The Stewardship of Words

I spent my weekend with words. My writing teacher is a beautiful, eighty-something Greek woman who lives with a fire in her belly and a passion for words. Twice a year, a small group of dedicated women gather at Valle Cruces Conference Center to spend the weekend under her tutelage. She give us prompts then sends us out for thirty or forty-five minutes to see what we might be inspired to write. We return and share with one another our vignettes, poetry, short stories, and essays that have tumbled out and onto the page unexpectedly.

She left us with one last prompt: What are your words worth?

My initial thought was, “nothing.” I had some sentimental thought about how my words are freely given and released into the world without a price or value, save that which will be placed upon them by any heart who receives them. I write and preach because I have to and I love to, not with any concept of value or merit.

But, then, the apostle James shows up in this Sunday’s readings for the church and, with a booming voice and priceless words, castigates me for my feigned naivete, 

“How great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire! And the tongue is a fire. The tongue is placed among our members as a world of iniquity; it stains the whole body, sets on fire the cycle of nature, and is itself set on fire by hell. For every species of beast and bird, of reptile and sea creature, can be tamed and has been tamed by the human species, but no one can tame the tongue-- a restless evil, full of deadly poison. With it we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse those who are made in the likeness of God. From the same mouth come blessing and cursing.” (James 3:5-9)

“Unbridled words.” This idea storms in my mind and I sigh. We live in a society that values unbridled words wielded like guns and fired like canons. Words have become blades, not for vanquishing some evil foe, but for slicing through the humanity of others. Compulsively we draw and fire our weapons of words, long before we have any clear target in sight. The speed of fingers on a keyboard hammer out the steel of our best and worst thoughts made manifest on the screen. With no effort, we press a button, click a mouse, and in silence our daggers fly across the world in mere seconds.

There’s no small irony in the nostalgia and admiration we hold for the letter writers of the Civil War. Notes sent home by the most ordinary of men jerk our modern sensibilities because of their beauty and craftsmanship. The language of their era, set with intention and deliberacy to paper, confounds us in our era of compulsion and impulse. When paper was scarce and ink was hard to come by, the writer took more time than just that of putting hand to pen to paper. They understood the value and power of their words and did not want to cheapen or waste them in haste.

The apostle James commands us to “be doers of the word and not hearers only.” James 1:22 Alongside breathing and blood pulsing through our veins, words flow over and through every moment of our lives. When we wake, words fill our minds to answer the questions that come with every awakening: ideas of where we are, what the day holds, and reverberations from the dreams that may have passed in the night. Long before a single syllable journeys through our throats and across our lips, our minds have been a thunderhead of words firing off and lighting the cavern of our skulls. All day we grasp for our tools of words to make order out of chaos so that we can think, speak, plan, and execute. Then, as night falls and the energy of the day drains away from us, the words are there to sweep and mop the floors of our minds and tidy the shelves of ideas that have been in heavy usage over the course of the day. Even as we drift off, the words are there to convert conscious to subconscious, lining up the letters and syllables that will give meaning to the images our brains will paint in the dreams of our sleep.

How can we live with ourselves for cheapening the very thing that holds our sanity together? How can we forgive ourselves our carelessness and gluttony? Words may be in infinite supply but they are precious and powerful. We should weep over the fields littered with bloodied and dying words, thrown out with no regard for the value of their lives.

Perhaps our most powerful testimony as people of faith is to be found in our reclamation of the sanctity and sacrament of language. If we are to witness, let us first witness to the power of words, not just of those that speak of the Word made flesh in Jesus Christ, but of the power of every word we produce. Let us pound the swords of cheapened words into the plowshares of speech that once again cultivates compassion, beauty, and grace. Let us bridle our tongues with the depth of appreciation and respect our words deserve.

Marking an Anniversary with Honesty: 9/11

All day I have felt depressed and have lacked motivation. I’ve accomplished most of my chores on this, my day off, but it has taken me three times as long and has required plenty of breaks for some mindless tv watching. There are plenty of other ways I should have spent that extra time but I just didn’t have it in me today.

Derek came home after his last class to change clothes before going to football practice. I asked him how he was doing and he said he had felt off all day, like something wasn’t quite right. I shared with him that I had felt the same all day. He listed the various things that had bothered him today and then he offhandedly said, “And tomorrow’s 9/11.”

