I am in Cleveland Heights for a week of vacation with Tricia. Eric is here; Sean will be in town for a few days as well.
My walking has involved the streets of Cleveland Heights. Often this takes me places where I used to walk with Charley.
I walk. I remember. And I smile.
See you along the Trail.
Filed under Cleveland Heights, Exercise, Family
My friend Laura Mariko Cheifetz has recently written twice about communities of accountability. As she notes:
I could operate all by myself as an individual, but that would be a lie. I am who I am because of the communities that form(ed) me and support(ed) me.
Laura notes that in some instances, she reports to communities of accountability. In other cases, while that word might be too strong, she still exist in, and nurtures, relationship with that community.
After reflecting on some of the communities to which she is accountable, Laura poses the question:
What are your communities of accountability? Your church? Your neighborhood? How do you stay accountable to them?
I would name a number of such communities in my life. The list that follows is not necessarily in order of importance. It is the communities in the order that they occur to me – bearing in mind that I am on a new allergy medication at the moment. I am accountable to:
How do I stay accountable? In different ways with different groups at different times. Sometimes accountability comes in filling in forms and making reports. Sometimes accountability comes through being together and engaging in conversation. Sometimes accountability comes from recalling lessons taught and values shared. Sometimes accountability comes in remembering – allowing people’s faces and voices to fill my mind when we are far apart.
Two areas for further work come to me as I reflect on communities of accountability:
I have much to ponder. And I am grateful to Laura for opening this area of thought for me.
But before I close, I want to give a shout-out to a community of accountability that means a great deal to me at the moment. About two months ago, I decided to make another effort at self-care. I have made some remarkable progress although a long, long, long way remains to go. The effort combines exercise (walking at the moment) and reducing calories. I regularly bore Facebook with the information about my exercise for each day. That simple act somehow helps hold me accountable. Friends comment from time to time – different friends each time. Their feedback matters; but it is the posting that makes the difference.
I have also created a community of accountability – pulling together a number of friends and family who have expressed concern for my health – and who have voiced support for my efforts. This group receives weekly and monthly updates on my progress in terms of eating and exercise and weight loss and blood sugar control.
Some individuals have asked to be part of the group. Others I have drafted. I blind copy the group with the emails so they do not necessarily know who else is a member.
Each report receives a few responses – no one responds all the time – everyone responds once in a while. I deeply appreciate the responses. But even more deeply, I appreciate that the group members are willing to receive my updates.
To the members of this accountability group – to my family and friends – I say thank you. With your support, I have made a great start. The journey continues.
See you along the Trail.
Hunger called in Tupelo, Mississippi today.
We found one of the locations of
D’Casa Mexican Restaurant and Grill.
Pretty good food.
Reasonable prices.
And a fun atmosphere.
See you along the Trail.
My friend Laura Mariko Cheifetz has created a blog. Her intelligence, creativity, imagination, love, and passion for justice will make this worth reading.
Her recent post on the death of Satoru Nishita, her grandfather, and Bert Tom, one of her mentors, provides an introduction to her work and an example of what to expect when you subscribe. Here are a couple of excerpts:
My grandfather, Satoru Nishita, and my mentor Bert Tom died last week. I sent a text to a Korean American pastor friend of mine saying, “All these old guys are leaving us.”This, of course, was not meant to be a theological statement.This was a statement that was perfectly me: a bit dramatic. I am struggling with the passing of a generation of Asian Americans who faced racism and the assorted foibles of their professions with dignity. The generation of my grandparents, born in the U.S. but imprisoned by its own government for being of Japanese descent during World War II, is a generation that left a profound imprint on my generation and my mother’s generation, and it is slipping away before we get a chance to hear all the stories.
She concludes:
These old guys. While death claimed my grandfather and my mentor, in very different ways their lives taught me to struggle against Death, against powers and principalities, against environmental destruction and racism. They leave us with a legacy of commitment to justice, and a desire that the beauty of the world be revealed.
As she celebrates her family in the post Laura invites me to remember and give thanks for family members and mentors who taught and shaped me through the years. As I read, I saw Bert’s face (I knew him) and imagined the face of Satoru – I met him through Laura and her mother. As I read, I also saw the faces of those who have been and who now are part of my life. I give thanks for the life of Satoru and Bert. I give thanks for my family and mentors. And I realize I have some calls to make and letters to write.
Check out In Life & In Death, We Belong to God. Remember. Give thanks.
See you along the Trail.
Filed under Antiracism, Family
I planned to spend today visiting Battery Park, then riding the Staten Island Ferry so I could take some photos using the new telescopic lens I have on “extended loan” from one of my sons.
I got up and found myself moving a bit slowly. Going back to sleep certainly seemed an option.
Determined to force my hand, I posted my plans on Facebook. Once public, there would be no going back.
