Category: Commentary

I’m in a beautiful waiting room in the Walter Tower of Methodist Hospital in Houston, Texas. I’ve been here since 7:15 this morning. I arrived early to get my husband prepped for a heart procedure at ten. The plan was to send a catheter from his groin, or his wrist, or both, into his veins and up to his heart where one of his arteries was totally blocked. If all worked well the calcium would come loose and a stent or two might be placed in that artery to keep it open. 

I waited with mostly older women whose husbands were undergoing different procedures with other doctors. Everyone tried to be upbeat and friendly as we strangers shared the common fears that go with such things. Each of us received a tentative probability of success. For my husband it was eighty five percent which sounds good, but the worrier in me looked at the fifteen percent chance of failure and I wondered if it would work at all, especially as the clock kept ticking from one hour to the next for close to four hours. 

People had come to the center made famous by Dr. Michael DeBakey, a trailblazer whose pupil Denton Cooley eventually performed the first heart transplant. They sat in tiny group in the large and airy waiting area sharing stories of their loved ones’ heart problems and the journeys that brought them to the Houston Medical Center. I found myself listening raptly and feeling fortunate that I live only twenty minutes away from the hospital and that the whole procedure had only cost one hundred dollars because my husband has a Medicare Advantage Plan. 

I wondered what people in small towns or without insurance do when they or a loved one has a serious heart defect. I found myself feeling good that my husband and I had been so careful during the height of the Covid pandemic. We took every vaccine that was available, religiously wore masks, and mostly stayed home. I worried about what would happen to my husband if he caught the virus. His oxygen level was never higher that ninety five even in the best conditions. His artery was blocked and he had already had a small stroke that luckily did not leave him handicapped. I had been like a police officer enforcing rules that I hope would keep him well until he was able to get that artery open. 

I thought about all of that while I waited. One hour, two hours, three hours, almost four passed. Most of the people who had been there with me had already heard about their loved ones and had left. I watched new people coming in for the afternoon appointments as the time inched toward three. Finally a nurse asked me to accompany her to a private room where the doctor would let me know how my husband had fared. She was kind enough to smile and assure me that it would be good news. 

I gathered my belongings, a laptop, a phone, some food and drink and followed the nurse like a little lost lamb. I was feeling shaky in spite of her insistence that all was well. I waited for the doctor to arrive and thought about the thousands and thousands of people in the Medical Center at that moment. Some were getting good news, some bad, some were dying. It was sobering to think about all of the humanity feeling so many different emotions in a single moment.

The doctor was confident and informative. He explained exactly what he had found and what he had done. He was happy to announce that the procedure was a success even though it had been more difficult than he had expected. He said that the blockage had been like concrete with no blood flowing through whatsoever. With patience and skill he and two other doctors were able to clear it completely and then install three stents. He said that blood immediately began flowing through the artery like a river that has been freed from a dam. I was elated and thanked the doctor profusely for his skill. I thought about all of the progress that has been made in healing hearts over the years. I realized that in another time my husband’s prognosis might have been very dire. It was a sobering thought. 

After a little wait I went to see how my husband was doing. He looked happy and he was filled with goals for eating healthy, losing weight and sticking to an exercise program. I now realized why he had so often been out of breath, having to stop walking long before he should have. He was already doing better with an oxygen level of 98 and a really good blood pressure. It seems that he and many others may have new leases on life from this one day. How many thousands of times are such stories repeated by doctors dedicated to saving lives? I have a former student who will soon be leaving for Stanford to do a fellowship in pediatric cardiology. He has already completed a residency at Texas Children’s Hospital. We will attend his farewell party with even more respect for what he has chosen to do. It’s remarkable to think that he may one day help a little one with a heart defect heal. I know how those parents will feel. I felt a roomful of emotions with my husband’s experience. We really do live in extraordinary times.

Ryuichi Sakamoto has died. In late March he succumbed to cancer. It is a great loss for the world. If you have not heard of Ryuichi Sakamoto, you have surely heard his music. It is some of the most beautiful ever composed. 

Sakamoto has captured emotions and elevated movies to Oscar worthy level with compositions that weave a tapestry of colors and artistry. While there is a hint of Asian influence in his themes, his works are universal. You may remember the haunting coda of Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence or the epic tones of The Last Emperor. In Wuthering Heights Sakamoto captured the possessive love of Heathcliff for Catherine with dramatic crescendos of piano and cello. The darkness of the music underpinning The Revenant heightens the pain and struggles of the hero. In fact, all of Sakamoto’s music is elemental, experimental and moving. 

Music is one of the inventions that seems to raise humanity to a place higher than the animal world. While birds sing and other creatures croon, It is humankind that that creates new sounds with instruments outside of their own voices. Sakamoto was a master at that. In fact he was one of the first composers to experiment with electronic sounds and different cadences in music. 

