Feeling For, Feeling With, Felt For

All are good, even necessary.

All can detract, if not practiced thoughtfully.

(General disclaimer.  I’ve tried to write on this subject at least twice in the past few years.  None of it ever felt like it got finished, and, I don’t claim any knowledge of this subject, having done very little if any research on it.)

Let’s start with Feeling For.

The proper name for this is sympathy. 

Sympathy is a very useful communicator of our feelings; it is often used long distance, or, if I am not intimately acquainted with you. 

I hear about your tragedy, or grief.  I sigh a prayer.  I see a GoFundMe account with your name on it.  I donate.  Or, I look for a card the next time I’m in town, buy it, sign it with a general condolence, and send it your way.  I feel for you, and I wish to express it, probably for your sake, but maybe just as much for mine. 

Because there is something about responding to grief and sorrow, even when we are not closely related, that heals our own self and helps us understand better the baggage we ourselves may carry.

Sympathy, thoughtfully expressed, is a little ray of light in darkness for those currently living there.  It comes in on a whisper, stays a little while, does it’s work, and just as quietly steals away to help someone else.

Are there ways that we make sympathy less effective or more effective?

I think so.

Don’t—

Buy a card on a whim because everyone else is doing it.  Such is sympathy, but shallow.

Send a message in the immediate hours following a loss.  The recipient won’t read it until later anyhow, or maybe not at all. 

Don’t include in your message, “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”  That is empathy’s (feeling with) job.

Don’t avoid someone you meet face to face that is enduring sorrow.

Don’t gauge tears as a bad thing, and awkwardly say, “Well, guess I better get on with my day.”

Don’t, once the tears have stopped, keep standing around in silence or repeatedly asking, “Is there something I can do?” 

Do—

Think about your message.  Maybe all that comes to mind is the overused ‘Thinking of you.’  But, is there anything personal with that message?  How about, ‘I heard about your sorrow today.  I am so sad.’  (This mixes a little empathy with your sympathy, which is good.)  If your message seems like it isn’t put together very well, or seems clumsy, there is all the more likelihood it will be received and do what it is supposed to do more than one that is polished.

Stand by while the tears flow.

Tears aren’t a bad thing, nor are they something to be afraid of. 

Tears are communication.  Not necessarily with us, rather, often not.  They communicate an inner state of flux.  Stay around if tears start falling from the one you are talking with.  There is no need to feel awkward about them.  Once they have stopped, ask if there is something they want to talk about.  It may be they will, and just as likely they won’t.  It is perfectly fine if they don’t want to.  In which case, you did what sympathy was supposed to do by feeling for them during their cry session.  (At least I hope you felt for them.)

Now, it appears that I bit off more than I could chew, because this got longer than I expected, and I have one more thing I want to say yet. 

I personally don’t know of something more pleasant to receive, than when I find out someone thought about me.  Have you ever been at a funeral, and, as you watch the viewing line go past, you catch your breath and say to yourself, “I can’t believe they are here!”

And you try to decide why they really are there, and, finally, you realize they must have come for you.  Something like this means so much to me, and it doesn’t have to be realized only at funerals. 

Now, switch to GoFundMe.  It’s a nice way to show sympathy, show you feel for the person named. 

Why then, if your donation is average sized, do so many people give anonymously?  Giving anonymously seems about the same as if you were going through the funeral viewing line and held up a 2 foot square piece of paper to the side of your face so no one could see who you are.

I think I understand, maybe, why people give anonymously.  Fake humility comes to mind, but I’ll try not to go there. 

But, I ask, why, by giving anonymously, would you deprive someone of that most basic care that says, “They thought of me.  Me!”

A little empathy should always be mixed with sympathy, just as a little sympathy should always be mixed with empathy.   

To summarize, Sympathy can be reserved for long distance, or a onetime little care packet of relief for the hurting one to discover and claim. 

*****

I dunno, this all seems more like a hodge podge toss salad and replete with stuff that shouldn’t have been said. 

If I don’t burn to deeply with ignominy, I’ll try to do the other parts of the title in another post(s).

