Reunion at the "Greens"

The ringing of the phone jarred me from wherever it was that my mind had wandered into. The digital clock on the dashboard read 6:18 AM and I thought I knew where everyone was that might be calling me this early. I pulled my cell phone out of its holster and my heart seemed to skip a beat as I read the name displayed there.

“Geoff Lyons”

My mind started racing, thinking of all the possibilities that a call from him might mean…today of all days!

“Did he get lost?”
“Was Lynn’s mom ok?”
“Were they just leaving the house?”
“Did he change his mind about playing today?”

I pushed the green “connect” button on my Blackberry and as calmly as I could said, “hello”.

“You’re late!” came the familiar voice on the other end of the line. I smiled as I visualized the twinkle in his eye as he verbally chastised me for insisting that he leave early to be at the golf course in time just the night before. I explained that we were about three minutes away and then pushed the off button. “He made it”, I thought as I travelled the last two miles to the Tanwax Greens Golf course. And so started an amazing day!!

It didn’t turn out anything like I would have imagined it. In fact, a golf tournament had never even crossed my mind over the past year. Fishing maybe. Or even a Mariner’s baseball game. Perhaps even simply meeting for coffee. But golf….never. The truth is neither of them had even picked up a golf club in nearly a decade. For Geoff, it had been closer to three decades. But nevertheless this is what was bringing us all together.

It had really just started as a blanket invitation on our family website. “Anyone for golf?” the invitation read. I didn’t really get any takers. When my sister read the comment, she thought that her husband Walt might like to come up and play. He loves the game like I do. But it honestly never crossed my mind that my brothers might be interested in playing as well. But over the course of the next three weeks, after using my best marketing skills everyone confirmed that they would play. And now…the day was finally here!

Pulling into the parking lot with Deb and Walt in the car behind me, I parked next to Geoff's little Geo Metro and got out. We greeted each other with warm hugs…and warmer smiles and I wondered for just a second if we would see many more smiles throughout the day. After all, today would be the first time in nearly a decade that the Lyons’ family would all be together for anything other than a recent funeral. Our family had been fractured…no, broken for the past nine years and I knew that I had been a part of the wrecking crew. So today was even more important to me as a day of reconciliation for all of us. I knew deep in my heart that we all desired that…a family that could, and would, outwardly share the love we have for one another. The arena for that to occur just hadn’t been discovered…not until today.

Only a minute later, my older brother Frank arrived in his deep blue Jeep Liberty. As he pulled to a stop, I knew that this would be a defining moment…actually a moment that might define the rest of our family history. His door opened and he walked across the parking lot and each of us received a hug and a smile. As I watched, I was reminded of my ex-wife Paula and the relationship that she has with some of her closest friends. They can be apart and not speak for months and when they meet again, they pick up like there had never been a time of separation. That’s what appeared to be unfolding in front of me. Anyone observing this group of grey-haired men and woman on this early summer morning would never have guessed that this wasn’t a weekly occurrence. Rather, they probably would have assumed this was simply a close family that enjoyed spending time together.

The remainder of the day was magical. At different times, ending up in a group of two or three…congratulating someone on a great shot. Or commiserating over a poor one. Or simply catching up on what was occurring in each of our families. There never seemed to be a stressful moment. No one had a “mask” on so there was no risk that it might slip during the course of the day.

I will be forever grateful for the love that four other people showed on that Saturday in June. A sister who was to travel 150 miles to walk around a golf course just to be with men she loved. Brothers who gave up their only morning to sleep-in to play a game that they had avoided for many years...and leave wives at home who would probably prefer that their husbands were home as well. A brother-in-law who loves his wife enough to be a part of this magical day…and wanted her to share in it as well.

For some, the golf clubs have been put away for the year. Over time, the birdie on the opening hole will be forgotten and the “day-after” soreness will fade away. But for each member of our family, the “day” will remain with us forever.

(Walt, Mark, Deb, Frank & Geoff)

Photos by Deb Shucka

Going Home

We hadn’t been home very long. Un-emptied suitcases were still laying on the bed. The doors to the red Chevy Berreta still open in the sloped driveway outside. Paula and I were in the kitchen…emptying the ice chest full of goodies that Mom had sent home with us from our 4th of July weekend in Walla Walla. The ringing of the phone jarred me momentarily as Paula handed me cold roast beef and left-over potato salad from the cooler. I looked at Paula to see if she was going to answer and she just continued to work, pulling food from the ice chest. I walked over to the phone hanging on the wall and finally picked it up before it went to voice mail.

