Finishing Well

I've recently been contemplating a paradigm shift regarding a popular life metaphor: "life is a marathon." According to one well-respected physiologist, who works with pro athletes and FBI agents on a regular basis, life actually resembles a series of sprints.
In context then, I feel like I just finished one sprint and am in need of replenishment because I can see the starting line for my next dash. I am having to learn to breathe differently and fuel myself more efficiently because of my altered view on what it takes to finish well. Currently, I am marking time at my job. That's about it. The good news: the end is in sight. It's both scary and exciting to realize that this portion of my race is almost over. This past year has been so much more than just work woes, however. It's been a bunch of hurdles which I can retrospectively recognize as developmental challenges in character, patience, and humility. (I have the 'skinned knees' to prove it!)
As previously stated, my next taking-off point is almost visible, but I have no map of the course. All I can do is respond to the starter's gun and try not to stumble out of the gate.
I'm about to set off with a slightly different identity and purpose. I hope that I pace myself well enough to reach the end of the next leg of my journey successfully. What does that success look like? I'm not sure, but I think it has a lot to do with navigating whatever lies ahead with integrity and the right perspective: that my life will resemble a dynamic, challenging series of sprints in which I'm tested constantly. I want to finish well. I want to do well enough to hear applause streaming from the bleachers. Fortunately, my audience is only one.


Ben Wilcox

In dire need

"an·a·bi·o·sis ( P ) Pronunciation Key (n-b-ss)n.
A restoring to life from a deathlike condition; resuscitation.
A state of suspended animation, especially one in which certain aquatic invertebrates are able to survive long periods of drought.
[Greek anabisis, from anabioun, to return to life : ana-, ana- + bioun, to live (from bios, life).]"

Every year, without fail, Easter rolls around. Somehow, although I consider myself a long-time Christian, I forget about the importance of Easter. I usually place more emphatic expectation on the Christmas celebration. Why? Is it because of the gifts I will recieve? Or, is it because of the commercial & retail sales boon and all its entrapments? Whatever the case, somehow Easter gets relegated to second place behind Christmas--at least for me.
This year I got to have some input into my church's Easter service. After seeing a little of the rehearsal and hearing some of the songs that will be sung, it struck me that the greatest gift I've ever received doesn't come to me in December. It doesn't sit wrapped under a tree, teasing me for weeks on end. You can't buy it or take it back---even if there were a receipt involved. It's the gift of a redeemed life. In the redemption process, something that has ceased being useful is rendered productive and lively again. If you knew any of the horrible decisions I've made, you would recognize that I am a walking miracle. Because of the countless times I chose to drink and drive, I should be a dead man. If you had seen what had gone on behind my closed door, maybe these words would have come to your mind: "Dead Man Walking." Back before my life was redeemed: before I found restoration. Before, I had rendered myself useless. I was in need of resurrection. Someone brought me back from my "state of suspended animation."
I sincerely hope that you take the time to celebrate Easter this weekend. You may just receive the greatest gift you'll ever get. . . a word you may have never heard . . . a word you, like me, may not be sure how to pronounce: anabiosis.
Every year I need the reminder---of just how alive I am.




Ben Wilcox

Benny Madison

Oh, back to school
Back to school
Try to prove that
I'm not a tool

As a thirty-year-old junior, transfer student, you notice some things upon re-entering the classroom. First, I am old. Not so much "creepy-old," but 'old' none the less. Second, I can't see diddly-squat. Time for the ol' Lasik. Thirdly, I still hate math of any kind. You can't fool me by calling it "Basic Statistics." There's nothing basic about it and it is math. If it involves a calculator, I suck at it. Lastly, there are some things that have changed for the better. Nobody has knocked my books out of my hand and onto the hallway floor yet. My lunch money is intact as well. This could be because the students assume I'm a teacher, a cop, or a sasquatch.
Whatever happened to recess time?