Something about a Woman

It generally happened somewhere midway through the school year, that my students would become curious about a certain subject.

I suppose, if we were to be real here, they had been curious about it for some time already, and maybe the school room gave enough space, laterally so to speak, to broach the subject without fearing too many recriminations.

It always started with something like, “Well, this is how I see it, but I’m just a guy, and, er, well, I don’t know how girls think, really.”  Meanwhile, a few glances would get exchanged across the aisle, tentatively, of course.

Whereupon, I would usually stop the class we were in for the time being, go to the white board, and, in my characteristic lack of artistic ability, draw the diagram that explains life.  Otherwise known as a gendometer, short for gender meter.

It generally looked something like this . . .

I usually took time to explain the subtle nuances of my rather complex piece of art, pointing out that on the manpiece, it was either on or off, really no questions asked, and on the womanpiece, well, there really wasn’t an on or off.

Or, maybe today there is, but tomorrow there isn’t. 

Or, what worked yesterday, by flipping a rather innocuous looking switch, may cause minor explosions today.

Or, today the gauge may read entirely backwards of what it did yesterday, with, supposedly, the same interpretation as yesterday. 

I stressed two points in this little life lesson.

There was nothing to be taken personally, by the female gender in the room. 

And, there was nothing to be taken personally, by the male gender, when the switch thrown yielded different results than expected.

A person would think then, that if I had so much wisdom in this area back then, that it could follow one through life, smoothing the rocky places, and routing around the stumble points.

*****

My goodbye to the sweet daughter this last time was hard. 

Then our first flight was delayed, due to a computer reboot that involved shutting down the whole plane.  Which dominoed down to a brisk half mile walk in Chicago, and really no time for supper.

I was weary, already, but my good wife not so much, (a common occurrence) and the 3-hour drive home from Wichita, starting sometime after eleven that evening, looked daunting.

She wanted to drive it on home; I wanted to grab a motel. 

She saw my weariness, and, in the perennial goodness of her true self, booked a motel.

And it was good she did, for, as we approached our vehicle in the slightly damp parking lot, dimensions of perpendicularity didn’t reach the desired sum total, and the culprit was an entirely flat tire.

Being late and all, the situation had the tendency to become somewhat emotionally charged. 

Should we call an Uber, get to our now most inviting motel, and deal with it in the morning?  Two Uber fees plus airport parking . . . I saw the gauges and dials on my good wife’s gendometer flicker to life, and I got me out of the general vicinity while they were booting up.  Because, well, once booted up, what might they indicate?

The spare had never been used; never even brought down from its storage.  Would it descend?  Would it have sufficient air in it?  These were yes/no questions that I could deal with, and I did. 

Although, truth be told, once the spare was installed, some 30 minutes later, air volume was decidedly lacking. 

Gendometer gauges twitched, first one way, and then the other as I alerted my good wife to the problem.

 A nearby Sam’s was suggested. 

I said, no, Sam’s never has air, but we circled the lot nonetheless, making me fear a blowout was eminent. 

A half mile farther on, and, as it happened within two blocks of our motel, air was found, and peace of mind was restored on the part of the man.

And then, the issue of the missed supper was raised, regardless of the fact that it was now close to midnight. 

A McDonald’s was spotted, and, I decided now might be the opportune time to bestow a little advice about drive through manners.  Of course, opportune, in this case, completely inopportune. 

Here’s how it goes when we get into a drive through lane.  My mentality knows what the options are; they haven’t changed much in the last few years, and, I know I like most everything on there.  So, before I get very close to the ordering point, I toggle my inner switch to ‘on’ for such and such menu this time. 

Done.  A crisply decided decision.

So, as we approached the drive through, I got my speech ready. 

‘Just get decided ahead of time what you want.  It doesn’t matter in the long run anyway, what we might have at midnight after a flat tire has been changed, etc.,’ I was about to say.

And then, my ‘on’ switch clicked off without my consent.

