Conversations with Brad

“Sit down and rest your face and your hands,” said a nicely ripened veteran awaiting a taxi. 

“I believe I will sit and rest my hands and my face,” I replied. 

“Sit down and rest your face and your hands,”  he repeated, correcting the order of my words. 
      
And then, I did just as he had asked.   After all, who could resist such a friendly invitation to chat.   

“I am one of the old ones too," he said. "There aren't many of us left.”  

He extended a firm right hand. 

“I’m Gentry,” I said, grasping his hand for a solid shake. 

“Have you ever heard that?"  Repeating his mantra, "Sit down and rest your face and your hands. ”  

“No, actually I don’t think I have.”  

“It’s a really old one.  Here’s a good one my dad used to say.   I don’t think it was very nice.  Here’s your hat.  Sorry you have leave so soon.  Come back again when you don't have so long to stay." 

"Now that's a good one," I admitted. 

I repeated it a few times to be sure I was getting it just right, then let him continue, only rarely interjecting a vocal cue to show I was paying attention. 

"I lost my wife about three years ago.  It's really lonely living alone.  The nurses all give me hugs and even the doctor.  I'll take all the hugs I can get.  Fifty-eight years.  I kissed her 30-40 times a day." 

I listened intently.  He meant it. 

"They diagnosed me with lung cancer.  I've had two surgeries. That last one was tough.  I had morphine for two weeks and hallucinated the whole time.  I don't like morphine." 

He asked if I was familiar with a particular part of Portland.  

" No, I'm from out of town.  I'm from Tacoma."   

"I was down in Tacoma once, it was 1948, the coldest winter on record.  We were breaking up ice in the river with pipes.  The tidewater had frozen solid." 

"Corps of Engineers?"  I asked. 

"Yes, Corps of Engineers.  One thing you haven't noticed about me, I'm blind."   

I had not.  His eyes appeared sharp and well focused on the wall beyond.  I would have never known. 

"I really loved art, everything from blown glass to...  There was a time I had mastered seven trades.  Give me your hand." 

I extended it to receive a gently rocking massage, my hand rippling like a soft, warm tide.  These special hands could break any ice. 

He continued, "I walked up behind a lady one day and started massaging her neck and shoulders.  After about 10 minutes my daughter came in and said, 'Dad, that is not Aunt Hilda.'  She was just sitting there enjoying it.  They say the odds are pretty good here, about 65% women and 35% men.  I am going to get myself another woman."

I suppose I could have listened and learned from Brad all day, but I finally told him I would be seeing him again.  Once more I practiced his dad's favorite line.

 "Here's your hat, sorry you have to leave, come back again when you don't have as long to stay." 

"Yes, I might see you again." 

"No Brad, I will see you again. 

           

Respite

A respite from the heat,
A shelter from the storm,
Or warming hut where,
Bursting flames from embers warmed.
A soft embrace.
A gentle touch.
A whispered wisp of hope reborn.
A head held high,
that once knew shame.
That which was lost,
A friend reclaimed.
GW Yeatman

Prelibris

Two covers hope to bind a codex-once a scroll.
Its leaves are inked with dreams and hope
   -the weave and warp of fabric yet untold.
A shadow-shape (a friend? A foe?) doth leer
   agaze upon the protag now amire on muddy trail,
What scribe did feather, hold in hand?
Whose mind conceived such sullen plot-a horrid tale?
Yet script be torn and shred and burned-to what avail?
   -alas, anew: composer wakes, begins again.
                                                           G.W. Yeatman

The Metaphors of God

The scriptures are replete with the language of rich metaphor.  From the celestial to the terrestrial, examples are almost beyond enumeration.  Christ is the Light of the World, the Bright and Morning Star, the great pillar of fire that led the Israelites by night, a cloud that preceded them by day.  Then, touching earth, the Savior becomes the Cornerstone, a stumbling block to some, the stone rejected by the builders, the solid rock upon which a house withstands the storm.  

The Cedars of Lebanon bear reference to massive size and strength, the mustard seed to the tiny becoming the mighty.  The Rose of Sharon shares its beauty and delightful aroma while the Balm of Gilead provides healing.  Our senses are challenged as we are asked to “taste and see” the Bread of Life, to partake of his body and blood, to touch the hem of his garment, feel the scars of his crucifixion, and drink living water from his overflowing well.

He is light where there is darkness, ever-quenching water in parched places, the only gate by which we approach the Father, the caring Shepherd rescuing a solitary, lost and trapped lamb. His kingdom is as precious as a pearl redeemed from a common field, seed having fallen and thrived on nutrient-rich soil, a net having gathered a multitude of fish, yeast as the expanding leaven of eternal life.