The voice on the other end of the line was familiar…a voice I heard about every three or four weeks when I would call. The voice sounded distant, but strong in a controlled way.

“Mark, this is your Mother.”

“Hi Mom. We just got home from Walla Walla. Did you have a nice 4th?” I asked.

There was a short silence on the other end.

“I wanted to call you first since you got angry with me last time when I didn't call when Daddy got really sick. He’s gone. Daddy passed away this morning.”

I just stood there, the cream colored wall phone in my hand. No words. No movement. No…nothing. Paula stopped what she was doing and walked over to me…and looked at me as I just stood there, allowing the words to sink in.

“Mark…did you hear me?” the voice asked.

“Umm…yea, Mom. Are you doing ok? I’ll be up as soon as I can.”

“I’m going to call Debbie and your brothers. Jeff and Lynn are still in Hawaii so I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get a hold of them.”

“Oh…ok. I love you Mom” and with that I hung up the phone.

Paula took my hand and asked what was wrong. All I could say was that it was Mom on the phone and that Dad had died that morning. I didn’t know what else to say. There were no tears. No real emotion. I stood there, looking out the window onto the street below...the heat radiating off the black asphalt baking under the early July sun. My mind was grinding…thinking about the man who was my father, now gone.

Memories of the past few years when he had been sick and in the nursing home flashed to my mind. I hadn’t seen him for nearly a year…our last trip to North Idaho the previous fall while he was still in the nursing home. Even then, he appeared so much weaker and smaller than I remembered him. He was unable to speak…just as Grandpa had been when he was in the nursing home so many years before. Mom had taken him home a few months ago because Dad wanted to be at home…and I think Mom must have known that he didn’t have that much time left.

I felt her arms wrap around me, just holding me. She asked if I was “OK” and I said yes. She kissed my neck and then my lips and pulled me to her. We stood there in the kitchen with her head on my shoulder. I’m sure her mind was thinking how strong I was trying to be. She adored her Mom and Dad and if anything ever happened to them, she would be devastated. That’s just the way it’s supposed to be with kids and their parents. But I wasn’t standing there trying to be strong. I was trying to figure out what I should be feeling...because it seemed no feelings were available.

Paula stepped away and told me that she would help me re-pack so I could go up and be with Mom. It’s where she would want to be…need to be, so it made sense to her that that’s where I needed to be as well. I told her I could help her finish putting things away, but she said she would take care of it. I needed to go be with Mom.

We headed to the bedroom and emptied the suitcase and then re-packed it with clean clothes. I grabbed one of my sports jackets from the closet and some slacks, dress shirt and tie. There would be a funeral to go to and I would need to have the right clothes. The suitcase was soon full once again and I carried it and my jacket down and placed it in the car. I grabbed the last of the boxes from the backseat and took them back into the house. Paula handed me a small cooler with a sandwich and Diet Pepsi and kissed me good-bye.

“Are you going to be OK to drive?” she asked. I told her “yes” and that I’d call her when I got there.” Be careful and give Mom my love and tell her how sorry I am” she said and walked me down to the car. She leaned in, giving me one last kiss and I started the car.

The drive north was uneventful…my mind still as much a blur as the reflector poles along the side of the interstate as I sped along. The sun was sliding down the western horizon as I passed through Spokane, still an hour and half from Mom and Dad’s place…Mom’s place now. The pace of the drive slowed down as the highway narrowed to two lanes as I made my way along the familiar route from Coeur d’Alene to Sandpoint…and then the six miles north to the farm.

The air was starting to cool as I pulled into the gravel driveway, the sun no longer visible behind the mountain that rose up behind the place. The familiar red pick-up was in the garage with Mom’s car beside it. The blue paint on the siding of the house was starting to fade some and the lawn was over-grown, obviously unattended for the past several weeks. As I stepped out of the car, the gravel crunched softly under my feet. I walked slowly to the door, opening it and going in without knocking. As I rounded the corner and stepped into the kitchen, Mom turned and faced me…with the ever-present cigarette poised between her fingers.

"You came so fast. I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow" she said as she started across the hardwood floor toward me, the trail of cigarette smoking trailing behind her.

"If You Want to Steer a Bike, It Has to Be Moving!"