And, this little teaching episode I am about to give comes to a sliding halt, as I remember another teaching episode almost 20 years ago now, in the classroom, involving gender differences.

And, as I think, “Men’s brains are like waffles, women’s like spaghetti,” I feel things hum to life in the neighborhood of my right side. 

Gauges that haven’t been known to give a reading fizz to life with frightening rapidity. 

Blinking lights segue into sounding alarms.

The result is, once my crisply spoken order has been given, the one near my right side says,

“I’ll take number two.

Wait, does that come with fries?”

“Yes, they all come with fries.”

“Well, I’m not sure I want fries tonight.”

(Long, inwardly suppressed sigh on my part.)

“Is that all you want?” the cashier asks?

“No, give us a little time.”

“Okay,” the one near my right says, “I’ll have number six without fries.”

“What to drink?”

“A Diet.”

“Diet what?”

“Just a Diet.”

And then, it’s our luck that they are out of number six.

*****

So, I sat there, and watched and listened with keen interest, as the buzzing and flashing activity of the gendometer flurried this way, and then another way. 

And, I smiled, even though our order got ordered three different ways, and the man at the window and I both apologized to each other for getting things mixed up.

And I realized, more acutely than ever before, that the blips, blinks, and signals that are so inscrutable to a man are not a mimicry, but a wonderfully choreographed thinking process that sees much more of the whole picture and its different outcomes than I ever could.

Because, there’s something about a woman. 

Bygones

(Warning.  This post has the potential to go nowhere.)

If I step out my back door, and walk to the edge of the tree row that surrounds this place, I can take in a view that always amazes me.

On a clear day, I can see 11 miles to the west, an easy 12-13 to the southwest, 8 to the south, 3-4 to the east, and 3 to the north.

And if there is a mirage on, the visual potpourri from our place is stunning.  Because then, I’ve seen as far as 45 miles in the south/southwest directions, and 20-25 miles in the east/northeast directions. 

I remember one night.  I was driving home and was still 8 to 10 miles southwest of our place.  The mirage easily showed me Liberal’s lights, Holcomb power plant lights, and, closer in, Garden city lights, Cimarron lights, and Dodge city lights.

From my position that night, all lights would have been roughly an equal radius of 45 miles. 

I often ponder what other eyes have looked upon these scenes in bygone days.  Maybe, then, the gal on the plane wasn’t so far off, even though she startled me when she said, after only 2 minutes acquaintance, “You strike me as sort of the history buff kind.”

I had never really thought of myself that way.  In my mind, a history buff pores over his books and data endlessly, researching, ever and anon.  I tend to make foray’s into the past that tell me mostly what I wish to know, and then I leave for the time being.

According to one google estimate, Indians were established in the Americas for 20 some thousand years by the time Christopher Columbus set foot on this soil.  I wonder if they didn’t get a little carried away with the zero’s they attached to that number.  It wouldn’t stretch me to think of the Native American Indian having called this home for 2,000 years, perhaps even longer when Christopher landed here. 

Towards the eastern part of this state, one happens upon fairly regular regions of water, both flowing and in lake form.  But here in the southwest, water has always been a high priced commodity.  It looks like, back in the day, there were three sources of water that were fairly constant.  To the north of us is the Arkansas river.  (Today it is dry.)  A few miles to the south of us is Crooked Creek.  (Today it is dry.)  And, farther south and west, is the Cimarron river.  (Today also dry.)

If those three water sources were viable back then, and most likely they were, and buffalo hadn’t been hunted to extinction, and it hadn’t, this area could possibly have been quite regularly populated.  And, linked together with the fact that in a few places like ours, one can see for miles in all directions, insuring an early sighting of any enemy activity.

An early map of the state and tribe location shows the Comanche tribe in possession of the deep southwest corner of the state.  Their boundary most likely was the Cimmaron river. 

To the north, the Arapahoe lived, and to the east, the Kiowa lived.  The general area in which us western Kansas folks call home, could have been an intersecting point of boundaries for these three tribes. 

