|
|
| |
A spirit so intense
It wells up inside of me
I become consumed
The spirit grows and grows
And then I utter words incomprehensible
I go beyond myself and God takes over
My breathing, at first calm,
Then rapid
My breathing, in tune with the beating of my heart
I'm shaking, my hands are tingling
I cannot contain myself
I try to relax
I realize I am loved in this moment
God in me
God so significant
Then I give and want to give
|
| |
| |
"Look for what's right about the world." The words echo through my thoughts night and day now, and I find myself thinking about the ways I have always tried to look for what's right about the world.
Childhood. Unemployment, food stamps, and welfare: these thoughts of the past, now come back and take center stage. We ate spaghetti every week—it was cheap—and potatoes with milk; and if we were lucky cheese to go with both. Cheese, now that is what's right about the world. Spaghetti made with tomatoes grown in the garden and then painstakingly canned and stored for the winter—my Mom had to practically pull our teeth to get us to pull the skin off those scalded red beauties—now that is what's right about the world. The long ride out to Brentwood; difficult, but picking those ripened succulent peaches only to steal a bite the first moment I got an opportunity—now that is what's right about the world. My list goes on: I never got big presents for Christmas but I did get that Big Jim Rescue Rig the one Christmas I never thought my parents could afford it (that was the terrible year of welfare), Government cheese was free and we took it gladly—a freebie—but we mixed it with beans and had burritos for dinner (I'll never forget those burritos, they tasted so good), I remember retreating to my room many times after being sad about the lack of dinner and the stress it brought my family and especially my mother; however, in my room I had my cat to curl up with (I listened to her soothing purr and forgot about the food situation).
High School. An expensive yearbook and the AP Exam: distant memories of things I wanted but could not obtain. Senior year. My sister and I had to share a yearbook. I let her have it so she could take it around to her friends to sign. It was more important to her and I gave her a moment of joy. That is what is right about the world. I had AP English, and worked all year to get ready for the AP Exam, but I missed it, my parents couldn't afford it. I had a great English teacher—I was her TA as well—she was what was right about the world. I started going to youth group and became a Christian. Finally, I mattered and someone cared about me; now that is what is right about the world.
College. The ride home I never got: but, what I did receive made a lasting impression. This lasting impression and the memory I have of a parent reaching out; this is what is right about the world. I had been visiting my home and I wondered how I was going to get back to UC Santa Cruz where I had been going to school. I asked my mom for a ride. She said, "Go ask your father." I asked my father. He said, "Go ask your mother." I went back to my mother and she said, "Take BART." I fretted over taking BART because I didn't know how I was going to get from San Jose to Santa Cruz. I was going to miss the last bus to Santa Cruz. I wondered if I would have to sit in a rapid transit center all night with people I didn't even know. I was afraid and fearful. I sucked it up and took BART. When I got to San Jose, I had missed all the busses. So I called my housemates. The only person willing to come was Marla. Marla is what is right about the world. She sacrificed her time and gas and drove to San Jose and picked me up. Feeling unloved and insignificant, I cried all the way back to Santa Cruz. I arrived late that night and went straight to bed. In the morning my Dad called to see how I was. He was concerned and knew I was distraught about the trip. My Dad calling, that is what's right about the world. I love my Dad.
First full time pastoral position after seminary. Minister of Education at First Baptist Porterville: I don't even like to think about that memory. I was fired after a year of ministry. At least I didn't have to sit in front of those church board members and listen to everything I was doing wrong. No more criticism, now that is what is right about the world. I wouldn't have to color code everything I did in ministry and keep graphs of my time spent doing those tasks—Hallelujah! Now that is what is right about the world. The youth I met in that year, still I keep in touch; that is what is right about the world. Best of all, I met John, the love of my life, my honey of a husband and consistent companion of 13 years. Now that is what is right about the world.
I've fallen off many cliffs, gone for many exciting rides, and still I come back for more. Like a roller coaster ride, or a bungee jump, the world can seem fearful at times, and yet at the same time it offers moments of exhilaration and satisfaction. That is what is right about the world.
|
| |
| |
Grande No Foam Extra Shot One Splenda Latte, I Mean Leadership by Laura Pina
While sipping my Grande No Foam Extra Shot One Splenda Latte, I can't help but to think Once there was a time in my life when I wasn't dependent on paying $3.80 three to four times a week, sometimes five, for a cup of milk, some espresso, and a packet of Splenda. As a child, I used to say to my mother, "Ooh! Gross! I don't see how you can drink coffee. It smells bad, it tastes bad, even with sugar." So what has changed? I think to myself. Could it be that everywhere I go, everywhere I turn, Starbucks lurks on every corner? Lurking, leering, jeering, enticing me for just one more Grande, one more Pumpkin Spice Latte, one more...one more…one more. Could it be that I have become a victim of the body snatchers, dangling on a string, straining my ear to the soft strong voice that yanks me out of my reality and pushes me into the Starbucks reality. I need it for work. I need it to make me feel good, I need it to lead me through the day. Starbucks is my leader, and I am its follower.
So, you may be wondering what Starbucks has to do with leadership? Perhaps I, as the writer, am just pulling your leg, or I am wanting to be poetic like all NF's, or perhaps I drive home a metaphor that will make you remember my view of leadership each time you sip your No Foam Misto Venti Latte. That, my dear friend, is my goal. Sip. Leadership makes an impact. Sip. Leadership has followers. Sip. Leadership exudes warmth and comfort like an old friend. Sip. Leadership is desired. Sip. Leadership involves taking but not to the point where $5.00 is too much for a cup of coffee. Sip. Leadership involves giving. Sip. Leadership needs to be on every corner, and in every crevice. Sip. Leadership is a wake-up call.