I sometimes hear people advocating for educations that only include practical majors. They poke fun at the arts, insisting that they are of little value to either the student or society. How ironic that during the Renaissance wealthy patrons supported painters, sculptors, writers and musicians. We herald that time as one of awakening and a leap forward in human progress and yet many today undervalue the very things that were encouraged during that time. 

I can’t imagine why we place higher values on some talents than others. We certainly need engineers, but it would be silly to have an overabundance of them and besides so many people are not the least bit interested in the kind of jobs that they do. Business is important as is medicine, but where would we be without music, plays, movies, books, paintings? Those are beautiful representations that humans have created from the most ancient times. It seems to be in our DNA to leave our imprint on the world with works of art. 

I have often found that the kind of people who complain about so called “useless” majors have never really attempted to become proficient in them or anything else for that matter. They droned away at jobs they disliked and dreamed of what they might have been. Studying any field is difficult and everyone of them serves purposes that we may not see unless we pay careful attention. For example a friend’s son majored in geography and was often taunted for choosing a subject that would only lead to a job teaching. In truth he found work with NASA because of his skills in understanding the impact of differing environments. His knowledge is essential in the future explorations of the universe and in the study of the impact of climate change. He has had no trouble finding a rewarding and meaningful career.

I was an English major with a mathematics minor. I ended up teaching mathematics for all of my time as an educator because schools had a shortage of people certified to teach math. I’ve had individuals tell me how smart I was to get a decent minor because an English major is worthless. I can think of nothing farther from the truth. Not only did I learn how to communicate in both formal writing and speech, but I realized the grandeur of the human mind as expressed in the words of plays, stories, books. I saw that linguistically words have a kind of mathematical logic. I have always believed that I was a better math teacher because of my English major than I would have been without it. 

We need everyone and we should not be on a rampage to eliminate the kind of learning that we rate as being less important than others. How dreary the world would be without is great variety! How wonderful that each of us has so many choices for living our lives? Inside every human there is a singular talent waiting to be free. Somewhere the next Ryuichi Sakamoto is banging on a toy piano and making beautiful sounds. A child with a great imagination and ability with words is already creating stories for his friends. The fingerpainting of a baby may lead to the work of a future Picasso. That child who soothes someone wounded by a bully may one day be a brilliant counselor. We should be encouraging them all to use their talents, not telling them that they are wasting their time.

Let’s be the patrons of this era. Let’s help all young people find and cultivate their passions. By inhibiting their enthusiasm we will most likely end up with a frustrated adult working at a joyless job. Let our young dream and strive for what makes them excited. Don’t suggest careers, instead ask them what they love. Therein is the key to a successful life. Nurture each person just as he or she wants to be.  

Behind every strong person is a story that gave them no choice.

Each of us is called upon to demonstrate our toughness at one time or another. It is the rare person who can honestly claim to never have encountered daunting moments that almost crushed them. Most of us have found times when we were beaten down and exhausted from the tragedies that we have endured. We have found ways to keep moving forward even as we feel as though we cannot take another step. The human spirit is rather remarkable in its determination to overcome the challenges that we must so often face. 

What is the grit that keeps people going when they have been enslaved? How do people find the will to continue when they seek refuge only to be shunned? How is it possible to endure wars, poverty, uncertainty day after day? How do the everyday heroes among us keep their optimism and energy when life becomes almost unbearable? Even Mother Teresa had her limits and admitted that sometimes she became so saddened by the misery she witnessed that she almost lost her faith. Somehow she nonetheless dug deep inside of herself and managed to continue serving the sick and forgotten. How did she find the will and the energy to keep performing her miracles for some of the most ignored people on earth?

I suspect that there are people right now trudging to work, putting on happy faces, doing their best to be productive when their hearts are broken. We pass by people who are carrying great burdens and we may not even notice them. The weight of the all the world’s troubles are too much for one person. Trying to do so will burn most of us out. Instead we might consider the power of tackling problems together.

A few Saturdays ago I watched a crew of young people from the neighborhood Mormon temple descend on my cul-de-sac to weed and mulch people’s yards. They came like a swarm of worker bees and literally transformed yards within minutes. A task that might have taken all day for a single individual became easy to complete with the group effort. It was a wonder to watch them in action. It made me realize how much we can do as an army of goodwill.

I saw the same kind of thing happen in Houston after hurricane Harvey decimated people’s homes. Groups from churches, clubs, fraternities, athletic teams, families worked together to clean out the mud and muck that had invaded houses. Tasks that at first seemed impossible to complete were done in a single day. With teamwork and determination the groups saved people’s abodes from being destroyed by mold and rot. Organized and determined groups of good people stepped up to the challenge and with their sacrifices of time and compassion the city was pieced back together. 