It took him saying it for me to realize why I have felt lousy all day. Even now, the kids are in the living room with me, wanting my attention for math homework and to share articles in the magazine they are reading, but I don’t have the heart to give them much of my attention. I’m trying hard to give them my patience. It’s not their fault I’m in a foul mood or that I dread this anniversary every year. It’s merely a typical Monday evening for them.

I can’t claim that the anniversary has somehow snuck up on me. People started talking about it well over a week ago and I agreed to say a few words about 9/11 to my middle school students tomorrow during their convocation. But I had boxed up the emotions of the anniversary and set them on a shelf, willfully denying they would have any effect on me this year.

And yet, here I sit, the night before the anniversary and I am all kinds of sideways. I’m cranky and feel like crying. I have a deep sense of isolation. I want to vent my depression, frustration, and memories but there’s no one to call or text who understands and Derek has dorm duty tonight, putting him in the dorms until well after 11. I pray I’ll be sound asleep by then and away from these feelings.

Tomorrow I’ll share some of my story of living in New York City on 9/11. I volunteered to be available to the teachers to talk to the kids because I want to help them understand what it’s like to live through an event like that. But now, I’m regretting telling anyone, much less volunteering. I rarely tell people that I was in the city on that day because it feels like a strange sort of bragging and I don’t want to have to answer too many questions. But I also feel the burden of responsibility because I know people are interested and need to know.

So, this evening, I sit in our living room with the kids chattering around me and I feel nauseous. Deep in my belly is a sense of foreboding and dread. Thankfully, I don’t have to turn on the television tomorrow and I can choose not to read the news. Every channel will rush to cover the anniversary, their particular focus will be in the service of using the events of 9/11 to further their agenda. The abuse of the memory of that day brings an acrid taste to my mouth as my stomach roils with disgust. I have to brace myself for the annual sentimentalization and politicization of the 9/11 tragedy.

I also live with the shame of leaving. A few days after the terrorists ripped a hole in our city, I left for home and didn’t look back. I had been planning on leaving after the first of the year but the discomfort and dis-ease that filled the city hastened my departure. My parents, in their love and concern for their baby girl, drove all night to meet me in New Jersey when I told them I wanted to come home.

The summer leading up to 9/11, I had worked as a hospital chaplain and been part of a peer group to do the challenging work of self-exploration. It had been a wonderful yet exhausting summer full of deep dives into my identity and personality. I returned to seminary with no reserves, nothing left to give anyone who may need me. Once the planes hit the twin towers and the city froze in terror, I knew I would have to leave for my own wellbeing. I had nothing to give any effort to help minister to a city in need.

Even though I did what I had to for my own wellness and health, I still carry the guilt and shame of a person who left when there was trouble. I lost relationships and friendships were broken. I became someone that they used to know. Others were weakened to the point that today we only exist in each other’s lives as online acquaintances. I left because I had to, it was my first act of self-care and taught me a valuable lesson that has saved me from burnout and emotional exhaustion as a minister. But, in leaving, I also became a deserter. I abandoned my community and nothing will change that.

It’s been seventeen years but the wound isn’t healed. Every year, it gets a little better, though some years hit me harder than others. The saccharine remembrances and anniversary specials knock the scab off and, for twenty-four hours or so, I’m left to fester, again.

There is nothing redeeming about 9/11 for me. I’m broken hearted that people would board planes with the sole purpose of bringing them down to destroy as many lives as possible. I’m broken hearted by the decades of events that preceded and caused the 9/11 tragedy, for the ways our country and the world failed to look after one another as a community because of our xenophobia and fear. I’m broken hearted by the ways the events of that day are twisted by some false sense of sanctity that wreaks of sanctimoniousness and artificial sentimentalism. I’m broken hearted that we don’t seem to learn our lessons and tragedies like 9/11 are happening around our world all the time but we don’t seem to care because the violence is perpetrated against black and brown people in neighborhoods and countries too insignificant to garner our attention.

I share this confession because I believe we all need to do a better job sharing with one another when we’re not at our best. We need to see each other at our weakest moments, not just when we’re thriving. I share with you because you are friends and you are family, you are brothers and sisters who suffer from the same human condition and I need you to know that I hurt as well. We are never alone in our pain, which I am reminding myself of now, even as I sit in my sense of isolation thanks to the burden of my memories.

