Advocating or Proselytizing

     Advocate.  Proselytize.  Convert.
     This week, proselytizing, and advocacy came to the fore.  When is proseltyzing appropriate?  When do we advocate?  How do we do so effectively?
     Proselyte.  Greek word, proselytus means "convert to (Judaism), stranger, one who has come over."  

     First, a proselyte appeared.  In the YMCA's (Young Men's Christian Association's) poolroom.  The intended audience?  My personal trainer.  I was not privy to their conversation.  My clues?  A Bible--a hand pointing to biblical passages.  The personal trainer, held captive to the
     What was I called to do?  What am I called to know before deciding to act?  From what past life experiences may I discern today's experience?  Several.

     Common to teenagers, I sought out a willing proselyte in junior high school.  Questions addressed, if not answered.  Bible study sessions.  Context.  My response?  A conversation with the pastor--Mark.  My creekside chidhood home would suggest a conversion blessed by water.  Such was my family's fear.  Have no fear.  Clear to me, this was not the time, this was not for me.  At the creek, with respect, I made clear, this was not my conversion's time--this was not my conversion's place.
     Open to beliefs diverse from my own,  I do call for a foundation.  Respect.  Patty's Prerequisite.  Respect.  Mutual respect.   
     Several years later, a similar seeking.  A far different result.  I was more mature.  My search was on solid ground.  A foundation was laid.  Respect.  My prerequisite met.  Mutual respect.
     The YMCA's poolside proseltyzing was unprovoked.  Yet, I was called to advocate for my own beliefs--my own needs. 
     Advocate.  Latin.  Ad- to, + vocaere, to call, related to  "vocem" (...voice.)

     How was I called to advocate--to advocate effectively?
     I was not privy to the words exchanged between the proseltye, and the personal trainer.  My only clue--a Bible--a hand pointing to biblical passages.
     My choices?  Two.  Proselytize?  No.  I had no reason to address the proselytizer.  She was not talking to me.  She was gone.   Advocacy?  Yes.  The trainer.
     Advocacy.  To call for what?  How?
     My feelings?  Anger.  Frustration.  Disappointment.  Determination.
     Convert.  Latin word, convertere, 'turn around, transform,' from com- 'together' and 'vertere "to turn."

    Open to beliefs diverse from my own,  I do call for a foundation.  Respect.  Patty's prerequisite.  Mutual respect.  Some may call my optimism--my positive nature--to be syrupy.  Yet, I prefer to think of it as an invitation to me, and to others to seek the best opportunity to transform something disappointing, bad, or whatever, into a positive situation.
    In terms of the proselytizer and my personal trainer, I have a positive outcome to share.  In the pool, I kicked my anger, and formed a constructive e-mail message stating my feelings, my intention to cancel our next session, and go back to my swimming routine.  Surprisingly, my direct approach caught the trainer's attention.  In a positive manner.  She understood how she could have handled the proselytizer differently.  She understood that I deserved her attention.  Barb expressed a desire to be more attentive.  We will meet again.

The Stairway

     2625 Vale Crest Road.  April 26, 1960.  A foundation was laid.  A baby was born.  A home.  My values.
     A split-level home.  The front door.  The front entryway.  A stairway down to the den--an office, laundry room, a Singer sewing machine.  Mom.
    A defining moment.
     Late 1960s.  Pacifists.  Vietnam.  Mom's first-born son.  My brother.  My Idol.  The  Draft.  Drawing "your" number.  Lower numbers go to Vietnam first.
     Me.  The baby of the family.  Home from school.  I walk into the front entryway.  Mom hears me.  With baited breath I ask, "What was His Number?"
     30
     Not good.  Frightening.
     30
     Conscientious Objector.
     30
     Only later--much later--did I learn how close we came.  A hearing set.  Our minister set to testify.  Last minute change.  The minister could not come.  I do not remember what followed.  How did we succeed?  My memory fails me.
     30  
    Our job?  Prove why a very young man be drafted into the quagmire known as Vietnam.  The quagmire put before our eyes by Walter Cronkite each night.
     30
    When Conscientious Objector status was granted, I understood the responsibility of pacifism.  Diplomacy.  World peace in our living room--conscientious objection at the Stairway.
    30
     Forty years have passed.  The memory--the image--of that moment is as clear as when I first stood at the Stairway.
      30
     The waving of the United Nations flag on October 24--the anniversary of the UN's founding--added to the responsibility to live conscientious of our life's commitments.  Meetings of the World Federalists in the living room--in the heart of our home--embodied the same spirit.
     30
     What happened to that young man?  Did he ever offer service?  Yes.  Yet today, he offers medical care to those who come to him in need.  Yes.  He offered service.  Yes.  He offers service.
     30
     2625 Vale Crest Road.  April 26, 1960.
     My home has changed.  Time has passed.
     30
     I pray we do not fall down The Stairway.  I pray we remain steadfast Conscientious Objectors to actions that mask themselves as National Security.  May we not pound our chests.  May we seek peace, understanding, diplomacy, and care.
     30

