Get in the Arena

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Photo courtesy of Pixabay

Yesterday I carved out time from my new job to return to my previous workplace and attend graduation for the last group of men to complete a program that has been in place for 21 years. I worked directly with part of the group through most of the time they were there. Just thinking about the experience, before and after, elicits a range of emotions, from sadness to pride, but I welcomed the opportunity to speak at the ceremony. Just days before, I picked up a book I purchased months ago, and what I read prompted my words to them. This is what I had to say:

“This week I started reading a book called Rising Strong, by Brené Brown, PhD. The timing of her words couldn’t have been better, because as I read, I thought of you and what I wanted to say to you as you complete this program and move forward with your lives.

She quoted from a famous speech, “Man in the Arena,” by Theodore Roosevelt in 1910:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man       stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; . . . who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.”

She continues to focus on the “ugly details” of failing – imagining that we are face down. The crowd may be silent, or booing, or all we can hear is the voice of someone telling us to get up and move on. We tend to think of arenas as some grand event, but these facedown moments can be small ones like our child lying to us about hitting a sibling or a disappointment at work or a “we chose someone else” call after a job interview – basically any moment where we risked showing up and being seen – feeling awkward trying something new, tough parenting moments, being in love, or sharing with your probation officer that you are craving that substance that got you into a world of hurt. She pondered the process of rising strong, of staggering to our feet and finding the courage to try again. What do the people who keep going have in common?

Her research has led her to believe that slowing down the rising and falling process is the key. To cultivate an awareness of the choices that are in front of us in the moments of discomfort and hurt. To take the time to weigh the consequences of those choices, and she has learned that incorporating storytelling into her research has been the most beneficial. And that is part of what you have been doing here for the last few months.

While in this program, you have been asked to share your stories, to become vulnerable. I know that wasn’t easy, because many of you clearly expressed your desire to avoid the pain of being vulnerable, particularly in this setting. I get that. But I watched something happen to you and your peers as you shared. You each grew – some with baby steps, others with giant leaps – in understanding where or why you had moments of failure, thoughts of how you could or would change to avoid that failure in the future, expressions of understanding why a peer is the way he is, and offering acknowledgement for the pain someone else had survived. It was truly amazing to see and I was honored that you trusted me in those moments.

Many of the stories I heard were about huge efforts to avoid feeling pain – whether extreme pain inflicted on you, knowing you hurt others, or the disappointment of neglect – and the failures were acting out the hurt, sometimes on others. Now it’s time to move forward. To be vulnerable with the people who count in your life. Here are the three truths you can take with you from this quote:

Get in the arena. You can choose courage or comfort. One or the other. You can’t have them both at the same time. Your acquaintances who are still using out there? They are choosing the easy way of blocking out pain rather than dealing with it. I’m not saying their lives are easy, but they are choosing what they know, what has become familiar. You know something different now. Take this new experience and build on it.

Vulnerability is not winning or losing; it’s having the courage to show up and be seen when you have no control over the outcome. It really is the greatest expression of courage, not weakness. Being vulnerable with your family, or your probation officer, to ask for help and support. Will you have people say “no?” Sure. But it’s their loss when you go on to experience success without them. That is courage.

A lot of cheap seats in the arena are filled with people who never venture onto the floor. They are always ready to offer put-downs or call you lame for trying to follow probation guidelines or stay sober. If they’re not interested in getting in the game and fighting for their lives, what they have to say about you means nothing. Can you still care and hope they find a way to change? Absolutely, but don’t let their criticisms from the sidelines define you. Will it take time for your family members or sober friends to trust you again? Absolutely. You’ve made promises to them before that have been broken. Prove by your actions that you want to regain their respect. That is courage. And you may be thinking you got the short end of the stick being the last group, with staff leaving and not getting everything  previous groups have gotten. But you’re here at the finish line, despite the additional challenges. That is courage.

In light of the upcoming championship games for my favorite sport of basketball: Get out there in the game, and play with all the courage you can muster. When you trip or foul or miss a 3-pointer, take a little timeout, think through your choices, talk with your coach, get back in the game with courage, and crush it.” (CHEERS TO KENTUCKY!)

I must add, that for years I felt like I was sitting on the sidelines, cheering for others, but afraid to play. Waiting for someone to send me in. Afraid of the criticism. Afraid to fall on my face. Afraid the voice in my head that told me I was not good enough was correct. Somehow I mustered up the courage to get back in the game. To return to school and finish a college degree at age 49. I can tell you – it feels infinitely better playing the game and crushing it!

 

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Painful Anniversaries, Part 2: Birthdays

chris-at-age-2Remembering my brother is not an option for me. Rarely does a day go by that I don’t wonder how he would look, what he would be doing, who he would be impacting, what kind of prank he would be playing on a friend or unsuspecting acquaintance. Celebrating his birthday is one of those days that cannot be overlooked, despite wondering if others think it is weird or creepy to celebrate the birth of someone who has died. At this point, I really don’t care what anyone thinks. In the short fourteen years he served as my brother, his part significantly impacted who I am, and I can’t forget that. Ever.

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I have a feeling he would rather have had a brother, but that didn’t stop him from teaching me to read before I entered Kindergarten. He brought home the old Dick and Jane books and took the time to tutor me.

