In the Spin Cycle

As Norm said on one episode of the television show Cheers, “We live in a dog eat dog world and sometimes it seems like we have milk bone underwear on.” It can be tough, I know.

An old story tells of a little boy who went into a grocery store and asked for extra strength laundry detergent. As the clerk was finding it, he asked the boy what he wanted to use it for. He said he wanted to give his pet rat a bath.

The clerk replied, “Well, I think that this detergent is a bit strong for a rat. I’m not sure that I would use it.”

The child said that he believed it would be all right and the grocer added, “Just be careful. This is awfully strong detergent.”

About a week later, the boy came back. When asked by the grocer how his rat was, he said, “Well, he just sort of walks around in a daze.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” sympathized the clerk. “But I did tell you that the detergent was probably too strong.”

“Oh, I really don’t think it was the detergent,” the boy replied. “I believe it was the spin cycle that did it.”

Do you ever feel as if you have been through the spin cycle? Maybe even hung out to dry? Living through pain and suffering is like going through the spin cycle. Often our pain is physical, the result of illness or injury. But more often we suffer from emotional pain like loss, fear, worry, rejection, loneliness, guilt or depression. In either case, sometimes we feel as if we have been through the spin cycle.

We sometimes long for a world with no pain, no problems, no obstacles, no disappointments, no hurts, no handicaps, no troubles. We wish our bodies might always run like fine-tuned machines – no permanent breakdowns, no serious illness – purring along forever, or at least until they quickly and painlessly cease to function altogether (and, of course, at the time of our choosing). We might crave a world where loss is unknown, loneliness unheard of and all things unpleasant somehow banished.

But the truth is, we live in a world with pain. And we all experience our share. We can run, but we can’t hide from suffering. It will always find us. And should we even try to run from it? For as much as we hate going through tough times - the spins cycles of life - even hardships help us to grow. It’s amazing, but our most difficult times can serve this valuable purpose.

Helen Keller, without sight or hearing, suffered her share of pain. But after many years of anger and hostility toward her “solitary confinement,” she was eventually able to say, “I thank God for my handicaps. For through them, I have found myself, my work and my God.”

I don’t know if you can give thanks for your sufferings, but can you accept them as the indispensable teachers they are? Can you embrace trouble as a necessary (if unwelcome) part of life? The spin cycles we inevitably go through are not the problem; getting stuck in them is the problem. Find your way through and you just may come out stronger than ever.

-- Steve Goodier

Grow Antennae

A story, which may appropriately belong to the files of “urban legends,” tells about a Philadelphia legal firm that sent flowers to an associate in Baltimore upon the opening of its new offices. Through some mix-up, the ribbon that bedecked the floral piece read, “Deepest Sympathy.”

When the florist was informed of her mistake, she let out a cry of alarm. “Good grief! Then the flowers that went to the funeral said, “Congratulations on Your New Location”!

It is difficult enough to offer comfort without mixing up the sentiment. So difficult, in fact, that many people simply don’t know what to say to someone who has just unburdened grief or emotional pain. Not unlike the new clergyman who, when a distressed young woman confided that she was pregnant, blurted out, “Are you sure it’s yours?”

Too often, we want to help, but find that our attempts to offer comfort, solace or hope fall short of the mark. But there is something we CAN say to those who hurt that can be helpful and comforting.

One man, whose grandson died accidentally, found genuine comfort when he shared his pain with friends shortly after the tragedy. Of all the well-meaning words of support, two statements helped to sustain and comfort him through the grief more than the rest. They were: “Thank you for sharing your pain,” and “I grieve with you.” After hearing those words, he no longer felt alone in his suffering. He felt as if his friends embraced his grief. He felt better.

“Thank you for sharing your pain” is an honest acknowledgment of another’s suffering. It also expresses an appreciation for the effort it takes a wounded soul to open her emotional wounds to others.

“I grieve with you” is an expression of empathy. It is a way of saying that I am willing to share some of your pain, even for a time.

We can’t fix it. We shouldn't try to offer advice. And we may never know how someone feels who is hurting in a way we have never experienced. But we can give some comfort.

I think James Angell, former president of the University of Michigan, got it right when he was asked the secret of his success. “The secret of success?” he replied. “Grow antennae, not horns.”

-- Steve Goodier

Image by Phil Hilfiker

When Suffering Visits

Image by marija jure

It may leave a valuable gift...


We are changed, sometimes in unexpected ways, by the problems of life.

