Comedian Steve Martin used to do a routine in which he envisioned his post-death conversation with God.
“Mr. Martin,” the Lord began. “Do you know how many times you took my name in vain?”
Of course, Martin indicated no.
“19,465 times.”
Martin paused, titled his head, and replied, “Jesus Christ.”
I’ve read that fear of cancer returning represents one of the most common concerns. This fear can last years. I have no such illusions and presume the consequences of my lime will return – just a matter of when. I wonder how I survived until sixty.
I have a funnier fear. Back in 1996, a car dealer general manager in Minneapolis said he was going shove a golf club up my ass. And that’s my fear – that in fact – he snuck into my home last weekend, took my prized Calloway nine iron, shoved it up my ass right up to my neck, and left. “Damn,” I said to a friend. “Someone has to clean that club for the upcoming best shot tourney.”
My doctor stated not to bend over. No worries. My neck is so stiff I can barely bend over. And therein lies my greatest fear: I can sit on a toilet and be unable to raise my underwear. Yeah. Yeah. I know. Some people fear about cancer’s return, I worry about wiping my behind.
A friend inquired, via text, about the latest?
“I am still old, bald, and fat.”
“Yeah. Knew that already. Anything I can do for you?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I drop my cane and can’t bend over, and I text you. Will you come and pick it up for me?”
“What if you drop your phone?”
“F•••.”
I hope I am humorous until the end. I do not fear death. I fear not being able to laugh. For instance, if I have to die in 2020, I hope it’s just before the election, “Tell Trump I’m not voting for him.” Or may something like, “Hey? Anyone want to see a dead body?” Being a computer forensic geek, I could claim, “S•••. Forgot the browser history.”
You know, maybe it’s crucial to be like Tig Notaro. In 2014, on Late Night With Conan O’Brien, Ms. Notaro commented:
“Before I had a double mastectomy, I was already pretty flat-chested, and I made so many jokes over the years about how small my chest was that I started to think that maybe my boobs overheard me…and were just like, ‘You know what: We’re sick of this. Let’s kill her.’”
In 2012, I wrote that by shining light on a dark road to guide others also lightens yours. The very nature of which is both Christian and Buddhist. Yeah, some days suck, but some do not. Like everyone else, I get up and continue forward. Ultimately, when I’m at my lowest, God becomes His greatest.
When a coworker asked how I dealt with the pain, I quoted a Buddhist I had read.
“Well, I simply reflect upon the moment and remember I am not having a bad day. My body is, but I am not.”
Yes, I have ups and downs. Moments of pain get intermixed with moments of relief. I forgive and continue on. By injecting humor, and using humor as an essential support tool, I’ve found pain lessens. Sure making fun can ruffle feathers, but for those like me, it’s about survival. Humor can be dark. But it can be fun. And it can be healing.
By Friday afternoon, most employees were simply exhausted. A week of constant interruptions and emergency meetings for this crisis or that crisis occurred regularly. I liken these moments to ‘interventions’ hoping to salvage what’s left anything good.
A coworker handed me a resume of a potential applicant he thought would fit.
“Hey.” He called, handing me a resume. “HR thought this person might be a good fit.“
I glanced quickly and winked, “Nah.“
“Huh? Why not?“
“Well, when an employment application asks who is to be notified in case of emergency, in this operation, they need to write, ‘A very good doctor.’”
I seriously didn’t deny the applicant. I merely requested the application and resume be placed on my desk for review.
Krista Tippett noted humor lifts us, but underscores what’s already great; our connection with others. And like everything meaningful, it’s complex and nuanced — it can be fortifying or damaging, depending on how we wield it. But as a tool for survival, humor is elemental. Much like the Buddha, laughter is a powerful medium for communicating the unsettling truths in life.
For instance, when I was six years old and my brother was seven, we were in the backyard of our Schaumburg, IL home playing war. My brother was in the third branch of a Weeping Willow Tree, with all his G.I. Joe soldiers and weaponry. On the ground was my band of mercenaries, align and prepared for an elongated siege.