It seems it was.  I remember, as a child, finding arrowheads, or pieces of them quite often.  Most of the time, it was after a heavy spring rain, that they came to the surface.  Sadly, a day came when an arrowhead buyer showed up at the doorstep, and, not knowing the treasure trove we had, we let them go. 

But since then, I have kept my eyes open, knowing that as we develop more ground and spread gravel, or plant grass, the likelihood of finding such is rare.

Until yesterday.  I don’t know who all reads this stuff I write, or where you are located.  But if you aren’t located anywhere near here, you won’t know that we have endured some ravaging winds in the last year and a half.  It used to be, 60 m.p.h. gusts were not so common. 

Today, we try to work through them, and sometimes even higher gusts, on a somewhat normal basis.

The ground is scoured clean in some places.  I see fields where farmers have gouged out deep furrows to prevent land from leaving in the wind.  I see some of those same fields where the plow is going into use a second time, as the first round of furrows have all blown shut already.

Yesterday, I took my walk along the trail I normally walk.  It was windy, as it is today, and as it is forecast to be for the next few days. 

The trail looked Martian.  Little, blasted ridges of crusty dirt that held tenaciously were still in place; but there were whole areas that have been swept, robbed of its precious topsoil.

And then, there it was.  First, a rusty, old bailing tine from what could have been a hundred years ago.

And then, on my return, a piece of flint that appears to bear the marks from human hands shaping it into what could have been the off side of an arrowhead, some 200 years or more ago. 

My history heart was enthused, and I have added each artifact to my little museum that also has a pair of eyeglasses, a diary, and an old pocket watch from my grandfather. 

No, I wouldn’t say I’m a history buff, like the Tanzanian girl turned U.S. real estate agent said.  But I do like to think on things like this once in a while. 

And I thought I could write something about what those folks said to one another, in their teepees, here in this place, or what the farmer said to his son, as they put up the first cutting of hay. 

And maybe, someday I will, but for now, this is where I stop. 

As promised in the beginning, it really accomplished very little as far as writing goes.

Interested

“Did you notice the look on your niece’s face yesterday?”

“When.”

“When you had her little boy on your lap.”

“Oh, you mean when I was reading the book to him?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you talking about when he started pointing out the pictures correctly?”

“Yeah.  Did you notice her face then?”

“I did.  It was like she was so excited and enthused about her little man.”

“Did you notice how she kept hanging around, soaking it all up?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Her face shone, didn’t it.”

“I saw that, yes.”

“Mine does too, because I’m right there, when I see you doing something for the first time, and, you don’t know how it will turn out.  And even if you think it doesn’t turn out, my face still shines with pleasure and pride in you.”

“Really.”

“Yes.  I’m just as interested in you as she was in her son.  Even more so.”

“Oh.”

Whether to Laugh or Cry

I see three of them.

Sitting in a booth at Pizza Hut.

They are friends; they are in a good mood.

They eat their pizza, and they talk lots. 

And every little bit, they break into a chuckle, sometimes a guffaw of laughter.

They must a have lot of shared jokes, I think to myself, to carry on for so long.

Then they say they should probably get on with their day.

But not before one more funny ditty is told.

They all laugh again, and he gets up to leave.

He’s still chuckling as he gets up, but as soon as he turns away from them, his face goes slack.

The smile wiped from his face as effectively as if someone had dropped the shade on a sunny window.

And I see then, that all the chuckles and belly laughter have been a sham.

And it’s not something new to me; I’ve seen it, off and on now, for the last several years.

*****

Look at any advertisement from any sizable company.  They will always be happy, smiling, or laughing.

They will always be in a place where there is golden sunshine.  (Or lighting effects)

They will always be young, and good looking.

They will always be clean and well to do.

Because it seems they, and we, are more concerned with the ‘look’ we present these days, rather than how we actually feel. 

Laughing, mostly fake, has become the accepted norm.

But when we get up to leave, we feel our face go slack, and we know there is a real life to live back home.

I’m okay with being positive.  I think it’s a good thing to practice.

I also think that being positive when you don’t feel it can sometimes get a person out of the negativity they are in.