Shortly after I posted, my colleague and friend, the Rev. Melodee Bottari, pastor of Olivet Presbyterian Church invited me to a BBQ at the church.
It sounded good to me. I went and had a great time that included a tour of the church. I saw where the church provides housing for homeless women and the room where volunteers working with Presbyterian Disaster Assistance on recovery from Hurricane Sandy will stay.
The BBQ took place on the church lawn and included an invitation to register for the Vacation Bible School.
Good folks. Good food. Good ministry. A good visit.
See you along the Trail.
I am not sure I would have asked the question. Too many people have experienced abuse, abandonment, failure to love, and more from their fathers. Too many fathers have died too young. Too many wounds remain unhealed.
“What is your favorite memory of your father or your father figure?” Bob Brashear, pastor of West-Park Presbyterian Church, asked near the end of his sermon today.
My first thoughts went to those who had negative experiences of their fathers. I felt my heartstrings tightened as I considered the profound pain the simple question could touch.
Images of my father, gone too long, filled my head and heart. He was not perfect. None of us are. But he was a good, good man who loved me and my brother and sister well.
Memories came at me as thick as gnats on a hot, sultry night. When it came my turn to speak, I went with my first memories:
“Baseball. Playing catch in the back yard. Going to games. Baseball. In Pittsburgh.” I remembered, although I did not share, that as I child, when I would have to go to bed before a Pirates game finished, I would wake up in the morning to find a piece of paper with the score written in my father’s handwriting.
Memories. Blessed memories. As I rejoice in mine, my heart goes out to those who know pain.
Happy Father’s Day to fathers, stepfathers, grandfathers, and all, male and female alike, who have filled the role of fathers.
See you along the Trail.
P.S.:
Dodgers 3
Pirates 6
Photos of purple flowers routinely post on Mondays. But, this is not a photo of purple flowers. It is a photo of Tricia and Eric watching me take photos of purple flowers. By the ball fields of Central Park, Tricia spotted some purple flowers. As I wandered over to take some photos, she and Eric watched. At her suggestion, I took this one. And I post it today, Sunday.
See you along the Trail.
He quietly stepped into the First Presbyterian Church in the City of New York‘s hall where the Covenant Network of Presbyterians, his mother’s employer, held their final Regional Conference today.
On this day before Mother’s Day, our older son Sean, who lives in New York, decided to surprise his mother. He made plans to attend the conference and told his mother. What he did not tell her, and he did not tell me until just a couple of weeks ago, he also arranged for his brother, Eric, to come from Texas to New York for the weekend. Eric also registered for the conference.
Tricia arrived on Thursday. Yesterday she worked with her colleagues finalizing the plans for today’s event. Brian and Kellie made a hasty adjustment so that Eric’s name did not appear in the list of participants, replacing it with mine.
When Tricia saw the list, a flurry of texts flew among Brian, Sean, Kellie, and me. We made up a story to tell Tricia. A thin story, but the best we could do quickly.
At dinner, Tricia said, “Apparently Sean registered you for the conference.”
“What?” said I. She repeated her words.
“I did talk to him at one point about maybe attending,” I said. “Then I checked and decided that because the theme is about changing church policy, I probably should not go. I guess he went ahead and registered me any how.”
Brian, Pam, and Jon, our dinner companions, backed my play. Brian said, “I will tell Sean that the Covenant Network will refund his money.”
“No worries,” I replied. “He makes enough. Call it a contribution.” Everyone laughed and the moment passed.
When Tricia and I returned to the Shire near the Hudson from seeing Kinky Boots, we talked about today’s schedule. I made up a story about having an early meeting with someone this morning near Columbus Circle for breakfast. Location and purpose of the morning were true. The other person not so much.
Tricia and I boarded the subway together this morning. I got off at Columbus Circle and met Sean and Eric for a bagel. Then we headed to the church.
Eric and Sean got their name tags. I explained the situation. And we moved to the room where participants could find coffee.
Tricia stood, her back to the door, talking to our friend Susan. Sean pushed Eric forward. He stepped to his mother and tapped her shoulder. She knows almost all the conference participants . When she turned, she expected to see one of her colleagues; she saw her son.
Smiles and laughter followed. Susan took some photos. We made some introductions to friends who marveled to see us in one place. I bid farewell and trust they are enjoying the conference. I will rejoin them when it ends and we will do something this evening. Brunch and a show tomorrow. A good weekend.
Happy Mother’s Day!
See you along the Trail.
I bask in the Manhattan sun,
warm against my face
and remember Ireland a year ago
with Tricia and with friends,
and rejoice with Joel and Roja
whose promises drew us across the water,
and ache for Joe who joined us there
and today grieves his brother’s death.
Disparate feelings stir, mix, tug,
today, as every day. Life.
27 April 2013
Shire near the Hudson