Family Crossfires

     My family is close.  Reconciled to inevitable differences present within any family.  Reconciled.  At peace.  Not seething silently.  We are blessed.  Some families are not so blessed.
     Christmas.  Christmas cards.  Childhood neighbors and friends remain close.  Some closer to me.
     Though not closest to me, two women are on my "must send" list, nonetheless.  One is blinded by sight.  The other?  Her mother--her housemate.
     The first woman is blinded by sight.  Yet, far beyond any physical manifestation of blindness, her mind has been blinded--blinded by her own volition-- to what might be possible if she believed.  No one forced it upon her.  By unbelief--by ultimate inaction--she has taken the strongest action.
     She is tragic of her own making.   More tragic is the blind ensnarement of her mother.  Imposed Catholic guilt is a joke most times funny.  This is no joke.  This is not funny.
     Born in a generation when etiquette, propriety, manners, and grace were virtues, the mother instilled these in her children.  Or, so she tried.  Through no fault of her own, Catholic guilt is being imposed on her by her daughter.  Though not privy to their conversations, there is no doubt.
     I need you.  Don't leave me alone in my blindness.  Literally.  Since my blindness imprisons me in this house, you cannot leave the house either.  Don't leave me alone.  If you dare, you will live to regret it.  I will take irrevocable action that you will live to regret.
     The mother's golden years are being held hostage.  The daughter's potential choked.  A travesty.  Imposed.  A travesty.  Self-imposed.  A travesty.
     What may I do?  Virtuous I am not.  I cannot violate the virtues instilled by my own mother.  So what can I do?
     A simple Christmas card.  Supporting UNICEF--supporting the belief of what is possible in each child's life, if we unite.  A simple Christmas card addressed to both mother and daughter.
     Merry Christmas.

A Changing of the Guard

     This week, a pronounced changing of the guard came clearly into view.  Two lives--two people--who have given me immeasurable strength were changed.  One by illness.  The other by death.
     Sunday.  Imminence.  Foreboding.
     How is it possible to owe more to someone than your life?  I don't know how.  Yet, I do.
     Sunday morning.  A voicemail system flashes the unnerving red signaling a call missed.
     A quart of blood lost.  Unknown cause.
     Wednesday.  Tests done.  A relatively clean bill of health.  With equal parts exhaustion, and relief, she returned home.  Yet, a huge toll has been taken on her.  Physically.  Emotionally.  Psychologically.
     Wednesday.  A gentle soul died.  Not before living very fully for many years.  Not before giving me, and many others, strength from his weakness.  Not before teaching me, and others, how to live quiet dignity.
     Thursday morning.  A never-before heard call.  A call to offer my hour's swim in thanksgiving to him--for him.  Unfamiliar though the call was, the message was clear.
     Friday.  The quart of blood lost to the woman to whom I owe my life, and so much more, is being restored more slowly than it was lost.
     My sense of imminence--forboding--has been calmed.  Yet, the strength has passed to me to offer.  The time for me to offer something back for all of the strength she has offered to me for more than a lifetime is now.    
     What will my offering be?

Facebook. Twitter. You Tube.