One of Canada's most famous physicians was Dr. William Osler. Many stories are told of this beloved doctor, but one of the most revealing comes from World War I.

Friends recalled the day when Osler was working in one of Britain's military hospitals during the war. He was called out of the wards during his daily rounds to be given an important message; his own son had been killed on the fields of France.

Stunned by the news, he still came back to pick up his rounds. For a long period afterward he was noticeably different. And those who knew him best said that he changed as a physician that day. The cheerful note was gone from his voice and never again did friends hear the tune which he so often whistled as he went from ward to ward.

Though these things never returned, something eventually came to take their place. Everyone noticed a new compassion in his care of the soldiers who each day streamed in from the battlefield. Before, he had the professional concern of the physician, so important to the practice of medicine; now there was an added discernible note of a personal compassion, like that of a father for his son....

Like most people who have experienced such losses, Osler must have spent considerable time in grief. But as he healed and integrated the loss into his life, it left him a different person.

Pain will do that. It changes us, often in unexpected ways. It can leave us angry and broken, or, as in the case of Osler, it can bring forth qualities such as compassion or tenderness. It is as if the physician channeled his pain into energy and love for others, caring for them as he would care for his own child.

Helen Keller, who found a way to thrive though she went through life both sightless and deaf, knew plenty about suffering. She wisely said, "The struggle of life is one of our greatest blessings. It makes us patient, sensitive, and Godlike. It teaches us that although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it."

Yes, the world is full of suffering. We can't avoid it no matter how hard we try. But it is also full of examples of people, like you and me, getting through it. Those who overcome great challenges will be changed, and often in unexpected ways. For our struggles enter our lives as unwelcome guests, but they bring valuable gifts. And once the pain subsides, the gifts remain.

These gifts are life's true treasures, bought at great price, but cannot be acquired in any other way.

-- Steve Goodier

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Every Problem Has a Gift

Image by krosseel

Writer Richard Bach says, “Every problem has a gift for you in its hands.” I don't always see that gift, I admit. But I remember reading about Glenn Cunningham when I was a child. His life bore the truth of it...every problem indeed has a gift for you. The trick is learning to find it.

In 1916 young Glenn and his brother Floyd were involved in a tragic accident.  Their school's pot-bellied stove exploded when the boys struck a match to light it. Somebody had mistakenly filled the can with gasoline instead of kerosene. Both boys were severely burned and had to be dragged from the schoolhouse. Floyd died of his injuries and doctors predicted that Glenn would be permanently crippled. Flesh and muscles were seared from both of Glenn's legs. His toes were burned off of his left foot and the foot's transverse arch was destroyed. Their local doctor recommended amputation of both legs and predicted that Glenn would never walk again. He told the boy's mother that it may have been better had he died. 

Glenn overheard the remark and decided that day that he WAS going to walk, no matter what. But he couldn't climb from a wheelchair for two years. Then one day he grasped the white wooden pickets of the fence surrounding his home and pulled himself up to his feet. Painfully he stepped, hanging onto the fence. He made his way along the fence, back and forth. He did this the next day and next – every day for weeks. He wore a path along the fence shuffling sideways. But muscles began to knit and grow in his scarred legs and feet.

When Glenn could finally walk he decided he would do something else nobody ever expected him to do again – he would learn to run. “It hurt like thunder to walk,” Glenn later said, “but it didn't hurt at all when I ran. So for five or six years, about all I did was run.” At first it looked more like hopping than running. But Glenn ran everywhere he could. He ran around the home. He ran as he did his chores. He ran to and from school (about two miles each way). He never walked when he could run. And after his legs strengthened he continued to run, not because he had to, but now because he wanted to.

If there was a gift in the tragic accident, it was that if forced Glenn to run. And run he did. He competed as a runner in high school and college. Then Glenn went on to compete in the 1932 and 1936 Olympics. He set world records for the mile run in 1934 and 1938. By the time he retired from competition, Glenn amassed a mountain of records and awards.

“Every problem has a gift for you in its hands.” And if not every problem, then just about every one. Even spectacular sunsets are not possible without cloudy skies. Troubles bring a gift for those who choose to look. And since I can't avoid my problems, why waste them? I should look for the gift. My life will be far, far richer for finding it.

– Steve Goodier

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Finding the Way Out of Bagamoyo

You've heard the stories. Cruel slavers in bygone years trek into the African interior and capture men, women and children to sell on the slave market. Then, for weeks upon end, they march their captives to the African coast and force them to board ships bound for the New World.