In ordinary times it is often difficult to know who is suffering among us. People put on stoic faces and carry on as though they have no worries even as they feel fragile and ready to fall apart. How often have we been stunned by news of the suicide of someone who appeared to be fine? How many times have we learned that someone we know has been quietly dealing with enormous difficulties without complaint? It is all too often true that many of the seemingly strong people that we see are slowly breaking apart inside. 

The wise among us know when their burdens are too much to bear. They admit to their moments of uncertainty and ask for help. They are unafraid to tell us that they are tired. They do not feign strength when what they are enduring is too much to face alone. We must be ready to listen to them, to allow them to reveal their truths without judgement or even unsolicited advice. Just knowing that someone understands and cares may be all they need to push through their darkest moments. 

I see evidence all of the time of the kind of support that people need when life is overwhelming them. There always seems to be that observant and wise soul who notices someone who is hurting and holds out a lifesaving hand. Giving encouragement and support allows the wounded to find the strength they need to take baby steps forward. Kindness abounds in the smallest gestures of care. 

There is far more good than bad in the world and yet we focus more often on the ugliest aspects of our humanity. Little wonder that some souls lose faith and feel desperate and alone. Our society and media stokes their fears and judges them rather than working to understand and help them. We should be asking ourselves why we spend millions of dollars and hours fighting amongst our fellow humans when we would do better to admit that each of us is carrying burdens no matter who we seem to be. Our stories have formed our choices and either weakened us or made us strong. Maybe it’s time that we listened to those stories and just loved the people telling them.  

For six years in a row Finland has been named the happiest country in the world, but a deep dive into how the country won this title is more complex than just seeing smiling faces all around. In fact, the title is mostly about contentment, rather than what we normally think of as happiness. It is about feeling satisfied with just enough to live a good and secure life. The people of Finland live simply for the most part with programs that provide them with education, medical care, transportation and even strong support for the arts and entrepreneurial efforts. While geopolitical issues may cause them to have concern about the war in Ukraine, their membership in NATO and their often tenuous relationship with Russia they mostly persevere as one citizen notes with”grim determination even in the face of hardship.”

I found myself thinking of my mother when I read about the people of Finland. If ever there was a happy person, it was my mother. The irony is that she also suffered from bipolar disorder which often presented itself as depression. In truth sadness was only an illness that my mother had. Her true personality was always optimistic and joyful. She was perhaps the most content and grateful person I have ever known. Instead of grieving over her difficult and often tragic life, she found ways to celebrate the roof over her head, the food in her pantry, and the sun shining outside her window as though she was the richest person on earth. When really hard times came her resolve to remain happy was evidenced in her own grim determination not to be overcome by the trials that she had to endure. 

I am more of a worrier by nature. I was angry that my mother had to struggle so much. I often became enraged that someone as good hearted as she was had to had to face an almost continuous onslaught of difficulties through no fault of her own. Mama never saw it my way. She found the blessings in every single day. If she had a few extra pennies for some cookies she thought herself undeniably fortunate. She praised God for the happiness and love He had given her rather than asking him for favors. She was the most saintlike and content person I ever knew. In fact, she was always the first person in the room to share what little she had rather than storing up a fortune while someone near her was suffering from want. 

On the same day that I read about the people of Finland I saw that Boston ranks as the most helpful city in the United States. The title comes from a willingness of people to informally help their neighbors, donate to causes, join organizations whose goal is to assist others in some way. Once again I harked back to my mom. Perhaps her happiness came from her altruistic nature. Every one of her days seemed to be dedicated to helping or cheering up someone who was suffering in some way. She was always quick to send money to wounded veterans or Native American charities or St. Jude’s Hospital. It was never much, but in proportion to what she actually had it was a most generous donation. She could not pass a homeless person without digging into her purse. She had compassion for everyone without judgement. Her favorite saying was, “but for the grace of God there go I.”

Mama loved to tell stories of her own mother’s selfless acts. She noted that there were many times when my grandmother would prepare a fish for the family of ten people and quietly the head while her children feasted on the best parts. At other times when there was meat, Mama remembered her mother sucking on the bone while the rest of the family enjoyed a bit of protein. I suppose I believed my mother’s stories of my grandmother because my Grandma’s needs appeared to be so simple and yet she shared whatever she had be it a cup of sugary coffee or a slice of bread with anyone who came to her humble home. 

Somehow I got the message that happiness is never about things or trips or tangible items and yet I have often been lulled into our hypnotic national obsession with success and money. We are so often more in awe of the person who has stored away treasures and possessions and power than humble folk like my mother or my grandmother. We unconsciously send the message to our children that the measure of a person lies in collecting things and honors rather than in being content with just enough. Perhaps it’s time we learn from people like the Finns who are simply satisfied and willing to live without all of the frills that sometimes seem to make us less happy than we might otherwise be. 

