Humble Pie

Tiger Stadium. As I write this, Tiger Stadium is slowly evaporating.

I remember sitting in the right-field bleacher seats with my grandfather and twin brother when I was twelve or so. The Yankees were in town to play the beloved home team, the Tigers. Throughout the course of the game, my brother and I derided the Yankee right-fielder wearing the number twenty-one which had been stitched into the back of his jersey.

“You’re not good enough to have your name on the back of your jersey,” we repeated over and over again. Passionate we were, knowledgeable we were not. It would be at least three more years before I learned of the Yankees tradition to omit last names on the back of jerseys as a nod to the significance of the name of the front of the jersey over and above the name of the back of the jersey. This is a lesson almost completely missing from the modern professional landscape in which baseball players have their names on their jerseys, gloves, and even (depending upon your status) engraved into the wristbands resting on one’s forearms.

On the way home, my grandfather delivered some important news. “Boys, do you know who plays right field for the Yankees?”

“No. All we know is that he does not have his name on his jersey so he must not be that good.”

“His name is Paul O’Neil. He’s one of the best hitters in the game today.” A silence fell over the car. A silence not too different from the silence of a principal entering a classroom in which the substitute teacher has had it, relinquishing all authority to The Principal.

“Oh,” was all I remember offering in response to my grandfather. I made a mental note to myself that I would, at least when it came to sports, do my homework before I would make grandiose claims. By the way, I recently went back and looked up O’Neil’s stats from this year—he won the A.L. batting title.

Humble pie. A big ol’ slice of it.

Life and Art

Stephen King is arguably the most popular fiction writer in recent American memory. In his memoir/guide to becoming an effective writer, he warns the writer that might me tempted to shape their life around their craft instead of their craft around their life.

I suggest the metaphor works well for academicians, pastors, teachers, athletes, writers, and anyone else who tends to become addicted to their "craft" at the expense of those closest to them (something I regularly confess to . . . though I have to admit that since Lucas's arrival, I have done almost no serious writing and I'm perfectly content with that . . . for now).

King begins by talking about the massive oak desk that sat, for six years, in the center of his writing room.

For six years I sat behind that desk either drunk or wrecked out of my mind, like a ship’s captain in charge of a voyage to nowhere. King confesses the chaos that this led to, the sheer egocentric view of life that ultimately tore his personal and family life apart.

A year or two after I sobered up, I got rid of that monstrosity and put it in a large living-room suite where it had been, picking out the pieces and a nice Turkish rug with my wife’s help. In the early nineties, before they moved on to their own lives, my kids sometimes came up in the evening to watch a basketball game or a movie and eat pizza. They usually left a boxful of crust behind when they moved on, but I didn’t care. They came, they seemed to enjoy being with me, and I know I enjoyed being with them. I got another desk—it’s handmade, beautiful and half the size of the T. rex desk. I put it at the far west end of the office, in a corner under the eave . . . It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support system for art. It’s the other way around.

See Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft (New York: Scribner Publishers, 2000), 101-102.

Beauty

I’m a big fan of the song “You Are So Beautiful.” I like most (not all) of the versions that have been produced over the last few decades. Joe Cocker’s version is probably my favorite. There’s something deeply soulful about it. Something simple. Something beautiful.

The song fell out of favor in the Graves house a several years back. My sister, Kelly, walked down the aisle to this song in 1997 when she married her (now “ex”) husband Jory. It was the perfect song for a beautiful bride.

I was eighteen when they got married. On top of the world. Big hoop earring. Suffice to say I did not lack for confidence.

When she came down that aisle twelve years ago, I cried like Lucas did late last night. “Can’t you see? . . .you’re everything I hoped for, you’re all I need. You are so beautiful to me.”

But their marriage only lasted a few short years. It shattered into a million little pieces.

Last night, Kara and I are watching American Idol, Lucas is fast asleep and Danny Gokey busts out a hallelujah-filled version of “You Are So Beautiful.”

Context is everything.

If I’d heard that song last week, it would have brought back bitter memories surrounding my sister’s messy divorce. Broken hearts. Betrayed covenant. Fatherless little girl (my sister has a beautiful daughter named Lexi). My trip to Arkansas to stand by my sister during the divorce proceedings (my father was so upset he could not go).