I share because I want you to have a reference point when you slip into your own times of alienation or pain. My reference point is the cross. I know I’m never alone in moments like these because there’s nothing I can suffer that Christ hasn’t already. He waits for us wherever we go, even in the deepest recesses of our minds and at the end of our roads of denial. And he has excellent company, a communion of saints who are our brothers and sisters, everyone who has ever sat with this same sense of foreboding and nausea. We never journey a path that someone hasn’t already traveled.

By now, my kids have finished their work and have migrated downstairs. I hear their shouts from the basement as they challenge each other in their video games. Only the dog is left to occupy this space with me and she demands nothing but my presence. My kids don’t have a sense for what I’m feeling or why. But someday, they will. They will survive their own 9/11s and, when they do, I hope they can remember their mother survived something similar.

Friends, lift a prayer of remembrance; lift a prayer for broken hearts; lift a prayer for lost lives and lost opportunities; lift a prayer of confession for our continued failings; lift a prayer that we can honor without trivializing or abusing our collective memory; and lift a prayer of hope that our world can be reformed, that we can set aside our evil and nasty ways in favor of a way of being that shows real concern and love for one another.

Hoping for all of you that your 9/11 be one of reflection, introspection, prayer, and peace.

Symmetry and the Siren's Call

What if we got what we really wanted? What if perfection were attainable to a universal standard? What if there was one correct and perfect way to decorate your home, dress, raise your children, behave in a marriage, cook a meal, paint a portrait, write a story, breathe? And what if you managed to meet all of those demands, standing high above on the pedestal of perfection, what then?
Millenia ago we, as a human race, constructed a concept of “perfection.” We created a standard for existence by which to measure one another’s success and failures; actually, more for measuring failures. We all bought into the myth that if one worked hard enough, practiced long enough, spent enough money, gave or sacrificed “enough,” then somehow we would become the absolute best human being possible. We collectively decided on the standard for “perfection” and have been grasping for or racing after it ever since.
Or have we?
Could it be that our supposed lust for perfection is, in fact, the biggest shell game in human history? Could it be the best example of herd mentality that ever existed?
Stop for a moment to clearly define, “perfection.” What does it mean? What are the standards for perfection? Go ahead. List them in your mind or visualize a person you think best exemplifies perfection.
Do you actually agree with that idea of perfection? What about that person isn’t perfect? What must be sacrificed in the name of these standards of perfection?
Now, the essential question, “Who handed you those standards?” Another way to say this might be, “Whom did you allow to define perfection for you?” Spend some time considering these questions and be critical. Do you agree with these definitions? Our understanding of perfection seeps into our psyche without our being much aware to its arrival and formation. We see others point to a person and say, “She’s beautiful,” or point to a work of art and say, “”That is absolutely brilliant.” Step back for a moment and consider whether or not you agree with their assessment.
Think for a moment about the people and things you appreciate and admire. What do you find truly perfect? What is perfection for you in your life?
I’m in love with the August 27, 2018, cover of Time magazine. On it, tennis legend Serena Williams stands boldly, confidently, and comfortably behind a quote from her interview that reads, “Nothing about me right now is perfect. But I’m perfectly Serena.”
I think she and this cover are perfectly wonderful.
We say we want perfection and symmetry but, the truth is, we don’t. Not deep down. In fact, truly perfect and symmetrical things disturb us. In Madeleine L’Engle’s Wrinkle in Time, it is the perfect synchronicity of the children’s bouncing balls that clues the reader into the evil that rules the world of IT. The mothers call the children in perfect time to come into their perfect homes for, an assumedly, perfect dinner. Our instincts tell us there is something profoundly wrong with actualized perfection.
We claim to want perfection but also criticize individuals who appear to be perfect, saying they are “fake.” Truthfully, we crave asymmetry and imperfections because they testify to authenticity and integrity. We may place seemingly perfect people on a pedestal but it is the survivor we seek when we need someone to trust, someone who bears her battle scars with pride and who isn’t afraid to show her wounds. Fundamentally we need people who have lived to tell the tale, who are relatable and genuine. In other words, we want to admire people who are perfect but need people who are, instead, just like us in their imperfections and weaknesses.
Serena defiantly declaring the power of her imperfection seems to be essential and necessary medicine for a culture that has grown sick on its airbrushed and photoshopped regular diet. For the sake of our collective health, we need a dose reality as a seemingly perfect specimen of a woman and an athlete standing before the world - one quick to criticize her body, her blackness, her confidence, and her charisma - claiming her generally accepted imperfection in favor of a perfection that is more personal, more honest, and more real.
T. S. Eliot gives us a character who is paralyzed by his imperfections and his lack of confidence in the poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” The character can’t move beyond “watching with women come and go,” because he has played out every scenario in his mind and has predetermined he is doomed to fail. Pitifully, he decides he is too insignificant even to star in the drama of his own life, relegating his role to
an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
Friends, let us not play the fool in our own lives. Let us not believe the immense corpus of perfection mythology and, instead, dare ourselves into lives of asymmetry, one’s full of life and imperfection. In doing so, we will be perfectly ourselves, enjoying days basking in authenticity.

