Making the Decision to Carry On
It is more than tempting to give in or give up. There is an alluring quality to quitting the struggle. When all of the headlines point to disaster, chaos, hatred, and division, keeping one’s head in the game and participating actively is hard. Another school shooting. Another political mess. Another war. We become overwhelmed with sadness, strife, and futility. An almost soothing refrain of 'Stop the world, I want to get off' seems to offer relief from all the pain and suffering.
“You don’t give in or give up because your determination may be all that is needed to change the world.”
The dramatic rise of suicide in young people (the number two cause of death in people between the ages of 10-24) or among police officers and firefighters (who are more likely to die at their own hands than in the line of duty) tells this awful tale of despair. To think that so many of our children and our public servant heroes are at the end of their ropes is heartbreaking. So why not just quit? The answer is as old as humankind. You don't give in or give up because your determination may be all that is needed to change the world. Your contribution and your love is the key to our future. Believe it or not.
The stories told in sacred texts by all religions and those of ancient mythology have endured forever because they tell us how to live. Their metaphors help us find our way. One that is a touchstone for me is contained in Homer's Odyssey. When it comes to resisting the urge to give in or give up, his tale of Odysseus and the Sirens is one of the best. It is told that Odysseus makes the tough decision to take a long and dangerous journey across the ocean for home.
Sirens Song from Odysseus
His lover, Circe, tells him of the encounter he must have with three beautiful creatures known as Sirens who lure all ships onto nearby rocks with their totally irresistible and seductive songs. No sailor survives them "for they sit in a green field and warble him to death with the sweetness of their song.” Odysseus heeds the warning and orders his men to put beeswax in their ears so they won't be killed by the treachery. But he chooses to have himself strapped to the mast of the ship so that he can hear the songs while not being drawn to certain death. He does so and is unharmed. But the most compelling part is that unknown to Odysseus, the Sirens were destined to die if anyone would hear them and live to tell about it. When Odysseus survived they hurled themselves into the sea and never tempted or devastated human beings again.
I've been fortunate to see this story play out in real life dozens of times. A couple of years ago I wrote about a boy who was an Odysseus himself in my column for ChaplainUSA.org entitled 'Kids For Sale'. One of the boys I counseled was fourteen-year-old Tony (not his real name of course). He was a charming, handsome, manipulative youngster who was the ringleader of the dozen or so others who were being trafficked by the trick or by the hour. He was from Ohio and had been molested by a step-father. He ran away to warm weather on a bus bound for Fort Lauderdale and it was only a matter of minutes before he was recognized as a viable product by a man who sold boys and girls to tourists.
Ultimately, he escaped to Covenant House. Tony told me that over 100 men had abused him in only a few weeks. He had become addicted to cocaine, alcohol, and heroin and soon realized that he would survive longer ‘running his own show’ earning $40 - $60 a trick making $200 or more a night. He fully understood that the average street kid survived for less than two years succumbing to addiction, STD’s or suicide.
When I left Fort Lauderdale there was no doubt in my mind that Tony would not live long. Years later, as director of a treatment facility, a new patient saw me, did a double-take, and stuck his head in my door. “Don’t I know you?” He asked. We chatted for a minute trying to figure out the connection when he asked me if I had ever been to Covenant House in Fort Lauderdale. I replied that I had. He looked at me hard and said, “You are Father Bob!”
That was the name the kids had given me so many years before. He cried; “It’s me. Tony.” He had lived and somehow transcended the streets. Tony went on to tell his story of heading back to Ohio, confronting his demons, seeking methadone treatment, and moving on. He had a wife, two children and a thriving EBAY resale business of baseball cards, memorabilia, furniture…anything but himself. His triumph over the Sirens of giving in and giving up continues to give me hope.
The message of Odysseus is clear. So is Tony's. Job in the Old Testament gives it a good spin as well. And the modern-day storyteller/musician, Tom Petty doesn't mince words with us in his tune I Won’t Back Down when he says 'there ain't no easy way out, so I'll stand my ground and I won't back down'.
When we resist the Sirens who try compelling us to give in and give up by participating despite their promises of relief something remarkable happens. Our decision to carry on, to exist, persist, endure and overcome will defeat them every time. Then nothing, absolutely nothing, will be able to drag us down.