And we--his followers--are limbs grafted onto the True Vine, wheat surrounded by noxious weeds, sheep who know his voice and follow.  We are asked to join him, the great husbandman, to bear and gather fruit.  We are to cast our nets as fellow fishers of men.

I wish to entice the believer to remain at the plow, the lost to find the narrow path, the weary to bear His lightened yoke.  The harvest remains scarcely gathered.  The crop is abundant, but the harvesters are few. GW Yeatman

Some Thoughts on Time and being dropped into it.

GW Yeatman

Once I was proud to say I was born in the first half of the 20th Century, although I silently treasured it more than audibly proclaiming it.  Today, however, that sounds like a “long-long-ago-in-a-far-away place” fairy tale. Born in 1946, I was in the leading edge of the baby boomer bulge.  Unlike my older brother who was a child during WWII, I had no concept of war having been a recent event.  It was very ancient history to me.  Hitler may as well have been Napoleon.  In Boy Scouts we made fun of the Führer in a toilet paper skit--that fecal tyrant of yesteryear now wiped out and flushed.

Now the Civil War, as it is frequently, called was even more ancient at one hundred years--an eternity.  Today, as my childhood friend from Ecuador points out, he and I are half the "distance" into the future as the war had been into the past, a shear impossibility.  The War Between the States is now 150 years past!  How could that be?

At fifteen years of age, it seemed that a decade and a half was quite a long time.  My classmates and I felt as though we were adults.  Indeed, 15 years had been our entire lives, how else were we supposed to view it?  I even wrote a biography for school titled "my life".  

Dates into the future seemed astronomically distant. The book 1984 was futuristic science fiction, but now the date and book are but fleeting memories.  My adolescent buddies and I plotted--no matter where we were--to get together when the great, celestial spectacle Halley's Comet returned in 1987.  Again, it seemed like we would be meeting almost a lifetime into the future.  It came, the comet fizzled, and we didn't even bother to get together.  We did discuss it, but both the spectacle and its eternity had diminished.

Less than a decade after adolescence I was in medical school, but the eight years of prior schooling had seemed like forever. Shortly after graduation I began collecting "old" medical books. This included a set of the Transactions of the New York Medical Society from 1884 to 1889. It seemed that I would have to keep them many, many years before they were a hundred years old. The first one was only about dozen years out, but that was almost half of my existing life. Another was a third of my life beyond the first.  Presently it seems that I’ve had those books for ages and now I am half as old as they are!

When we are very young even five years can seem like an eternity.  My grandson Jordan at about that age showed me pictures of himself taken "a long time ago."  Time is, in fact, very relative. And by that I don't mean I have relatives who have been around a long time!  Although it’s true.  In the past few years I have had two great uncles die at the "ripe old age" of about ninety-five, a third of the age of our country!  

What does it mean to be ripe when we are old anyway? Well, that is another discussion entirely.  Maybe I will address it at a later date, "time" permitting.

Calendar-based Resolve

Gentry Yeatman

I hate New Years’ resolutions.  I don’t remember making one in my entire life. And if I did, I probably did not keep it. Why?  I am not resolute, I lack resolve.

The word resolution is rich with complex meaning.  The resolution of a microscope or telescope allows one to clearly see the most minute or distant detail.  Resolution of a computer screen relates to clarity of vision, as well--focus. The resolution of an argument halts open antagonism and possibly prevents injury.   Resolution of grudges can promote closure. Resolution of disease symptoms restores health.  Resolution in music theory relates to a move from an unstable dissonant sound to a more stable consonant sound.  

Detail, focus, health, consonance.

The essence of resolution implies having a clear perspective of an attainable, absolute, resolute move toward harmony of initiative and willpower, or at least the appearance thereof.

For New Year’s we should probably substitute the word, plan.  What is your New Years’ plan?  What do you see clearly?  Has introspection occurred? Has a friend or family member helped provide objectivity.

By nature, most plans are self-centered, although not necessarily negative in nature.

“I plan to lose weight.”  
“I will stop smoking, again, this time for good.”  
“I want a better job.”  
“I will resume my education.”
“I think I’ll read more.”

But we can and should be resolute to “harmonize” for others--altruism.

“I will try to be a better neighbor.”
“I may take my kids to church.”
“I am going to volunteer at the food bank.”
“I should contribute more to a local charity.”

Okay, if I must have a New Year’s resolution it is to avoid the word.  I plan to do that!

The Peril of the Phantom Pedestrian

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Friendship

A respite from the cold,
A shelter from the storm,
A warming hut where
bursting-flames from dying
embers warmed.

A firm embrace.
A gentle touch.
A whispered wisp of hope reborn.
A head held high,
which once knew shame.
That which was lost,
A friend reclaimed.

GW Yeatman

God accepts us not for who we are,
  but for who He is.
He loves us not for what we may become,
  but for what He has always been.