But, we’ve had time as a family to heal. Kelly is now remarried to a gem, Major Ray Stemitz—a gentle man’s man if I ever met one. He’s a great husband to Kelly and an equally great father to Lexi. The wounds are still there for her but they aren’t as fresh. Actually, the wounds are now more like scars.

And Lucas is here. A new chapter for everyone.

When Gokey belted out that song last night, everything in the world, at least for a moment, felt good. Kelly’s in a healthy place in her own life. Kara’s an all-star mom. Lucas is rocking our world one dirty diaper at a time.

P.S. Kara recently wrote a great blog about the actual birth day.

Kansas

When people ask me where I grew up, I usually respond by saying "Michigan/Detroit" but follow-up quickly by adding, "but I spent a good part of my childhood in Wichita, Kansas (hence my love/addiction/loyalty to Kansas hoops).

My (twin) brother and I were almost three when we moved from Detroit to Wichita. Almost nine when we moved back to Detroit. My sister, three years older than the twins, still regards her childhood in Kansas as a truly great time in the life of our family.

We were pretty poor. I knew it. My brother and sister knew it. My dad worked as a youth minister for a congregation in Wichita and also drove a school-bus to supplement his income. These were some of the best of times for our family. For starters, we had great relationships (too many to name) and we became really close as a family. From dedication to the church, to picking up the sport of soccer (the official sport of Kansas I think), our time in Wichita was incredibly formative. I will never forget the Friday bus rides with my dad and the reward afterwards--splitting a grape soda at the local Quick Trip to talk about basketball (it was in Wichita that my brother and I realized there was more to my mom than we'd bargained for--she frequently beat us in one-on-two hoops in the driveway on the backboard and hoop constructed by my father), soccer, and Jesus.

All of these memories are flooding my mind this weekend as I'm in Wichita for the first time since 1998. During my freshmen year of college I came to Oklahoma City to visit my brother in college (he was there to play tennis and study accounting). On a whim, we decided to come to Wichita, to see some of the people who shaped our lives when we were younger.

Yesterday, I stepped off the plane, and took a deep breath.

I am here to present to the East Point Church (and their leadership) all of the work I've accumulated in Jesus Feast. Last night went well. I'm on my way to meet with the key leaders of the church . . . to talk about this elusive phrase "postmodern culture."

Lucas is going to join Kara and me in a few short months. In fact, today's is the Baby Shower. I pray to God every day that I will provide the space and ethos for him as was given to me. A space to dream, ask big questions, go my own way only to know that for all of us, home is the most important four letter word we'll ever encounter.

Australia

My brother and sister-in-law are in Australia diving. They are now both certified scuba-divers. Here's a note he sent our family today. Obviously, he's a little braver than me.

Hey everybody,

We're checking in. We just got back from our live aboard dive trip. It was amazing! We are now officially certified. Words cannot describe how beautiful the reef is. We saw a couple dozen sharks - one over 10 feet. Many of them swam within 5-10 feet of us. We also saw huge turtles,barracudas, lots of sting rays and eels, the most beautiful fish and fluorescent colored coral. In all we completed 9 dives on different locations on the reef. We also experienced our first night dive which was spooky to say the least. Imagine jumping into a black abyss with sharks literally circling you.

P.S. I've attached a photo from one of our dives.

---

Any other scuba-divers out there?

The Beauty of Family

Mom: "You know the Bible says, 'Spare the rod and spoil the child.'"

My brother: "I guess that means I'll have to turn the other cheek."

(From Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove)

The Color of Water

A few months ago, I mentioned the best-selling book The Color of Water. As I prepare to teach and preach this weekend, I've been drawn back to this amazing story and the way in which it connects with Mary, the mother of Jesus.

About ten years ago, James McBride wrote a book about his mother that captured the hearts of many Americans. The book, The Color of Water, is his tribute to his mother who raised twelve children on her own in the Red Hook Housing Projects in Harlem, New York City. “As a boy . . . James knew his mother was different. But when he asked about it, she’d simply say, ‘I’m light skinned.’ Later he wondered if he was different, too, and asked his mother if he was black or white. ‘You’re a human being,’ she snapped.”