There is the momentary happiness of buying a fancy car, but eventually that automobile wears out. We can fill our closets with expensive clothes but they are soon out of style. When our days on this earth are done I suppose everyone would like to believe that he or she will be remembered as someone who generously spread joy and compassion. I can’t think of a single time that I have heard a eulogy about a person’s money and power or even the size of his/her home. The Finns have it right and so do the people of Boston. Life is about finding joy in each moment and each person we encounter. It should be about sharing our blessing as best we can. Happiness is all about being content and helpful even in the face of hardship.  

When I was a little eight year old girl my world fell apart, at least in my childish eyes. I had been so happy at my school, with my friends, in my home. All of that was going to change in ways that would ultimately create an existential crisis for me even though I had no idea what that meant at my young age. It began when my father and mother announced at dinner one evening that our family would soon be moving from Houston to San Jose, California. 

I remember feeling instantly betrayed, but I remained silent as my parents happily spoke of the grand adventures we would enjoy. I could only think of how content I was with things just as they were. I loved visits to my grandmother’s house on Friday nights where I would meet up with my dozens of cousins. I had a best friend named Lynda who was my confidante. I liked my teacher at school and my classmates. There was no adventure, no matter how grand, that would compete with what I already had. Still, I complied with my fate without complaint, keeping my sadness to myself. I was a child and maybe my parents knew better than I did what would be good for our family. 

I thought of my eight year old self when I watched Steven Spielberg’s semi-autobiographical movie, The Fabelmans.” The hero, Sam, watches his family fall apart as his father follows opportunities in his career that precipitate moves and loss of friendships. Ultimately the Fabelmans end up in northern California just as I did when I was eight. The culture shock of being there made Sam the butt of jokes and even bullying. As his family slowly fell apart Sam found hope in his amazing talent for making films. 

My own story is more mundane. I was shy, awkward and a year younger than my California classmates. I had difficulty making friends and missed the ones I had back in Texas. The promise of opportunity did not work out well for my father either. He quickly announced that he had left the job that had lured him out west and his search for work began again. With it came other moves and a feeling of tension inside our home. Our odyssey would take us all the way back to Texas after a brief stop in Los Angeles. With each new school I withdrew deeper and deeper inside myself. 

Our last hope seemed to lie in Corpus Christi, Texas where my father had spent his high school years. He was suddenly happy again and somehow his joy affected me because I too felt comfortable in my newest school. My teacher was kind and my fellow students were welcoming. I could see my family living happily there, but it was not meant to be. Ultimately my father would find work back in Houston and I would attend the fifth school of my third grade year to complete the circle of our journey. 

I don’t recall much about the end of that school year. By then being the new kid in class had become a role that I played without fanfare. It would soon be summer and my parents were looking for a new home where we all would start anew. I was able to see my cousins on Fridays and visit with my friends from the neighborhood that we had left only months before. I felt more comfortable than I had since that fateful revelation that we were moving from the place that I so loved. There was hope on the horizon that would soon be dashed into a million pieces for me when I awoke one morning to learn that my father had died. 

I suppose that I might have lost any shred of optimism at that moment. I know that I was devastated by the loss of my father, but somehow in the one of the darkest times of my life I made myself a promise. I created a goal that would guide me all the way to the present. My plan was to take full advantage of my education just as my father had always urged me to do. I knew that he wanted me to fulfill my potential and I was determined to do so in his honor. I would challenge myself to use the gifts and skills that he had given me. I would become the person he knew I might be. 

My life has been a rollercoaster ride of challenges. My goals have been threatened by circumstance. Nothing has ever been easy for me, but I kept reminding myself of my father’s encouragement when he insisted that I could be a better person than I believed. I created a kind of roadmap of hope for myself and for my family. I knew that with sacrifice and optimism and the love we felt for each other we would be okay. I conquered one difficulty after another with the kind of determination that my father always insisted that I must have. I watched my courageous mother caring for me and my brothers alone and found that I had her grit as well. I constantly pushed my many fears aside and moved forward, sometimes after being pushed way back. 

I did not become a world famous movie maker like Steven Spielberg did, but I conquered my fears and used my talents to create a life that has had great meaning for me and hopefully for those around me. I kept my optimism and hope alive. I saw tragedies and knew how to plan to overcome them. I kept the faith that I had to power to keep going even when roadblocks made me stumble. I’m not finished yet, but I believe with all of my heart that we humans with the grace of God will work together for all that is good and just. Somehow we always find a way to become the light in the world. Even in a dark present in which so many seem so lost, a light shines in the future. Of that I am certain. I will push on. I will keep hope alive.