Spiderwebs and Identity

The morning of the first day of school, I stepped outside early to enjoy the crisp air before waking up our three kids. I welcomed the beautiful mountains and mist so typical of our magnificent Rabun County. Shimmering patches on our fence caught my eye and I walked over to investigate. The spiders had been busy the night before, casting their webbed nets in order to catch insects that happened to fly by. The early morning mist had strung pearls of dew along their lines. Some of these shimmering webs were no more than a few square inches while others claimed a square foot or more of open territory between the slats of the fence.

I love spiders. Spiders help reduce the numbers of unwanted insects around our doors and windows and are, undeniably, some of the greatest artists in our natural world. They also are harbingers, heralding the coming changing of the seasons. When I see the proliferation of their webs this time of year, I know that fall is approaching with its pumpkins, leaves in hues of rust and gold, and children in costume with hands outstretched waiting for candy and treats.

Of course, the spider doesn’t know I respect its work or that I’m admiring its artistry. It is by instinct and identity that the spider weaves its web. I have wondered before if a spider is irritated when a human walks through its web, destroying it as we dance in panic. Does the spider laugh or cock its head in curiosity at the sight of us as our posture instantly changes from a leisurely stroll to flailing body, our arms grasping at the web that is now plastered to our faces and our feet hopping in hopes of shaking free any spider that may now be in our hair on our person?

Do you suppose an adolescent spider struggles with confidence and identity the same ways our children do? When sports seasons change, I ask my kids if they want to play a different sport or sign up for a new activity. I have been surprised and dismayed when they have responded, “No. I’m no good at that.” Of course, my immediate reply is, “But that’s the point! You take the class or join the team to learn how to play or do it. You don’t start knowing how. No one does!” I don’t remember having this thought when I was a kid. Perhaps I said the same thing to my parents but, if I did, those conversations are no longer in my memory bank.

I confess that I worry about the illusions that pervade the world of my children’s youth. We see finished products that took hours to create and lives that have been carefully curated. Not many people show their whole lives on their social media accounts, opting instead to share only the best and most polished moments. Celebrities post pictures of themselves that we can too easily believe are from their behind-the-scenes “real” lives but which have been carefully staged and photoshopped. If we only ever see these perfect images, do we run the risk of believing their lives are effortless? And, if that’s the case, do we also run the risk of not attempting more in this lifetime because we think we have failed if we aren’t guaranteed success the first time we try something?

I’m afraid of the subtle messages that creep into our minds as we gaze upon perfectly airbrushed covers of magazines and highly produced advertisements. Too easily we can shift from admiring the picture or person to wanting to be like them to despairing that we’ll never be like them. Quickly we can succumb to a defeatist attitude, one that would tell us to give up before we ever begin because we could never attain perfection.

I’m worried that we aren’t exposed enough to the hours and hours of work that produced the perfection our culture portrays. We don’t see the forty to fifty hours a week the athlete spends on the training field. We aren’t witness to the time spent with hair and makeup professionals.We certainly aren’t privy to the editing room where artists and photographers take raw film and photograms and transform them over hours into the finished product that will grace the screen or the magazine rack.

My prayer is that my children learn to be more like the spiders. I doubt any young spider ever looked at the work of another and thought, “I’ll never be able to do that as well as they do. I might as well give up.”