On another occasion, after a rousing experience in church, James asked his mother if God was white or black. “God is a spirit . . . neither. God is the color of water.”
When James was 14, his stepfather died. His biological father, a devout Christian who stared the Brown Memorial Baptist Church in Harlem which still stands today, died while his mother carried him in her womb. The death of two husbands sent his mother into a state of chaos. She coped by riding her bike all over Harlem. While most drove cars, took the bus, hopped on the subway, she decided to ride her red bike through the busy streets of America’s biggest city. “The image of her riding that bike bicycle typified her whole existence to me. Her oddness, her complete nonawareness of what the world thought of her, nonchalance in the face of what I perceived to be imminent danger from blacks and whites who disliked her for being a white person in a black world. She saw none of it.”

The Color of Water is the story of his mother’s life—a story of a rabbi’s daughter (she was Jewish ethnically but later became a bible believing Christian because of the acceptance she experienced in the black Christian community), born in Poland, raised a southerner, abused by the men in her life, only to escape to New York City to make a new life for herself and her children. In the end, all twelve of her children attended college: they became doctors, lawyers, teachers, and psychologists. From the projects to Harvard, their mother’s eccentric ways and unrelenting love pushed them to seize all that life offered. In retrospect, all of her children realized that their mother’s love was like the power of the moon. “It’s what made the river flow, the ocean swell, and the tide rise, but it was a silent power, intractable, indomitable, and thus completely ignorable.”

1979, 1997, 2008

The year was 1997. I was eighteen years old. Because my brother, Jason, was my twin, he was subsequently the same age. Those two go together in this discussion.

The month was August. It was, if I recall accurately, a hot muggy Michigan Summer day. The kind you long for on a cold March Thursday as the writer looks out his window and still sees several inches of snow on the ground.

Back to August, 1997. A large R.V. is parked in the driveway. It’s full of Jason’s belongings: trophies from tennis, John Stockton memorabilia, posters, shoes, belts, tennis gear, nice clothes (Jason’s always had a taste for good clothing), photos, and tennis rackets.

The R.V. under examination is bound for Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. Specifically: Oklahoma Christian University in Edmond. Jason has accepted a scholarship to play tennis for the N.A.I.A powerhouse.

Josh, (the other side of the “twin coin”) cannot bring himself to getting on the R.V. He knows why he can’t but he’s too proud and scared to articulate this to anyone in his family. Mom and Dad load the R.V. with their normal zeal and passion. Then, they look at Josh and say, “We’re about to leave Josh. Come say good-bye to your brother.” Those words pierced a portion of Josh’s heart that had been off limits to even Josh himself.

With those words, eighteen years of callousness, sibling rivalry, and good ol’ fashion competition came crashing down like an unexpected avalanche in Aspen. I could not speak. I could barely breathe. I could not move. My body and spirit were paralyzed.

This was Jason we’re talking about. This is the biological play-mate provided by God himself. This was my great ally and my great foe for eighteen years. This was the brother who spent hours in the driveway playing one-on-one basketball until one of us came inside the house with a bloody nose or a black eye. This was the brother who rushed the court as the clock went to zero when I won a state tournament basketball game against our bitter rival, Chippewa Valley High School. This was the guy I’d shared a tiny room with for seventeen of those eighteen years.

This was the man who once chased me around the house with a weapon of mass destruction (which shall not be revealed) leaving me convinced that he was much crazier than I. This was the young boy whom I fought for when kids in our neighborhood started calling him “four-eyes” (one of the more clever childhood sound-bytes in my opinion). And these are the merely the memories I’m allowed to say in public.

For the first eighteen years of my life, I was a poor friend to Jason. I teased him. Pushed him. Mocked. Provoked. Chided. I cannot recall ever showing any emotion towards him that could have been construed “love.” I’m sure that’s not true, but I honestly can’t remember.

That all changed in August of 1997.

As the R.V. pulled out of the driveway to make the long trek from Detroit to Oklahoma City (may as well have been Spain)—I realized that one of God’s greatest gifts was slipping through my fingers.

And I did something I had not done up until that point in my young life. I sat down in the living room of the house which sat at the corner of Michelle Ann St. and Elena Marie St. No one was home save me. Just me and a thousand memories; a million regrets. This is why many Jewish thinkers remind us that "memory is God's great gift and curse to mankind."

I sat on the floor and wept. Hard. Loud. For a long time.

I did not “cry”, shed a tear, or “tear-up” (as Kara likes to say)—those terms domesticate what I did. I wept bitterly. I wept for what felt like two or three hours. I still can’t possibly put into words the suffocating feeling that consumed me that August afternoon in 1997.