Without warning, I ran to the garage and emerged momentarily with a lighted M-80 Cherry Bomb and badminton racquet. With the flick of the racquet, the M-80 soared high into the bright blue sky. A second or two later, “KABOOM!” And simultaneous with the sound, a puff of leaves, half the Weeping Willow Tree, including my brother and army tumbled down.
Sipping ice tea from a porch chair, my father squinted. In momentary disbelief, he glared.
“What happened to the Willow Tree?” he pointed.
In usual kid refrain, “I don’t know.“
Sternly, he looked at my brother and I, “WHAT happened to the Willow Tree?”
“Well,” I said, “We trimmed it for you.“
I don’t believe my father ever learned I launched and detonated an M-80 into his Willow Tree. But as a professional manager, I cannot tell you how many times laughter has connected me with all different kinds of people throughout the country, of all kinds of political persuasions. And I honestly think that out of laughter, comes love.
And as a manager, friend, and son I found that no matter how happy people are with the success of getting a great job, we get consumed by the competition, the workload, the hassles, stresses, complaints. Yet, if I can laugh with you and we can see a commonality in humor, I can see you, and I can respect you, and I can love you.
During a recent one-on-one session with an employee, I commented that society needs to laugh more.
“How will we accomplish that?” he asked.
“Drink tea. It nourishes life.”
“Huh?”
“Through every sip.”
A wave of confusion circled him.
“With the first sip… joy. With the second… satisfaction. With the third, peace. With the fourth, a Boston Eclair.”
He smiled approvingly.
Laughter is essential.
A friend and I spent an evening sipping tea and reading. For her, it’s fictional stories of medieval knights, kings, queens, and damsels in distress. For me, news, current events, non-fiction biographies and writing.
Without warning, her phone’s ‘Line’ app binged.
Her face quizzically contorted, “My friend from Asia says the Holy Spirit aske her to pray for me?”
“Why?” I straightforwardly queried.
“Huh,” she uttered.
“Why?” I repeated.
“What?” she sputtered while starting to get mad. “The Spirit obviously needed …” she started and then falling silent. Pausing a moment, “The Spirit knew I was in trouble and …” before drifting off.
Perplexed, she couldn’t answer my question.
My thought was simple, since the Holy Spirit is part of the Holy Trinity and is all powerful, why did the Holy Spirit ask the friend to pray? If the Holy Spirit knew my friend was in trouble, and concerned enough, why didn’t the Holy Spirit simply intervene?
Prayer in the power of the flesh relies upon human ability and effort to carry the prayer forward. Martyn Lloyd-Jones, author of Living Water: Studies in John emphasized:
We all know what it is to feel deadness in prayer, difficulty in prayer, to be tongue-tied, with nothing to say, as it were, having to force ourselves to try. Well, to the extent that is true of us, we are not praying in the Spirit.
It’s hard to pray, when the ‘why’ is unknown. Like most, my friend presumed the request was commanded for a possible, near dire event. However, what if the prayer request was for something wonderful? What if the request was simply, “I love her and she needs to feel that. And she needs to feel you love her as well.“
Like most communication with God, most of us are clueless. We don’t know because we fail to ask. As such, we only end up pushing the prayer forward. “Oh Lord. I pray for this person because the Holy Spirit said so.” Pushing a prayer forward generally ends up on Heaven’s cutting room floor.
Real prayer has a living quality characterized by warmth and freedom and a sense of exchange. Real prayer means being in God’s presence and speaking directly to God. In this type pf communication, the Spirit illuminates your mind, moves your heart, and grants a freedom of utterance and liberty of expression.
I close with the following story.
A little boy was kneeling beside his bed with his mother and grandmother and softly saying his prayers, “Dear God, please bless Mummy and Daddy and all the family and please give me a good night’s sleep.”
Suddenly he looked up and shouted, “And don’t forget to give me a bicycle for my birthday!!”
“There is no need to shout like that,” said his mother. “God isn’t deaf.”
“No,” said the little boy, “but Grandma is.”
Ah, the power of real prayer.
Governor Jay Nixon tweeted this photo this morning while voting.
Remember – Missouri is the ‘Show Me’ State.