No. The spider weaves her web because it’s what she was created to do. Out of the instinct of her identity, she begins her work, connecting silky thread to silky thread. In the end, she has cast her net imperfectly but beautifully, a work of art that will be unlike any that has come before; and impermanent, lasting only a day or two before needing to be repaired or rebuilt entirely. She lives comfortably and confidently as she was created by God to be. She weaves her web and we are blessed enough to gaze upon the fruit of her labors.

May we all inhabit our lives as God created us to be, each beautiful and unique and beloved. May we cease comparing ourselves to others. May we have the good sense to turn away from the illusions of our society, choosing instead what is real: the child of God inside each of us, imbued with particular talents and called to particular ministries. May we strive, not for illusory perfection, but to weave the webs of our own callings.

In-N-Out Philosophy for Life

A few days ago we made a U-Turn off the interstate. We saw the In-N-Out Burger sign and a quick map searched revealed this would be our last chance to down a double-double or animal-style fries before leaving In-N-Out country. We hopped off I-40 and doubled-back. In east Texas we passed up our last chance for a Buc-ee's stop on this voyage and didn't want to double-down on regret by adding In-N-Out to that list.
Moments after walking through the door, we remembered it was lunchtime on a Sunday and everyone wanted their In-N-Out fix. But, never fear, In-N-Out laughs at a crowded dining room and line out the door. This restaurant runs like a machine and the staff makes short order of long lines of hungry patrons.
This final visit marked our third visit to an In-N-Out and watching the team behind the counter as they prepared dozens of burgers and orders of fries got me thinking: Why was In-N-Out so much better than other restaurants? More over, what can this enigma of a fast food chain teach us about life? With no further introduction, here is my In-N-Out Philosophy for Life.

Lesson #1: Don't try to be everyone else.
In-N-Out has four food items on their menu. That's it. They have a hamburger, a cheeseburger, a double cheeseburger, and french fries. Actually, you could say they only have two things on their menu, fries and a burger. The fries come in one size and one size only. There's a "secret" menu but these all have to do with how you take your burger or fries. It doesn't include more menu items.
When I walked into In-N-Out the first time, I thought, "What? That's it? Where's the chicken sandwich, the fish filet? Where are the nuggets and special kids meal?" I was surprised this stripped-down burger joint was the place of myth and legend. When I asked for a side of mayo, the clerk patiently smiled and said, "Sorry, we don't have mayonnaise." What?! No mayo?! I was dubious and suspicious.
But, now, I appreciate the sparse menu. In-N-Out knows what they do well and aren't trying to be someone else. They aren't adding seasonal items to compete with the arches or little redhead down the street. Their signs and uniforms are old school, not having changed much since the 50s.
How many times have you started a book, joined an exercise class, or bought clothes or a new car because you see others doing those things and you think you need to do the same? We log into our various social media accounts, look at our friends' pictures and think, "Oh. Should I be doing that?" Or, worse, "Am I failing because I'm not doing that?"
We all have some version of the arches and the little red head, that person or family down the road we see build a pool, buy a trampoline, go on a yearly ski trip, buy a brand new car, add items to their menu that make us wonder if we need to do the same. For some of us, we can't help but feel the need to compete. For others, we see another person's shiny new thing and wonder if we're failing at life if we aren't matching them step-for-step.
As we like to say today, "Let them do them. You do you." Stop trying to be everyone else. We all have enough work on our plates trying to be ourselves without adding the load of pretending to be someone else as well.
Which brings us to the next rule...

Rule #2: Stick to doing what you do well and work on perfecting it
In-N-Out doesn't expand their menu and add the latest fast food fad because they don't have to. According to the company's website, it all began in 1948 in California when Harry and Ester Snyder opened a restaurant serving "the freshest burgers, fries, and drinks in a friendly, sparkling-clean atmosphere."
Those of you who have never been to an In-N-Out may not believe me when I tell you that the stores we visited on this trip lived up to that mission set by the Snyders in 1948. We met friendly team members and found clean counters and bathrooms at all three stores we visited. During our last visit, the restaurant was packed and the team members diligently moved costumers through. We hovered, waiting for a place to sit. We hopped into seats at a counter as soon as they were empty. When a team member came by to wipe the counters, my husband thanked her and apologized that we were in her way. She said, "No, sir. Thank you. Without you all here, we wouldn't have a job."
The In-N-Out company hasn't spread their resources thin or confused their brand by trying to diversify to keep up with the chains down the street. They've perfected their product and have remained true to it.
What would it look like for us to be equally true to ourselves? To discover what we do well, what we love to do, and focused on that rather than being distracted by all the "latest and greatest" everything that pops in front of us? I'd wager more of us would be happier. Just think about what your life would be like if you honed in on just a couple of things you love and do well and committed yourself to developing them. Imagine dedicating yourself to living fully into your authentic self by resisting the urge to do what everyone else is doing.

