I stop and think about it, I suppose everyone has a story to tell. Although I recognize how rare it is to uncover such a treasure with such ease as I did last night, you never know what stories you might miss out on if you just sit down at the table with the people you know. Dare to venture where you're uncomfortable going.

For a cause...

Whenever I watch movies on the Civil War or Revolutionary War, I am always struck by the significance/insignificance of the flag bearer. One man carries the sacred symbol, representing "the cause" of the entire army. He walks boldly alongside his compatriots, the lone unarmed soldier. I'm sure there are rules stating that opposing flag bearers are off limits when choosing your target, but on a battlefield, chaos overshadows the "rules." Inevitably, the guys in the front are gunned down, and the flag bearer is no exception. When he falls, flag in hand, the man directly behind him or to his side abandons his weapon and picks up the symbol, never considering letting it drop unregarded. This next man will most likely face the same fate as the man before him, someone else will take on the responsibility of carrying the flag forward, and the cycle continues to victory or defeat. I am awed by this kind of dedication to symbolism.


As a human being, I understand the need for symbols to represent complex concepts. In war especially, there is a need to constantly keep in mind what you are fighting for. There is a purpose, a cause, and when your individual fight becomes too overwhelming, and you feel like there's no point in continuing, you recall the big picture, the thought of which can give you strength to endure. In books and stories, this is a very romantic concept. Flags wave, feelings of hope and independence run rampant. But realistically, how ridiculous.

It's one thing to place a flag in a court room to stand as a symbol of all that our nation has endured. It's quite another to turn a soldier into a sitting duck at the most dangerous moment of his life. If two armies are fighting each other, it's not as if one side is going to say, "Hey, who are we fighting and why?" in the event that no flags are present. "The Cause" being fought for is ever present with or without a symbol to represent it.

The only realistic purpose I can see for a flag on a battle field is to help the generals observing the fight identify their army's status. But come on, there are other indications of how the fight is going besides the location of a piece of cloth on a stick.

All this to say that I don't know if I could ever sacrifice my life for the sake of a symbol. When I read novels and notice symbols that can be neatly defined and are romantically displayed, I am moved, sometimes to tears. But in real life, I am hardened to such "foolish" displays. Why get hurt? Why die? It's only a symbol.

Growing up in a Christian family, I was told stories of martyrs. Men and women beaten, sawn in two, fed to lions, all because they refused to deny the truths they believed in. On hearing these stories, I was amazed and saddened. I couldn't help but think, why didn't they just say they didn't believe? Saying it wouldn't make it true, and surely God would understand the situation and look into their hearts to see the truth. There was no need for them to die.

Recently, I read an account of a homeless man from Guatemala (I think?) living in the U.S., and it caused me to reevaluate my feelings on the subject of symbolism in "real life." In his country, he was taken into custody as a political prisoner for belonging to a group dedicated to worker's rights. He was tortured for weeks in really horrific ways, and by the time he was released, his body was a mess, and he weighed around 80lbs, down from 150lbs. He said his captors told him over and over that if he would sign a statement siding with them, he would be released. I can't remember his exact words, but he says something like, My father taught me never to back down from what is right. My father believed in me. It's amazing what a person is capable of withstanding if he knows someone believes in him. I read this and I thought, Wow. Could I ever be that dedicated to representing what I believed to be right? This man had no flag to hold. He himself was the symbol.

And I suppose that's what a flag bearer is actually doing. It's not the flag he waves that represents his cause, it is the man sacrificing all he has for the cause that is the real symbol.

I wonder how many people would be willing to make themselves symbols no matter the cost in this age of apathy. Would you?

An Easter Memory

I'm not sure how old I was when this happened, but I'd guess late elementary or early middle school. Mom, Dad, Scotty and I were visiting Grandma and Grandpa Maynard in Florida. As Cris, Dusty and Chad got older and their social lives became more rooted and involved, they stayed home from family trips, and Scotty and I went with Mom and Dad. It's weird, but I used to feel like I had two families: there was the whole clan, and then there were just the four of us. When I think about certain events, I automatically try to recall which family I was with at the occurrence. It helps me organize memories. But I'm off track. The point is, I was with family number two, which is why my older brothers don't appear in this story.

Anyway, it was getting close to Easter, and Grandpa liked to pretend that the Easter Bunny was lurking around the house in the days leading up to Easter Sunday. Everywhere Scotty and I would go, we'd find random chocolate eggs lying around, and when we'd go to pick them up, Grandpa would say, That Bunny is at it again. It was silly and fun, and Scotty I loved hunting for new eggs, knowing Grandpa was behind it all, but playing along with the Easter Bunny joke.