     Facebook.  Twitter.  YouTube.
     The three mainstream social media services elicit knee-jerk reactions:  the lowest common denominator.  Facebook is a site of value only for the purpose of maintaining social relationships.  Twitter is an outlet used by celebrities to post outrageous comments.  YouTube is the repository of videos that news outlets consult to fill air time, with very humorous, or outrageous moments.
     Such are not the only purposes for social media.  Maintaining relationships.  Expressing views that might be considered outside of what is acceptable in daily discourse.  Humorous, and outrageous moments.  These are worthy parts of our lives.
     Yet, with a little creativity, and open-mindedness, Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube may be new venues that we may avail ourselves of in meeting our information needs.  Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube are not so much the creations of a digital generation.  No, they are the fulfillment of the original vision of the creator of the World Wide Web--Tim Berners Lee.
     May we understand the vision of the World Wide Web--the free exchange of ideas throughout the world.  May we fulfill its promise, and not squander its treasury.  It is our choice.

Dr. Richard Owen

Richard R. Owen M.D.

Owen, Richard R., MD Age 83, died December 11, 2011. Preceded in death by his parents, John and Ethel Owen; step- mother, Helen "Pat" Owen; brother, John; and sister, Margaret. Survived by wife, Amy; sister, Suzy Brickley; daughter, Marnie; sons, Rick (Ann), and Don (Meg); grandchildren, Lauren Lusk (Jeremy), David Jacobs, David, and Rebecca; as well as many other relatives. Richard was a doctor of physical medicine and rehabilitation who practiced in many area hospitals and clinics. Before retiring, he was Medical Director of Sister Kenny Institute. He enjoyed wheelchair athletics as a participant and medical examiner. He served on the board of, and went on many trips with, Wilderness Inquiry. A celebration of his life will be held at First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis, 900 Mount Curve, Minneapolis at 2 PM on Saturday, December 17, 2011. Memorial contributions can be made to the Sister Kenny Foundation, First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis, or Wilderness Inquiry.

Published in Star Tribune from December 14 to December 15, 2011
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/startribune/obituary.aspx?n=richard-r-owen&pid=155035415

     A gentle man.  Wise.  Knowing.  Far-sighted.

     Dr. Owen was my physical rehabilitation medicine doctor in the 1960s.  At my first visit--before my first memory, he said, "Stand her up.  How far can your daughter walk?"
     "Don't you understand?  She can't do that! Don't you understand?" my outraged mother exclaimed.
     He stood up, transferred his brown, walking cane, and stepped forward.  He understood.  Polio met this doctor as a teenager.  Wise beyond his years, Dr. Owen understood.
     From my first memory, Mom and I went to see him to monitor the progression of my cerebral palsy, and identify courses of action we could take.  For my part, I met his reflex hammer with a kick in his face.  A grateful soul.

     Dr. Owen did not practice medicine.  He gave medical care.  Practical experience--living with polio since he was a teenager.  He was in his 40s, when I received his care.

    Dr. Owen knew the terrain of physical rehabilitation--not from a laboratory, but, from real life.   

  He was at peace with himself--with his life.  He was not aggressive.  He was affirming--with his manner, with his care.  Dr. Owen understood the geography of disability.  Without calling attention to "handicap," or "disability," he directed his energies toward how to live as fully as possible.
    Dr. Owen earned the requisite schooling to be certified a medical practitioner.  With little fanfare, and unwavering trust in his own life experience, he offered personal, medical care.
     Thank you, Dr. Owen.  Thank you.

Brain Damage

    I have brain damage.  I am not brain-damaged.  I am not damaged goods.  I am not--I never will be--damaged goods.
     Brain damage.  Since birth.  At birth.
     The doctors to Dad.
     We almost lost her.  We almost lost both of them.  Your daughter's umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck five times.  The oxygen supply to the left side of your daughter's brain was cut off for several seconds.  The left side of her brain controls the right side of her body.
     The doctors to Dad.
     We don't know if she will ever learn to walk or talk.
     [I have walked.  I do talk.]
     How do you hear that and not fall to your knees in awe?  How do you hear that, and not be rendered utterly speechless?