The Christmas Fire
Part inspirational, part public service message, Robert Jones' annual hometown Christmas post will engulf you in an unforgettable story of joy, glad tidings and bucket brigades.
Recollections of childhood Christmases are rekindled to a level of vividness as the holiday gets closer and closer. I think back on those ‘days of yore’ with fondness and joy. One of my favorite memories involves a near tragedy surrounding our family Christmas tree.
Finding the perfect specimen of a tree was almost a competitive sport before artificial look-alikes were invented. It seemed like everyone in my hometown of Danville, Illinois in the 1950s had the same quest. Our mission was to search out the perfect pine to be festooned in our front room windows. Tree lots were meticulously combed from as early as the day after Thanksgiving. The pondering of long needles, short needles, spruce or balsam was considered at length as if such a purchase never occurred before. Finally, a decision was made about which tree would hold up best and the crown jewel of Christmas was chosen.
Every family has their own traditions. Ours was to haul our tree up to the body shop of Glen T. Smith Chrysler-Plymouth on North Vermilion across from The Times Theatre. Uncle Glen was my mother’s brother-in-law. He would load his car painting equipment with a sticky white fluff substance so that his family, ours, and my grandparents could flock the trees to look like a heavy snow had just covered them.
The arrival of the tree at our home, tied and wrapped securely to the top of our car was a moment of triumph for my Dad. Soon Christmas splendor would appear for the whole neighborhood to witness. Decorations with special family significance, a cotton tree skirt, bubble, and twinkle/multicolor lights were draped on the branches while eggnog and fudge were consumed next to the fireplace. But then, in 1960, something earth-shattering happened. Mother discovered the new, magnificent, and elegant Aluminum Christmas Tree (complete with rotating color wheel).
I was never quite sure why my father relented to this interloping phony which began to grace our "sunroom" that next Christmas. It was as if some distorted alien being had come to rest near the front door. He would give it the most disturbing glances as he passed by…not quite a scowl but something akin to revulsion and disgust. Mom was oblivious. I had never seen her any prouder than she was over her decorator tree from Marshall Fields in Chicago. To make matters even worse for Dad, it could only be decorated with uniform fashionable red ornaments. No lights were necessary either. The color wheel took care of that. One moment it was green, then red, then blue and then a strange yellow gold. All of the bulbs and baubles were abandoned to the attic in deference to the imitation thing that had replaced our beloved flocked masterpiece.
There developed an increasing tension between the tree and Dad over the next two years. It was 1964 when all hell broke loose. Finally the unhappiness Dad was experiencing proved to be too much for Mom. She reluctantly gave in and issued a reprieve for the restoration of some old decorations to hang on the metal impostor. But Dad must not have heard the word ‘some’. She watched in horror as he brought down ALL of the old ornaments and lights and draped them from top to bottom. The once gleaming essence of simplicity got loaded down with everything but popcorn garland. Mother watched in a nearby chair with a stiff cocktail in utter defeat. Even the cotton skirt was laid around the base. Dad's work of art was complete.
Presents were crammed one after the other under the branches until one spark from a frayed light strand coursed through the aluminum, down the trunk, and then with a loud ‘POOF’ the cotton went up in flames. Over the din of race cars, we heard a loud stomping and pounding from upstairs. By the time that we got to the sunroom, it was practically ablaze. Dad was making desperate but futile efforts to put it out with his bare hands. Steve and I quickly formed a bucket brigade and put out the fire before Danville Firefighters arrived. We had become 14-year-old heroes as far as my folks and neighbors were concerned. The firemen even clapped us on the back in appreciation of our efforts.
So, the aluminum tree was ruined and never replaced. No more fake trees for us. It was back to flocked ones. We moved to a bigger home the following year where Dad spent many hours admiring his traditional tree. Mom got her way with annual decorator themes and fancy ornaments (since all of the old ones exploded in the fire). A happy compromise had been achieved. The story of heroic boys and a Christmas fire was told and retold. There was one addition to all of the holiday decorations, however. Hidden behind the living room curtain, out of sight but not too far from reach, was a bright, shiny red home fire extinguisher.