Ben Wilcox

We Don't Need No Stinkin' . . .

We sometimes wear our inclusion in certain groups as a badge: Lutheran, Catholic, Union worker, Republican, Evangelical, and heterosexual, for example (This is NOT my badge, just examples). All of these labels serve to categorize our indentity and focus our ideals. While none of these titles is necessarily bad, it's all too easy to allow them to muddy the waters of our true self-worth, esteem, and identity.
When meeting someone, one of the first questions we inevitably ask is, "What do you do?" We know that our job occupies a large amount of our time and effort. What I struggle with is: Does, or rather-Should-my job define who I am? As I've written before, who I am becoming is more important than what I am doing. I believe that God is more concerned with our character than our job title.
So, how do I label myself? What identification should I carry? My friend would call me 'religious.' Whatever that means, I'm not sure. I guess I would concede 'devout,' but otherwise, I generally identify the term 'religious' with 'mindless regularity.' Hence, you can be religious about anything: smoking, eating, filling up your car with gas, cursing, etc. Therefore, I'd rather not flash the religious badge to anyone. Rather, I hope that my identity is 'a work in progress.' 'Under construction' would be my street sign. I saw a great t-shirt the other day that read, "MEDICATED: for YOUR protection." That's fitting for me (pun intended). While I think everyone is a work in progress; some aren't really cognizant of it and do not seem to be aware of their effect on others. This does not make me a better person necessarily, but I do hope I have an above average level of self-awareness. So, what badge would you find on me if you were to conduct a 'wallet biopsy?' I have a Union Card. I have a driver's license. I hold an NIU student OneCard. I even have an ordained minister I.D. I carry an Illinois Firearm Owner IDentification (FOID), but I neither own, nor have I ever really discharged, a gun. There's a gym membership that should be cancelled for obvious reasons. None of these define me, though. You will find some things in my wallet which do characterize me: pictures. From the photos I carry, you'll discover I am a son, a grandson, a brother, a step-brother, and an Uncle--to my sister's son and to my best friend's twins. Finally, you would also find some scripture memory cards. These define me, too. They denote that I am committed to learning: learning who God wants me to be becoming. That's not a typo either. These little, business-sized cards with words that remind, scold, encourage, and challenge me don't make me religious. Hopefully, they keep me humble--humble enough to admit that my identity is really found somewhere else--somewhere intangible: in religion. "But wait!" you ask. "Didn't you just say that you avoided the religious moniker?" Yep.

"Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world." James 1:27

So, if you've never seen me before, I'm not hard to find. Look for the sign "Under Construction." I'll be the guy reading the inside of his wallet because I just screwed up again. It's OK to approach me. Don't worry: I am medicated, for YOUR protection.








Ben Wilcox

What would Jesus do if he weren't Jesus?

There are a lot of nice people who aren't Chrisitians. They may even be considered "good." There are a lot of so-called Christians who aren't very nice. So, what's the difference? Sometimes I believe that there really aren't that many. An awareness of God? Maybe, maybe not. Many people may believe in God, but don't claim to be religious (a term I loathe but is recognizable to many) at all. A belief that Jesus was a great man? Possibly. Historical-types may believe that Jesus lived once and would even go so far as to say he was a great teacher of a lot of great truths concerning how to treat others. I think one difference is the belief that Jesus still exists and is know-able. Yet, it's sad that people (myself included) who claim to know him often misrepresent him so often. Probably because many church people like to "spread the gospel" more than they, or recognize the need to, merely humbly offer to introduce someone to a great friend of theirs. If we really appreciate what God has done in our lives, as authentic Christians, won't it come through more effectively in our life than through a bullhorn? It's like we are trying to reruit people to "our side." Jesus didn't do that. He loved people. Everybody, equally. That's the difference. That's what I need to do. Jesus was and is God. If God is love, and I claim to know him, why do I suck at loving others? Maybe I'd be better off as one of those people who seem to be naturally nice. I wonder if everybody thought Jesus was "nice" all the time? Probably not. We normally don't torture and kill "nice" people.