It seemed so far down to the hard, gravelly ground as I sat there. My heart was pounding and I could feel the small droplets of sweat as they trickled down my back on the warm spring day. This wasn’t the first time I’d been here…in truth, I’d been in this same place most of the morning. But the result always seemed to be the same. As soon as I would try to lift myself up on the pedals, I would fall over. Some of the times, I would catch myself with a foot and keep the bike in an upright position. But all too often, I found myself sprawled on the ground…small bits of gravel imbedded into my raw, bruised hands. Tears would begin to build, but I would quickly wipe the sleeve my old red, hooded sweatshirt across my face to remove any tell-tale signs of the pain I was feeling or the anger that was building in me.

We didn’t have training wheels for our bikes…those were for “wus’s” and “pansies”. We just had to figure out how to make it work. Of course for my little brother Jeff (the family dare-devil), it seemed so easy. After only a few tries, he was off and riding…like a young Indian scout on his first pony. But he had something that I didn’t have…or maybe it would be better said that “I had something that he didn’t”. I was afraid of falling and he wasn’t. He just pushed the bike so it started to move and jumped on and away he went.

Eventually, I learned to ride my bike and spent countless hours and miles on it riding with Jeff. Eventually, I learned the lesson of what you need to do to actually “ride” the bike…to get it to go where you wanted it to instead of ending up on the ground with torn knees in your jeans and raw, bleeding hands. Eventually, I learned at if you want to steer a bike, it has to be moving!

I’m in the process of riding a new kind of bike these days. ..I’m starting my book. And I’m discovering that the lesson learned when I was a little boy on a hard, gravel driveway in North Idaho is still true today. I can’t know where the book is going until I start moving…until I dig into it and start to put the pieces together.

The stories are difficult to read at times…the memories they bring back still too fresh, still too painful. But I know that I need to keep moving, to keep reading…to keep processing. And like that young boy in the tattered old red sweatshirt, success will come. It will all fall into place. The wobbly handlebars will straighten out, the legs will keep moving and the momentum of the story will take over.

In truth, it is already beginning to take shape. The stories are starting to fit together…something that makes sense is beginning to unfold. I can see that there really IS something powerful here to be told. And as I continue to move forward, the pain will diminish, the falls will become less frequent and the story will steer itself as I continue to let it move forward.

Photo from Flickr

Blindsided!

The tears are slowly wending their way down my cheeks as my fingers move across the keys on my keyboard. My eyes… still stinging as they release their slightly salty liquid, the monitor a bit blurry tonight. The soulful sounds of Coldplay’s “Fix You” is playing through my computer speakers as the “Youtube” video plays on my other monitor…only too appropriate tonight. I’ve spent the past hour reading some of the most painful words I may have ever read. Or the some of the most painful words I’ve ever written!

I haven’t visited these memories for a long time, not since I wrote them more than two years ago. As I prepare to begin my book, I’m taking the time to go back to read what I’ve recorded in my blog since I began this journey in September of 2007. I had NO idea…NO comprehension of the pain in those words. As I reflect I wonder how I was able to put those memories to words then and why I didn’t drown in an ocean of tears. Maybe the drowning is scheduled for tonight?

In my mind’s eye I thought this part of the process would be pretty easy. I’ve printed out all my blog entries and all I needed to do was categorize them into where it seemed they might most appropriately fit into the sections of my upcoming book. I actually looked forward to reading my words. Not for the content, but to see how my writing may have improved, or worsened, over the past thirty months. The concept that the words would break my heart in a way tonight that they didn’t when I composed them never crossed my mind. I have been totally blindsided.

Photo from Flickr

Call Me Naive!

We had stopped at the infamous Wall Drug earlier in the day and spent an hour or so wandering through the myriad of rooms…looking at the attractions and spending time in the various gift shops. The heavy odor of the rich chocolate fudge was carried on the hot, summer breeze causing my mouth to water. As we wandered through of the gift shops, we saw the head of a strange looking animal hanging on the wall near the cash register.
“What is that?” Paula asked me.

“Oh, that’s a stuffed Jackalope”, I replied. “They’re found only in this part of the country. I'm pretty sure they’re a cross between a Jack Rabbit and an Antelope.”

Paula looked at me with a little bit of trepidation, but it was time to go so we left the shop and got back on the road with Frank and Deb and the kids, starting our drive up the winding state highway that led to Mt. Rushmore. About half way up the incline, Paula leaned forward from the back seat and asked if the Jackalope was a real animal. With straight faces, both Frank and I assured her that they were the genuine thing and Frank told some story about how they were genetically engineered earlier in the 20th Century.