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He broke his arm one summer and wore a cast, but that didn’t stop him from holding tightly to my hand at the edge of the lake while our family was on vacation.

He didn’t have to take me out sledding one snowy day when all his friends were sick, but that didn’t stop him from borrowing their runner sled, telling me not to go down the hill by myself, then yelling at me because he cared when I did so, only to cut open my forehead as I slid under the barbed-wire fence at the bottom of the hill.

chris-and-vicky-portraitHe didn’t want me playing with his toys when he wasn’t around, but that didn’t stop him from inviting me to his room for hours on Sunday afternoons to build Hot Wheels barricades (from C batteries, toy car tires, popsicle sticks, and army men) and watch the cars crash them or laugh as the cats chased them down the track.

He didn’t allow me to play his records, but it didn’t stop him from playing them for me, despite the damage I could have caused him had I mentioned to our parents that he was the reason I knew all the words to the songs on a Carpenters’ album.

He didn’t have a lot of money to buy me birthday gifts, but that didn’t stop him from giving me just what I wanted: a shipping box with a string tied around it that he quickly cut with his switchblade to let out his cat’s kitten. (He loved animals so much, I think he just secretly wanted to keep one and that was the only way Mom would let him.)

He didn’t have to tell me what was going on with him, but that didn’t stop him from sharing how much it hurt him to spend so much time working and studying (because he thought it was expected of him) to not be able to join his classmates in sports and fun activities.

He didn’t have to have me in his wedding, but that didn’t stop him from asking me himself, even though his bride-to-be wanted the same thing.

He didn’t have to spend his money to give me a fabulously fun 14th birthday, but that didn’t stop him, even when he wouldn’t ride some of the rides because he struggled with motion sickness.

He didn’t have to take me to school on his motorcycle when he stayed with us just weeks before his accident, but that didn’t stop him from making his little sister feel like a million bucks riding up on campus with her very handsome big brother.

He didn’t have to be a friend or show kindness to those who felt less-than, but that didn’t stop him from loving the underdog and wanting them to feel like someone cared.

Today he would be 60 years old. And he is not forgotten. In his 20 short years, he impacted far more than most people do in three times that many. I only hope to live my life to show that a life cut short was not in vain. To impact the world in his memory and make him proud to have had a little sister. Today I celebrate Christopher Alan Boggs.

Holiday Expectations: Fantasy vs Reality

IMG_0930When I think about the various holidays of my childhood, I realize my experiences clearly formed my expectations about how those celebrations should occur in adulthood. Holiday celebrations were always about family. I was the youngest on both sides of the family, so I grew into already-established traditions. Feelings could be described as “warm and fuzzy,” with plenty of humorous conversations, cozy hugs from grandparents, uncles pressing me for “favorite” position over each other, and fondly looking up to all my older cousins. Oh, and food, of course. Lots of scrumptious, down-home food. I always imagined a house full of family, laughter, and hugs as an adult. Having adulthood turn out significantly different makes for a generous range of emotions when the holidays show up on the calendar. Managing those feelings is challenging, at best.

Starting in mid November through January 1st, most of us have at least some level of expectations regarding holiday celebrations. This year is no different. As I have been pondering my expectations of the season, my thoughts have been playing ping pong between what I want (not gifts) and what is.  The vision of multiple grown children and their children showing up to create a houseful of laughter and warmth has clearly turned out to be a fantasy. My extended family is spread out across the country, and although we have time together, my two close family members are in completely different, generational stages of life. To be clear, I’m not talking about this to initiate a pity party nor point a finger at someone or some event as the cause of my reality. It just is.

As I was sharing about this situation a couple of weeks ago, struggling with my conflicting feelings, I was reminded by a very wise person that my feelings are conflicted because my expectation has not evolved parallel with my reality. And my perception of others’ realities is more than likely due to my perspective. When I think of a large family’s holiday gatherings as warm, memory-making events, it’s based on a comparison of what I knew as a child. (I do know that after years of adulthood and being away from the extended family celebrations, a reunion would still be loving moments without discord.) But that is not everyone’s reality. When I hear people talking of dread as they prepare to visit or be visited by family members, I cringe. If only I had that kind of opportunity. And I have to take a deep breathe and refrain from offering a disgruntled lecture about appreciating family.

So, if you have a family celebration that includes singing, or games, or watching football together, or hugs, or laughter, or other memory-making events . . . consider yourself blessed. And then remember the people with whom you rub shoulders who have a very different reality. Maybe they are alone or just feel alone. Or experience significant family conflict. Or recently lost someone they love. Or just can’t physically be with family.  Or see Christmas time as a reminder of some devastating event. Not everyone’s Christmas is Merry, but many will not share their challenges without prompting.

I’m intentionally working on accepting my reality, and that starts with acknowledging that I have a beautiful, cozy place to call home. I’m healthy enough to spend time at two jobs that fulfill my passion. I have a lovely adult daughter who is smart, compassionate, grateful, and loving. I still have my mother who, despite some physical challenges, is able to communicate her love to me as I care for her. I have coworkers and friends who care about what is going on in my life. And I have the means to be generous in word and deed to others who might be experiencing a less-than-ideal Christmas.

What do you need to do to accept your reality? I’m only expecting God to show Himself to me in grace and love as I celebrate the first Christmas gift – a baby!