Look at:
http://www.donaldmillerwords.com/pdf/thirteenparadigmshifts.pdf



Ben Wilcox

Another brick in the wall

I had lunch yesterday with my grandfather at his nursing home---I mean, Retirement Facility. He always sits at the same seat at the same table. Bob was there sitting at my right. That's where he likes to sit. He had a sandwhich. Bob always has a sandwhich: for lunch and dinner, everyday. My grandfather told me a lot of stories. He always tells stories. They are mostly ones I've heard many times. He's always told stories. We talked about the same things we normally discuss. Later, we went up to his room. He sat in his favorite recliner. I sat across from him in a rolling, desk chair. I always do that when I visit him. He's lived there for a number of years now. He's eighty-five. He's outlived a lot of people. Others there have come and gone, lived and died. Some are still there--in their same places, eating their same meals, sharing well-worn stories, and helping each other get by.
I am at work today at the hell-hole---I mean Air Traffic Center. I parked in my usual spot. I always park there. We don't have assigned parking, but I noticed that most people park in the same places anyway, everyday. There was a gray Chrysler parked to my left. It's always parked there. The tall guy will walk in right after me. He brings his luch: a frozen, frenchbread pizza. He likes them. He brings one everyday. He'll then place it in the freezer for later. Later today, I'm sure I'll see Greg. He'll say, "What's up, Wad?" (Don't ask) I'll reply, "Not much, Weas" I don't recall how we assigned ourselves those nicknames, but we like them all the same. We've used those greetings for years. Later, I'll go to the cafeteria. Today they'll serve gyros and also fish of some kind. Friday is gyro day. Every Friday. Maybe, I'll sit next to Harry. He's worked here for over twenty years. He's outlasted a lot of people. Others here have come and gone, lived and died. Some are still here--using their same parking places, eating the same meals, sharing well-worn greetings, and helping each other get by.
I found out I have a mental disorder that will require me to take a disability retirement from my job. I'm thirty years old. I've worked here for six years. Most people will work here longer than that. (Others will come and go, live and die, or stay until they are fifty-six.)
Maybe I'll move in with my grandpa. I like his stories. I'm sure his desk chair is empty and waiting. There's plenty of parking, and the food is pretty good.
I wonder what sandwhich Bob will have today?

To find out more about bipolar disorder:
http://www.nimh.nih.gov/Publicat/bipolar.cfm




Ben Wilcox

My Godfather wrote me something I couldn't refuse

Poems
By D.E.M.
BEHIND THE DOOR
God save them and make them part of their home
Keep calling to those hearts 'till they're no longer alone
Let them know that you're the one that can give them a chance
With a fresh look at life that will change circumstance
Though there appears to be no worth
yet, there's somewhere on this earth
The differences we see are no longer the chasms of our mind
But, instead, if we open our hearts we no longer need that door to cry behind

JIMMY AND JENNIFER
Jimmy doesn't have much to look at for tomorrow
His daddy's been gone since the age of three
mamma's doin' her best to fill in for the sorrow
brought about by the kids whose daddy he sees
The future looks grim for my little friend Jimmy
There's no wisdom or knowledge being put in his heart
mamma's got a new boyfriend taking up her time
A babysitter all day and now one for the night
It's such a fright
Oh Jennifer, the sister of Jimmy
A beautiful face but blank stare in her eyes
She'll be the leader of few and the follower of many
For the pain in her heart there is no disguise
I've seen that look in her eyes
Suffer not the little children
Let them come unto me
Well we'd better think twice
if we're teaching them naughty or nice
Not gonna do what they hear but what they see

'Thanks to an old man with a young heart--it's becoming brand new, again.'


Revelation 21:5a (New International Version)
"He who was seated on the throne said, "I am making everything new!"