Rule #3: Keep it real.
This is a big one. In-N-Out isn't messing around when it comes to their commitment to freshness. We sat on all three visits where we could watch the kitchen. Before our eyes, team members peeled and cut fresh onions and tomatoes, washed crisp lettuce, and hand-cut potatoes for french fries. The lettuce isn't separated and stacked when it's washed. The line cooks tear off a handful of lettuce the moment before they stack it on a burger patty. No fast food restaurant does this. Hell, hardly any chain restaurant does this, period. It's why the food at most chain places has way too much sodium in their food. They have to add it as a preservative because they pre-process the dishes they serve.
Food gets tired and stale and no amount of sodium can make it better. One chain restaurant starts to taste like the next, regardless of whether you picked up your burger at the drive-thru or you paid $12 to have it brought to your table by a kid in khakis and a red knit shirt. They can dress it up but it's still tired and stale.
And we are, too. When we don't take care of ourselves, we add our equivalent of sodium to our lives. Some of us will use every filter and gimmick on our social media accounts to post touched-up selfies, trying to make up for the dark circles and lack of glint in our eyes. When people ask us how we're doing, we answer, "Fine," and wait for the same response. A fog covers our lives and we grow stale. We're distracted by what others are doing; we aren't tending ourselves and we become stale. Then we cover ourselves with any number of facades, pretending we're great and have it all together.
We need to keep it fresh. We need to get outside, literally and figuratively. We need renewal and newness and honesty. We need it for ourselves and we need it from others. Keep yourself fresh, friends. When you find yourself covering up and piling on the pretense, don't explain it away because that's what everyone does. Instead, see it for what it is: a red flag. Slow down, turn around, assess. What's happening that you're pretending to be refreshed rather than seeking the real thing?
We accept way too much of the junk food each other is selling. Maybe we're tired and maybe we're fatigued but the result is that we choke down each other's sodium laden falsehoods as though they were fresh off the vine. At the same time, we smile when we encounter someone who's authentic and say, "She was refreshing!" May we all strive to be refreshing!

#4: If it's good, people will wait.
The day we made the u-turn off the interstate for our last In-N-Out Burger stop, we found a packed restaurant. We happened to catch the line when it was only six-deep. Right after we got our food, three bus loads of teenagers formed a line out the door. Here's the thing: no one was ill or complaining. No one was angry and no one left once they saw the long line. Everyone stood and waited because they knew it would be worth it.
Similarly, the restaurant staff weren't freaking out either. They did their jobs. The cashiers, with smiles and patience, took orders. The floor staff cleaned tables and kept the drink station stocked. The line cooks prepared their orders and the guy at the fry station kept dishing up crispy potatoes. They were working hard but none of them looked harried and none of them were freaking out. They knew people were there because In-N-Out sells a good product and it's worth waiting for.
People worth having in our lives are the ones who aren't going to rush us; aren't going to push us to becoming something we aren't or rush us out the door half-cocked all the time. And we're all worth waiting for, every one of us. As you work on yourself, focus on honing your authentic self, and keep your mind, body, and spirit fresh. Hopefully you'll realize your time is worth taking. Your better self is worth the wait, and other people will see that too. . . at least, the ones worthy of keeping around.
We don't have to go crazy because everyone around us is losing their stuff. I love two idioms: "Not my circus, not my monkeys," and, "A lack of planning on your part doesn't make it an emergency on mine." Keep your head down and stay focused. You do you, and you do that well. The work will get done, the task completed, the boxes checked. Be confident in yourself and get your work done. Others can wait and you don't need the added stress in your life that they might bring from theirs. Only accept pressure you put on yourself and only accept that with a hearty dose of reason and skepticism.