During those long marches from remote villages, newly acquired slaves were made to carry their captor's heavy loads. Historians report that, at the end of an excruciating day, as evening approached, slavers sometimes shouted to their captives in Swahili, "Bwaga mizigo," which means, "Put down your burdens." Only then could they rest.

When the slaves finally reached the coast, they laid down those burdens for the last time. There they boarded ships that took them away from their loved ones and their homeland forever. Some called that place "Bagamoyo," from the words "bwaga" (put down) and "moyo" (heart). Bagamoyo translates to "Put down your heart." In hopelessness and despair, they put down their hearts and left them on the African continent.

Bagamoyo. I've been there. Haven't you? We've been to our own personal places of despair. Imprisoned by fear and worry and doubts. Trapped by grief. Or betrayed by our own bodies – left to languish in illness and pain. We know how it feels to give up. We know how it feels to desperately wonder if we can go on, or even should go on.

And more than once I've been tempted to lay down my heart and leave it behind. Haven't you? I think we've all been to our own Bagamoyos, those places of deep despair.

But here is the hope. If life teaches me anything, it teaches me that my personal Bagamoyo may be a way-point, but I shouldn't make it a destination. We will each find ourselves there from time to time, but it is not a place to remain permanently. Life cautions that I should never lay my heart down in despair never to pick it up again. There is usually a way through our personal Bagamoyo.

Author and playwright Jean Kerr put it like this. She said, "Hope is the feeling you have, that the feeling you have, isn't permanent." Hope does not deny the terrible place in which I may find myself. Oh, that's real enough. But it reminds me that Bagamoyo is only a temporary place. It may seem like a place I'll never leave, but I will. And sometimes it's just enough to know that.

So I've learned to believe in tomorrow. When I believe in tomorrow I can pick up my heart today. When I believe in tomorrow, I can find my way out of Bagamoyo.

And when I do, I'll find my way to life.

-- Steve Goodier

Image: http://www.scottliddell.com/

Living Forward

Image courtesy of Sardinelly

I recently learned about a grave somewhere in France at the head of which stands a marker with this inscription: "In memory of Maggie, a mule, who in her lifetime kicked 1 colonel, 1 major, 3 lieutenants, 11 sergeants, 27 privates, and 1 bomb."
 
Maybe Maggie had it in for officers. Maybe she blamed them for her misery and ill treatment. Maybe she blamed them every time she was forced into service. I don’t know – there’s no telling what goes through a mule’s head. And there’s no telling why she kicked a bomb.
 
But Maggie isn’t the only one who has gone through life kicking out and blaming others for their misery. Most of us have probably acquired a long list of things to kick about and have done our sharing of kicking.
 
Kim Phuc has more to kick about than most of us. Photographer Nick Ut received a Pulitzer Prize for a dramatic war-time picture taken in Viet Nam. You may remember seeing it. The black and white picture shows a little girl in agony walking naked down a country road amongst other weeping children. Dark smoke hangs heavily in the sky behind the fleeing group. The child's arms are painfully outstretched and her face is contorted in an expression of terror and misery. A Napalm bomb, dropped on her village, seared off the little girl's clothing and severely burned her skin.
 
The date is June 8, 1972. The child, Kim Phuc, was carried by Nick to a truck and transported to an area hospital. She cried over and over, "Nóng Quá, Nóng Quá," which means "Too hot! Too hot!"
 
Kim hovered between life and death. She required 17 different surgical operations and months of rehabilitation. Today, she lives in Canada and has become an important spokesperson on issues of war and peace. "Pain never disappears," Kim says. "You just learn how to deal with it."
 
In 1996 she was asked to say a few words at the Viet Nam War Memorial in Washington D.C. Kim talked about forgiving those people who were responsible for all the misery and suffering inflicted that tragic day. She said, "Even if I could talk face to face with the pilot who dropped the bombs, I would tell him we cannot change history but we should try to do good things for the present and for the future to promote peace." It was a message of forgiveness. She knew that her acts of reconciliation were the bricks that could pave the only true road to peace.
 
Kim could easily spend the rest of her life kicking out at those who caused her so much misery. There are certainly plenty of people she can blame for her suffering. She could have grown up a bitter and resentful woman. But instead, she is a person of graceful dignity.
 
Philosopher Søren Kierkegaard teaches, “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” Kim chooses every day to live her life forward, to “do good things for the present and the future.” Every day Kim chooses a better way. Every day Kim chooses life.
 
And every day, that’s a choice we all must make.
 
-- Steve Goodier


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