One morning, I woke up on the pullout couch next to Scotty, who was still asleep. I usually sleep on my back and make absolutely no movement throughout the night. Scotty on the other hand is a flailer, and by morning is positioned face down, deeply snuggled into his pillow. As I propped myself up, rubbing sleep from my eyes, I noticed chocolate eggs placed next to my pillow, just waiting for me to wake up and start eating them. I smiled to myself, thinking, That Bunny is at it again. As I started to get up, I looked over at Scotty and noticed the Easter Bunny had visited him too, but the Bunny hadn't counted on the inevitable flailing that would occur throughout the night. Chocolate was everywhere! The pillow was smeared brown, not to mention the top part of the sheets. I don't remember if I woke Scotty up right then, or if I waited for him to wake up on his own, but in any case, when he did wake up and lifted his head, there was chocolate inside his ear! I hollered for everyone to come see, and Dad I and laughed really hard. Scotty was a good sport and thought the whole thing was really funny too. He and I asked Grandpa why he would put chocolate in bed with us, but Grandpa denied it up and down. He always maintained that it had been the Easter Bunny.

Addiction

I'm reading a book called "Beautiful Boy: A Father's Journey Through His Son's Addiction" by David Sheff. I'm nearing the end, and I have to say, it's really got me thinking and wondering about a lot of things, including the nature of addiction and the make-up of an addict.

In the book, Sheff is writing about his son's drug addiction, looking for answers to the question why. Why is his son addicted to drugs? When did the addiction begin? What did he as a parent do wrong? How can he help his son get better? To find answers, Sheff has done all kinds of research on the subject, and the facts are startling, because frankly, there aren't a lot of facts. It is becoming apparent through studies that drug addiction is an inherited disease, and though it is true that drug addicts make conscience choices to do drugs, they cannot be held completely responsible for their actions. For someone who is "programed" for addiction, not doing drugs can be almost impossible through shear will-power alone. Like metal to a magnet, addicts are incapable of staying away from the drug they seek. One doctor in this field of study compared a drug addict staying away from drugs to a person stepping in front of an oncoming train; pretty much impossible for someone in their right mind.

Again, it is not really known how these addictive traits are passed down, seemingly at random. Drug addicts come from all over the race/background/socioeconomic spectrum. Those of us without addiction are in no position to judge those who have the disease, because we have not all started out on an equal playing field, no matter how similar our backgrounds are to theirs.

Commonly, I look at situations involving drug and alcohol addicts and think, what a shame; thank God that's not me or anyone in my family. But now my outlook is beginning to change. Addiction is not specific to drugs. Addiction is everywhere.

Eating disorders, depression, close mindedness, violence, fear of failure, impulse shopping, need for love, need for answers. All of these things along with a thousand others can be destructive addictive tendency's. As human beings, we naturally tend toward lifestyles of routine. Fear of the unknown dictates how many of us live our lives, because that's how we're wired. Addiction then is an extreme version of routine.

These are just some of my initial thoughts on addiction. I'm not a doctor or psychologist, just a muller-over of information brought to my attention. However, my reading and thinking has led me to a few conclusions for change in my own life. Just as humans are wired for routine, we are also prone to judging the people around us. Even though I try to keep an open mind, I am not above the practice of judgement. Often when someone I know is constantly depressed, I think, Geez, get over it! Nobodies life is perfect, therefore you have no rite to be any sadder than anyone else. However, this type of judgment is cruel. I believe depression can be a form of addiction, and some people struggle with it more than others simply because it is in their genetic make-up. The depressed person doesn't deserve judgement. What they require is extra understanding and attention.

The same goes for people with anorexia or obesity. Addictions concerning food are both genetic and environmental, and people who struggle with them need attention and encouragement, not judgement.

Violence is one of the more difficult addictions for me to wrap my mind around. Some people are naturally prone to acting out violently, and from accounts I've heard/read, rage often takes over these people and they temporarily disconnect mentally from what they are physically doing. These people cannot be held completely responsible since violence is an addiction they do not choose to have, and yet, their actions hurt others. Yes, these people are dangerous and should not be aloud to continue living in regular society, but to what extent should they be punished? Should their life end or be contained in an unseen place for committing an act that they may not have been able to control?

One more thought before I stop. My dad/Pastor has been making a lot of interesting points in our Bible study concerning free will and predestination, and so I've been thinking a lot about the ideas he's presented. I believe the Bible teaches that God will ultimately save all people. All will be reconciled to God at the end of ages, though many will not accept Christ in this lifetime. My thoughts on addiction seem to tend toward the argument that our decisions in this lifetime do not dictate where we will spend eternity. The fact is, we are not all equal when it comes to our ability to make good/bad decisions. Some of us are more prone to get involved with destructive things than others, not because I am better than you, but because I am genetically different than you. If God truly is a God of love and fairness, how could he judge all people the same, not taking into consideration our different backgrounds and make-ups? The outcome for the individual is too important to exist outside a perfect system of Divine Judgement.