Boom-doom

Hiding,
Roaming,
Stalking,
Salivating.
a growing taste for blood,
a spear poised to lance,
a sword in quivering hand,
a coward with false hopes
  for eternal debauchery
  in a heaven-veiled hell.
a misguided animal,
   a once innocent child
   trained in venom-soaked
   malevolence.
a boom-then doom
   boom-doom
   boom-doom
   boom-doom.
                                GW Yeatman

Who am I?

GW Yeatman 

  
Who am I that God would love me, 
And grasp my flailing hand,
Securing me to solid rock,
From desert's quickened sand?

Among a million squirming souls, 
In darkened hives of swarm,
That God would safely pluck me,  
Nestled in His arms?
   
Not centuries past or those to come,  
But this day, this hour, this time, 
Why would he rescue me as this?
To show His love-and gather mine. 
  

       

Solitary Bloom

Solitary Bloom
GW Yeatman


Every year an azalea behind my house blooms in glorious profusion.  Flowers shroud it like snow. A common green bush becomes a white resplendent wonder. Then one day petals wilt and fade. Flowers shrink into ugly tufts of brown detritus soon to return to earth's replenishing humus.

Yet one remains.  For weeks I gaze at it.  Day after day I look to see if the bloom still clings to its source of extended sustenance.  Yes, it is there.  Why, I wonder?  Why does this piece of lingering life still exist surrounded by last month’s dead ephemera?

Each year I wonder if this solitary azalea is trying to speak to me.  “Be like me,” it says.  “Stay strong, hang on.  Do not for a minute loosen your grip on the source of sustaining vitality.  Remain when all else has faded beyond hope. Simply, simply remain!”

Am I to bloom when I would rather fade?  Am I to remain when others wilt away? Should I strive to provide a touch of hope in a world of shrunken plans and dying dreams?  Am I to cling when others fall?

But only a fool would listen to a flower, I remember.  Then let that fool be me! Though my spirit has often wilted, let it bloom.  Though my mind has often faded, let it flower. Though my countenance lingers in browning lackluster, may I whiten and bask in brilliant sunlight.  May others see in me some sign of beauty, some petal of enduring value.

Then, someday I too must shrink and let go. And, having imparted a small petal of living hope, may I fall to enrich the soil for others to blossom en masse or simply in solitary bloom.

Give Up?

GW Yeatman


We have heard the advice a thousand times. If you have fallen get up. I you have failed start over. If you persist you will win. If you try harder you will succeed. Just "buck up" dude, hold on to that bull, ride him until he throws you. Then climb back on even if you are a gored, bleeding mess.

And, oh yes. The famous Winston Churchill speech, “Never Give Up.”

But may I suggest there are times to give up. A fatal disease treated with reasonable aggressiveness but now in the final phase of painful demise. A relationship having exhausted all reasonable means of peaceful restoration. A job well executed yet producing more strife than productivity. A peer group persistently drawing us away from the best that we can be. A venue that inflames our lust for things we cannot safely or morally obtain. A substance that addicts. An incessantly-performed yet worthy activity constantly stealing us from our spouse and family. A personality mask that can't even hide zits. A macho manliness like broken armor inadequately protecting a wounded inner child.

And finally the most important of all, giving up ourselves-our souls. This is the hard one. I am, after all me. I hurt and no one else feels my pain. I want what I want. I go where I want to go. I do what I wish to do. I am in control. I've done it “my way” and I am not about to change.

Might I suggest there is someone who loves you more than you love yourself, who accepts you when you have fallen, who loves you when success has failed to satisfy, when the bull of life has stomped you into the dust despite the antics of a full circus of rodeo clowns.

Let go. Fall where you are.  Succumb to your weakness. Admit that your repertoire of solutions has expired. You are exhausted in body, mind and spirit.

For He is a lifter, a sustainer, an encourager, a physician, a counselor, an advocate, a lover. He is your Father, but he is not a pathological enabler. He lifts only those who have lightened their heavy yokes. He sustains those who feed upon his sustenance. He encourages those who listen. He counsels those who share their burden. He heals those who no longer deny their disease.

There are no conditions on Christ's love or his advocacy. He forces himself on no one. God is no rapist. Your eyes must meet his and he will stare you into a romance beyond all romances. And he will never “leave you or forsake you.” *

Will your dreams be fulfilled? Maybe. Will all your hurts be cured? No. Will you ever again fall? Yes. Then why bother. Because you will find peace for you soul, rest for your body, stillness for your mind.

Bother! Bother because he bothers. His ultimate sacrifice was for you, do not turn him away. He will stand as your final advocate in the ultimate court of appeals and he has never lost a case.

* Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord will personally go ahead of you. He will be with you; he will neither fail you nor abandon you. Deu.31:8