Rule #5: Communicate. You're not the only person on the line so don't act like it.
This rule is one that doesn't only apply to In-N-Out Burger, but is universal to every successful and well-managed restaurant. Efficient kitchens and restaurant teams, especially ones that don't get overwhelmed and exasperated, are ones that talk, constantly. At In-N-Out, the cooks are talking to one another and the cashier. The runners and cashiers tell the cook at the fry station what they need and if any orders need fries that are cooked extra-crispy.
I watched this at a local restaurant in Ruidoso, New Mexico, earlier in our trip. At 9:30 on a Tuesday morning, the Cornerstone Bakery Cafe was hopping and there was a waitlist for tables. I sat and watched the staff of servers and take-out team members talk to each other. One woman answered the phone and patiently told the customer on the line about their many pies. Once the customer had chosen which pie would be their desert that evening, the server hung up the phone then told everyone behind the counter the name of the customer, what kind of pie she ordered, when she would be by to pick it up, and where the server was putting the pie behind the counter. The rest of the team communicated back with her, saying, "Got it!" and, "Thanks!" The meal we had at Cornerstone was one of the best of our whole trip and came with the best service.
None of us are working our figurative griddle in a vacuum. We're all part of a team, whether we want to admit it or not. Our teammates are family members, coworkers, and friends. We do nothing alone, ever. Even long solitary hiking trips are preceded and followed by the support and work of friends and family. You aren't in this alone, no matter what "this" is, so don't act like it. Start talking. Your teammates need you and you certainly need them. Open your mouth and communicate.

Rule #6: Include more people and fewer machines.
This last rule may be the most impressive. As I watched the kitchen at the In-N-Out, I realized how open it was. Most fastfood kitchens are tight, comprised of two or three narrow galley kitchens. The "cooks" stare at towers of warming ovens, steamers, and heat lamps. They look at a wall of metal and buttons all day, reading orders then reheating food by pressing these buttons. These factory workers fill orders on an assembly line, much like workers in any distribution center.
In-N-Outs have big, open kitchens. The cooktops, prep areas, and fryers line the outside walls and the center is open to allow plenty of room for the team members to move and work. Because everything is fresh, In-N-Out kitchens have much fewer machines and lots more people. They have to employ more workers than a typical fastfood joint because they needs plenty of hands to slice, chop, and cook. As a result, everything tastes fresher and cleaner.
Fewer machines, more people.
At any given time, how many screens or radios are on in your house? On a Saturday morning, we may have on two tablets, one television, one or two phones, and Alexa playing the radio. Each family member is in his or her own room. Now, I'm not going to radically change some of this routine in our house because Saturday mornings and Sunday afternoons are about the only two times when our family isn't all together doing things. All five of us are extroverts and like to be busy with one another, involved in some activity or another. But a quick Saturday morning inventory is telling.
I have picked up my phone when with friends or family to check something then felt guilty about being on my phone and looked up, only to find everyone else in the group similarly digitally engaged. Sometimes the phone activity feeds conversation but mostly it prevents us from talking with each other.  I'm sure you all have been at a restaurant and seen a family or group of friends silently looking at their screens rather than one another.
I've written before about my "talk to me" face and the interesting exchanges it has brought. Surely, there have been times when I would rather have been on my phone or tablet rather than listening to the details of a stranger's recent gallbladder surgery. But, I walk away enriched in a way that my phone never could have offered.
A key component to a richer life is the inclusion of more people- real people and not digital profiles. Employ fewer machines and more people. Your life may not be as efficient but will be much more interesting.
When we first stopped at an In-N-Out, I thought we were just checking a box off of our travel list. Certainly, I didn't think I was walking into a system that could teach us a thing or two about how to order our lives. But, nevertheless, there it was: a lesson for life. Keep your eyes peeled, friends. You never know when or where you might encounter your next source of inspiration.