After a couple of minutes, I couldn’t hold my laughter in any longer and found myself giggling hysterically. Paula looked at me, and I knew in that moment that I had gone too far. Paula had trusted me that I would tell her the truth when she asked about that funny looking little animal. She had a trusting spirit, and is what we typically call “naïve” in our culture. As a general rule, being called “naïve” is not a positive trait that we aspire to as adults. It’s OK for kids to be naïve, but as we grow older, we are expected to know better.

I came across an article last week that brought the memory of the Jackalope back to my mind and caused me to re-examine naivete. The focus of the article is a concept called “second naivete” which refers to the point where we gain a more mature insight to the unquestioned beliefs that we had as children. It reminds us that the word is derived from the Latin word for “natural”, describing "one who shows absence of artificiality…or has no hidden agendas or duplicitous motives." In the words of the author, it is “the recognition that the story we continue to discover is far bigger than we know how to tell.” It allows us to “return to the unhindered sincerity of a child.”

I thought about that as I thought about my relationship with my sister and brothers. For much of my life, I was never willing to be completely honest with any of them. I would just put on my “Mark mask” and go about my business…smiling and nodding. I was who I thought they wanted me to be. I was anything but “natural”. And then things changed. I got into trouble and my attitude to my siblings changed.

I went through a season of extreme self-centeredness where I allowed my childhood love and acceptance for my family to be replaced by a judgmental attitude and a self-imposed exile away from them. Much in the same we do as we move from childhood to adulthood, my perspective of my family was tainted by a critical spirit. Because they didn’t fit my definition of what a “Christian” should be, I turned my back on those relationships. And I found myself justifying my decision by using “selective” portions of Scripture that reinforced my separation.

But thankfully, I’ve come to the place in my life where I enjoy being naïve. Not in the culturally defined sense that would describe me as being simple or credulous. Rather, in the sense that I’ve returned to the “natural” state…the state I was designed for which is to simply love, not judge.

Photo from Wall Drug

A Step Closer

It was a surreal feeling…sitting there watching the hands on the clock approach 6:30. I was sipping a cup of coffee (tasting like it had been sitting on the warmer since before the 4:30 group started), but the acrid taste didn’t bother me too much tonight. The aroma of basil and marinara floated on the air from the next room where two flat boxes sat on the counter…a bottle of warm Diet Pepsi, cups and paper plates in the plastic grocery sack beside it. Only about half of the chairs were full tonight, one of them occupied by an unfamiliar face…a late-comer from the earlier group. I smiled to myself as I thought about the fact that next week, even fewer chairs would be filled.

“So, this is your last night…how has it been for you?” the therapist asked.

The words seemed to flow effortlessly as I spoke…sometimes looking at the doctor, other times making eye contact with each of the men around the room.

“I’ve shared with the group before that when I got out of prison, I really didn’t want to come to treatment…and actually didn’t really think that I needed it. But I have to say that this has been a great experience and I’ve met men that I have become friends with and that I trust in ways that I’ve never been able to before.”

The therapist sat there, jotting a few notes on his pad…silently counting the names of those who had signed in. It made me wonder if he was calculating his income for the night or if he was checking to see who was still absent. Looking up he said,

“I think you brought pizza. Why don’t we stop here and eat it before it gets cold and then continue to check in.”

I went into the next room and grabbed the two large pizzas and returned to the therapy room, passing them around to the men. My closest friend in the group, my “coffee buddy”, hadn’t arrived yet. He had called me earlier to tell me that he was running late but that he would be there for the pizza. At this point, it looked like he was going to miss out, or at least have to settle for the cold leftovers.

Settling back into his chair with a large slice of combination pizza and a glass of Diet Coke, the doctor asked me

“Is there any advice that you would give to the group?”

There were a number of comments that passed through my mind that I quickly disregarded.

“I really think the most important thing is just to be willing to be transparent. It has become so apparent to me over these past five years that until I, or any of us, is willing to take a genuine in-depth look at our past and how it led to where we are today…we can never heal.”

“Secondly, and maybe almost as important…make sure you pay the doctor here or you’ll never get out of treatment.”

A round of soft laughter echoed around the room as the men clearly understood what I was saying. The doctor has affirmed a number of times that everyone needed to be caught up to date on their payments before he could release them from group. My “coffee buddy” knew that only too well and was only getting out because of a little help I provided him.