Once, I bought a book, not at Starbucks—I like the books at Starbucks—but at a bookstore not to be named; it was titled Leadership is Male. I paid for the book, not because I wanted to support the author or the book company that published such a dreadful book, but because I wanted to rid the shelves of such rubbish. And rid the shelves of rubbish I did, but more importantly, I destroyed another reader's chance at gaining this perspective on leadership. Leadership is not male! Perhaps, this is what drove me to Starbucks.
In the 42 years and 3 months of my precious, fragile life, I have experienced a "thing or two" about poor leadership. Each time, well both times, even though I didn't drink coffee at the time, I wish I had. For in these moments of my short life, I experienced "Leadership is Male" as a woman pouring out my heart and soul into an endeavor I strongly believed in. I wanted to make a difference in the lives of youth and college students. After all, I had devoted three years of my life to obtaining a Master of Divinity, so I could minister in a church; seminary was something I thought would bring "legitimacy" to my new calling in life. Call me naďve, call me a sucker, but I learned some very important life lessons from those so-called leaders. I learned how not to lead. I learned that leaders do make an impact, albeit negative. This is why I don't order a Venti Caramel Macchiato with extra caramel and whip cream. I don't want to be sick, I just want to follow my heart and be valued as a paying customer. I don't want to feel like a failure either.
On the days I get in my VW Convertible and drive down to Starbucks before work to order my Latte Grande, I look forward to the warmth and comfort that cup of coffee brings me. Failure is far from my mind, and I feel recharged after every sip. It is as if the power has turned on and I am plugged in. That is how I feel around good leaders. A good leader compels me to do my best, to give my best, to be my best. I want to seize the day, and I feel as if I can seize the day. I know I make a difference. I will even put in extra hours at work, not because I have tasks I have to accomplish, like grading papers, but because I believe in the direction my principal is taking me.
There is nothing I enjoy more than sipping my One Splenda Grande Latte with a dear friend all the while conversing about the mundane, the ordinary, and sometimes the extraordinary. While sipping my latte and listening to my friend, I sometimes reflect on what I have heard with a word or two, or three…and sometimes…I just listen. I listen because I see myself, and my humanity in my friend. I listen because I value my friend. I listen because my friend is important. I listen because I have no other agenda. She listens because she has no other agenda. At that moment, at that time, my friend and I are the center of the here and now. A good leader, no, a great leader, listens. Sip. Listen... Sip. Listen…Sip. Listen…then act.
Every time I listen, I gather information. Wants, desires, joys, sorrows…it's all there. I probe, and sometimes I back off from probing. I laugh, I cry, and I get to know my friends. It is mutual. I have made many loyal, trustworthy, admirable friends sipping Starbucks.
Now that Starbucks is in my blood, and around every corner, and part of my network of friends, and in my daily routine, and the power surge of my morning, I dream of the next day each time I finish my morning latte.
|
| |
| |
Old Guitar for New
About five years ago, I went shopping for a new guitar. I wanted a really nice acoustic guitar: Taylor, Santa Cruz or Martin. There were so many to choose from; it was hard to make a proper choice. As my good friend Shannon would say, "I was conflicted." I picked up a nice Koa Wood Santa Cruz guitar—I'm drawn to beautiful wood and nice craftsmanship—and I ran my fingers across the fine wood and caressed its finely built back. Then I looked at the price and thought $3500 was too much to pay. So, I picked up an exquisite Taylor guitar inlayed with pearl. I have always wanted a Taylor guitar; they have a great reputation for their nice tone and craftsmanship. If I was going to spend $3500 for a guitar, the Taylor was the way to go. I played a few chords on the Taylor, plucked some individual notes, but I didn't play it enough to really get a good feel for spending $5,000. The last guitar I picked up was a Martin. Martin guitars have been around for a very long time and my brother-in-law really likes them. He says they age well; the sound gets better as they age. The Martin was superb, the fret board was the right width for my small hands, and the craftsmanship was quite nice. I loved the tone of the Martin, but having played the Taylor, it was hard for me to decide which had the better tone. All three guitars with the exception of the Santa Cruz, had pick-ups, just in case I needed to plug in my guitar somewhere. I must have spent three hours in that store admiring the guitars, picking them up, playing them, only to put them gently back on the shelf. Once I had played the expensive guitars, I couldn't go back to the "cheap" guitars. Once I saw the beautiful craftsmanship of the expensive guitars, I couldn't fathom buying a lesser guitar. Finally, I decided that I couldn't decide, so I left the store. I never bought a guitar that day in the store. In fact, I haven't bought a new guitar since.
Now, five years later, I still want a really nice guitar. I tried selling my Ovation but found I couldn't part with it. I've had my Ovation guitar since 1989, the year I started teaching. I can plug in my Ovation and project its wonderful tone for all to hear. In fact, I have privately and publicly played my Ovation many times over the course of the years; I have loved every minute of the time I spent on my beautiful Ovation guitar. I spent $800 for my guitar and it was one of the best purchases I have ever made. My Ovation brought me countless hours of enjoyment. Although my Ovation is not like most guitars due to its round back, it is this round back that gives my Ovation its unique sound. I wonder if I can ever part with it. My Ovation, like an old friend, is connected to me. However, I find myself playing my Ovation less and less as the years go by. I still flirt with the idea of getting a new guitar. I wonder if a new guitar will give me the desire to play every day like I used to.
|
| |
|
|
Subscribe to this blog