Taking Time and Grabbing Opportunities

At this point you may be wondering what would inspire, or posses, us to embark on a cross-country family camping trip. Some may have wondered why we wanted to go on our first long trip two years ago, even with the hotel stays and great restaurants. Five weeks is a long time to spend in close quarters with any group of people, especially when three of those people are ten and under. Let me tell you a little story that may help explain.
I was born in Greenville, SC, while my father was finishing his orthopedic residency. As his program ended, my parents realized it may be their last chance to take an extended vacation because he would have few opportunities after setting up his private practice. My parents long have lived by this rule of life: take advantage of the opportunities that come your way; you never know when they'll come again. In early summer of 1977, they knew they were facing one of their moments. My parents bought a camper van, loaded up my older brother and me and headed west. My brother was 4-years-old and I was 4-months-old.
Obviously, I don't remember anything from that trip but I've seen pictures. There's one of my brother smiling widely at the tiny fish on the end of his line and another of me squeeling, mouth gaping and a smile in my eyes. In another, my mom is wearing a maroon down jacket with her hair parted down the middle, tied up on either side under her ears in leather straps.
You may ask, "Just how far west did your parents take you?" Alaska. They drove my brother and me from South Carolina to Alaska, then back to Georgia, in a camper van.
I have been considering how to write about this trip and have lacked a hook. We didn't set out on this trip with a mission. None of us are pushing through our bucket list. This time, I'm not on sabbatical and we don't have a special grant. We aren't on a mission to taste the best dish of every state or write a camping cookbook. This is a trip without a mission.
So, why are we taking this trip all the way to California and back? Because we can. We have the luxury of time, a few extra dollars, and kids who are still up for anything. My parents taught me to try to lay my head down at night with no regrets. If we didn't take advantage of this oppourtnity, who knows when another like it will come again.
Friends, don't miss living. Don't let fear keep you from walking through the open door. There are only so many chances in life to go for it and don't risk looking back, thinking, "We should have done it when we could."

Traveling, Tripping, and Flat Tires

Last night, we pulled into the parking garage to park for an evening cruise with the kids when Derek said, "Why is my low tire light on?" Crawling out of the car, we quickly found the answer: the passenger side front tire was absolutely flat. Our kids found this fascinating. "I've never seen a flat tire that looked like what I've seen in cartoons!" our oldest daughter exclaimed.

I collected up yoghurts, chips, and necessary accessories to walk the kids to the dock for the cruise and Derek dug out the owner’s manual to work on the tire. We had to be at the dock at a certain time to check-in for the cruise. Helping my husband would take too long, so I had to take the kids, worrying if changing the tire in the parking garage was too dangerous and wondering if he would make it in time to join us on the cruise. Derek changed the tire, made it to the cruise, and visited the local discount tire shop with the kids today to buy a new tire.

The flat tire was one more car challenge on this summer's grand voyage. We spent a couple of hours in Birmingham in the car dealership, having our air conditioner fixed. Thankfully it was just a fuse issue and the service manager sent us on our way with a handful of new fuses to have as backups. Then, in Dallas, the power steering felt off and Derek discovered the fluid was running low. We've now added a bottle of power steering fluid to the vehicle supply crate in the car, along with the fuses.

On this warm and beautiful day, I decided to take a quick walk around the convention center before this afternoon's work session. I worried about making it back for the start of the session and started walking a little too quickly for my heels. I started crossing the street and soon found myself flying forward, my phone and cup flying through the air in front of me. My only thought, "Uh oh! Going down! I'm going down!" Next thing I know, I'm sitting in my dress on the warm asphalt in the middle of the crosswalk. Some precious bystanders rushed over to help me up and ask me if I was ok. I assured them I was fine and thanked them profusely for stopping and asking. Me, my bloody knee, and sore leg and back, limped back and found the first aid station in the convention center.

Our plans certainly didn't include a car dealership, auto parts store, tire shop, or first aid station. I can think of countless other ways I would have preferred for us to spend that time and energy. When unwelcome diversions crop up, I can start to lament the waste of time and the fun we are missing. Then I look at my kids. These mishaps are simply part of the adventure for them. Whatever we're doing is a new experience for them. They're fascinated by a flat tire. Watching the car go up on a lift is an exploration of physics and engineering. What they want to know is if they can eat their chips on the boat and if they'll have time to swim when we get back. Even my skinned knee will be one more thing to follow with interest to learn how the body heals and about basic first aid.

Friends, we can't expect to be too tidy about travel, and let us not forget that travel is a well-worn metaphor for life. I can cuss the car or my sore wrist and knee but the car and the body neither hears nor cares, they're simply doing as they do. So, the thing that's in my power is to climb in the front of the boat with my kids to watch the turtle go by. I can plaster myself against the dealership window alongside their little bodies, eyes glued to the lift to try to figure out hydraulics.