But I do know this. Since that day, our relationship changed permanently. Now, we would express our love daily. Now we would encourage each other. Now we would root for each other. Now, we would think of the other one first instead of our own individual need. Now, things were different. Now, we had space. And space, if nothing else, creates perspective. And perspective allows the possibility for change.

I’ve sought the forgiveness of my brother for the way in which I treated him. Now, I consider him my close friend, mentor, cheerleader, coach, and confidant. Moreover, I learned to change in all of my other relationships because of my relationship with Jason.

God does his best work through the people he places in our lives.

It’s no longer 1997. Thank God that in 1979, twenty-nine years ago today, (March 13th to be precise), Katherine and Phil Graves found out that she’d had, not one child, as the doctor had promised, but two. Two boys who’d put her through all kinds of drama, joy, stress, hope and chaos. Two boys, however, who, no matter what, decided that it was in the cards for them to do life together, come hell or high water.

Daughters

father's be good to your daughters
daughters will live like you do
girls become lovers
who turn into mothers
so mothers be good
to your daughters to


Last night, Kara and decided to spend our Friday night at the health club, getting’ a little work out in. Last night, at the health club, was also the annual “Daddy-Daughter” Valentine’s Dance.

There were a few hundred Dad’s and Daughter’s covering two small basketball courts. It was a sight to behold. Dad’s dressed up in their best suits, on the dance floor with their young daughter(s). Daughters who'd wouldn't want to be anywhere else than right where they were. Hair all done up. Corsage on the wrist. The color pink abounding. Little girls believing they were Cinderella, or Snow White; some kind of princess to be sure.

So much of my time working with college students is undoing or bringing healing to the wounds caused in the lives of young people by their parents. Wounds that are the result of Christian homes as much as non-Christian homes. In fact, sometimes the aftermath of growing up Christian (especially the fundamentalist stripe) is worse for there is no more dangerous combination than legalism, hypocrisy, guilt, and shame, mixed with religion.

If we are going to change the world, one good friend likes to say . . . we’d better first start by loving the family given to us by God.

Fresno and Phil

The Fresno ZOE Conference was a great event. The College Church of Christ has become a special place of rest, friendship, and family for me these last two years.

I returned from Fresno late Sunday night (Monday morning) . . . well . . . late for me . . . 3 a.m. As I was driving from the airport home, I thought, there’s one person I can call right now that would not shoot me: my dad.

For the last twenty-plus years, my dad has worked the midnight shift at Children’s Hospital as a respiratory therapist. In fact, when I was younger, he worked two jobs—always the midnight shift.

I have many friends who lament that “my dad never made time for me” or “my dad was great with everyone except his own family.” I empathize with these people . . . but I cannot relate.

My father was always around. He was always there. Always present. Always willing to play catch, go for a jog, watch hoops, play one-on-one.

From seventh to twelfth grade he (nor my mom) never missed one sporting/church event. We played football, baseball, soccer, basketball and tennis and he was there for every single game. Of course, the post-game “Dad-nalysis” was part of the experience, but I’d gladly take that than a dad who’s out of town on business, the dad who’s on the golf-course five days a week with clients and no time for his family. My father did not spend his time thinking about his own career, education, or “dreams”—he was fully invested in developing his family.

I can honestly say my dad was one of my closest friends in High School. I was never embarrassed to have him drop me off some where. Never ashamed to hang out with him at the movies or the mall.

He used to write me little notes before big games: “You can do it.” “I believe in you.” “You the man.” Little pieces of paper I still have in a box in my basement. He’ll never know how much those little pieces of paper meant. I get emotional just thinking about our game day breakfasts at a local joint, or our pre-game meal at Subway.

Anyways . . .

I called my dad on the drive from the airport Monday morning. Sure enough, at 2:54 a.m. he answered as he always does, “Respiratory--Phil Graves.” We talked about my trip, grad school, his upcoming adventure to Alaska (he’s going to camp by himself in the wilderness for two weeks).

To all the fathers out there: You don’t know what it means when a son knows he can call you at any hour of the day, knowing that for one brief moment, the person on the other end of the phone is your biggest fan and confidant.

To all the sons out there: You don’t know what it means when a dad knows that his son loves him so much, that the person he wants to talk to when he’s going on four hours sleep is…well…his dad.

My biggest fear in life is that I won’t be half the dad my father was. I am so engrossed in my education, plans, dreams, work, vocation, and opportunities . . . I pray I will honor Phil by being the encourager and man he was/is in my life.