“Well, I just want you to know that you’ve really been a great addition to our group. You’ve provided insightful comments to the other men and I’m sure that you will do well. It looks like you’re going to have some free time now on your Thursday nights”, the therapist added.

“Actually, I’m planning to begin writing my book and Thursday night’s would be a good time to dedicate to that.”

I spent the next several minutes explaining what I wanted my book to be about and as I was finishing, my “coffee buddy” finally arrived. As he grabbed a plate and a couple of slices of pizza, I said

“Hey. I took your advice and went down to Chuckee Cheese’s to try to get the pizza. Man, there must have been 1000 kids running around so I just had to sit there for about 20 minutes waiting. I finally just gave up and went to Pizza Hut instead.”

The room suddenly grew quiet as each one of the men tried to process what they had just heard. Even the therapist stopped his pizza dripping fingers midway to his mouth as he and the other looked at me. The look in the eyes told me what they were thinking.

Chuckee Cheese?
Kids?
Twenty minutes?

I finally couldn’t hold my laughter back any longer.

“I wouldn’t go to Chuckee Cheese even if it was allowed. That pizza is just too nasty for me.”

You could practically hear the sighs of relief as they realized I was only joking. Slices of pizza were soon being once again consumed and the nearly empty bottle of Diet Pepsi was passed around the room once more.

The remainder of the evening was a quick check-in for the other men. It was soon time to go, and as I picked up the trash from our pizza party, I received best wishes from each of the men. I was invited back if was ever in the neighborhood on a Thursday evening (at no cost), and politely said it might happen. As I walked out the door and down the stair, my step seemed a little lighter…my smile a little broader and my future a little closer.

Photo from Flickr

The Question!?!

We’re just sitting there, around the large round table set in the back of the restaurant. There are only four of us today…a couple of “no-shows” leaving several vacant chairs. The conversation is light as Wally talks about the car he is restoring and Jim shares a few stories of the vacation to the beach he had taken the previous week with his foster kids. And then, out of the blue, Paul looks across the table at me.

“How’s your book coming?”

A wry smile and dancing eyes…he sits there. I suppose he is waiting for a response, but more I think he is looking for my reaction. I gather myself.

”It’s really good. I’m just starting to read a new one that I’ll be teaching in our next Sunday school class.”

And then I started chuckling as he frowned and then laughed with me.

“Probably not the book you were talking about, was it Paul?”, I asked.

At this point, Wally looked around the table, turning to Jim and asked what in the world were we talking about. I explained that Paul was asking me how I was doing on the book that I have been planning to write…for the past three years. And then Paul asked the critical question…

“What’s the book going to be about?”

That is the question that I struggle with! I think my problem is that I have too many books in my brain and I can’t get my mind around the story that I want to tell first. And so I wait. I hesitate. I put off making a decision. Jim suggested that I call my book, “Mark’s Great Procrastination!” but I vetoed that idea. I want so much to write the “right” book that I’m wallowing in a quicksand of indecision. It seems the harder I think about what the book should focus on, the blurrier the picture is for me.

• A book of my arrest and incarceration?
• A story of the childhood abuse and consequences?
• A story of healing and restoration?
• A story of love and grace?
• A “factional” novel?
• A collection of letters between God and myself?

My sister, who is a gifted writer, has suggested that I just begin to write and the story will develop. Paul agrees with her (maybe the big hug at the Christmas concert established a connection with those two). I’m a control freak (I’ve discovered) and I feel like I need to the know destination before I start the journey.

But I know that it’s time. There have been too many signals in the past month for me to continue waiting. There is a purpose for my life and God keeps reminding me that He wants me to tell the story. And I think He’s told me what story He wants me to begin with. I was challenged several weeks ago as I listened to one of our pastors speak to our men’s group. His topic was pornography and how destructive it is (a story I know only too well). He finished his message that morning with a question to the group.

“How many of you would be willing to help, or talk with, someone who is struggling with pornography in their life?”

I raised my hand because I am more than willing to talk to people about what I’ve gone through. But the Spirit is nudging me…no, whacking me along side the head to write the story. And so that’s where I’m going to begin this new adventure. And as I look at my list of potential books, it may include parts of all of them. And I guess that’s OK. This is perhaps a time where I need to place the pen in my hand and let it do the driving. Sometimes, those are the greatest trips of all!

Photo from Flickr