The question, though, of whether to laugh or cry, seems often answered that to laugh is more socially acceptable. 

That it is fashionable and normal.

Or so we think.

Gold

It was supposed to be a fun last day together.

And it was.

First, we traipsed through the hills, taking in the last of some of the most splendid views.

The creek, with its myriad flows and waterfalls came next, and, then finally, the city.

And, somewhere within the city, an airport.

But first, there was a large shopping mall.

And then they said they were hungry for dinner.

And, she ordered a lettuce salad, that appeared to have taken almost a half head of lettuce in the making thereof.

I poked fun at it, and she poked fun at my cheesy tater tot dinner, mainly, I suppose, because she thinks I act cheesy and resemble a tater tot.

And she tried to snitch some of my chocolate shake, but I didn’t let her have any of it.  (Later I wished I had.)

Because, maybe if I had, she would have felt too full, and her mini golf score wouldn’t have looked quite so nice compared to mine.

Or, she wouldn’t have been able to belly laugh quite so easily when my golf ball bounded clear past the putting board and skittered back towards the receptionist lady, who took shelter behind her till as I scampered after it.

But finally, we all were a bit tired, so we found some chairs and sat, quietly, hearts connected in phrases, and sometimes who paragraphs, even though no words were spoken out loud.

And then it was time to find the airport. 

And the bags seemed terribly heavy.

And the walk seemed ever so long.

And, then, goodbye.

And I thought it might be easier this time, since it wasn’t the first time. 

But it was harder.

And I started to cry a little, because she was, but I held it in mostly.

Until I saw her so far away, walking all alone, and waving me.

And then I found a bench, sat down on it, and let myself cry.  And I didn’t care what the people thought when they walked by.

And I still had the sniffles when we boarded the plane, and I looked dully out at the grey and dirty snow colored landscape.

But then we took off, and in a few minutes, we punched through the clouds.

And, just at that instant, the setting sun was level with the clouds, and turned them into a blanket of shining gold for as far as I could see.

Smooth, clean, clear, scintillating gold.

It seemed a beautiful goodbye then, and the beauty of it lasted all the way through, even until when we got to our car, and it had a flat tire, there in the airport parking lot and it was changed, even at that late hour. 

Because a life given in service is as shining gold to look upon and worth many hundreds of rubies. 

A Lifetime

He was a successful businessman, and, I liked it that he answered all my questions with ‘sir’.

And, he graciously got up when I told him our seats were next to his.

And, he told me he had three children, very similar in age to mine.

But he said they all still lived at home.

“I guess I’m too soft on them, letting them live with me at their age,” he said.

“Not at all,” I replied.  “You only have a lifetime to spend with them; make it worth it.”

And, he jerked a bit and looked at me.

And then he smiled and said, “You are so right, sir.”

Harvard

The hills gave way to fewer hills, and, soon a more urban sprawl took over.

And, then, there was Boston.  And we slowed as we navigated the narrow, bumpy cobblestone streets.

And, as luck would have it, the restaurant that the sweet daughter chose for dinner was nestled in downtown and all the neat little shops and vendors that go along with it.

By later afternoon, the question of supper rolled around, and, someone thought wood fired pizza would be good. 

The address was Cambridge, but since I haven’t studied up on my stuff recently, I didn’t recognize it for what it was.

Until we started driving by some very old brick buildings, the story of which had their start in 1639 and has since become one of the most prestigious universities in this country.

I felt distinctly humbled and uneducated.

I wondered, if, I really had enough mentality to give pause to such a post, or even such a blog, as I have been wont to give time to. 

I saw the classrooms, all lit up with night classes and filled with students, facing away from the street and listening to the words falling, even then, from their professors’ meditations.

I saw big digital screens lit up, ready for the next group of disciples who were sacrificing the evening hours and the next few years of their lives, laying themselves fully upon this peculiar altar.

And, I heard, in the neat little pizzeria we sat in, the animated tones of those who had come from far and wide to this revered center of learning to discover themselves.

And, I realized, I heard in them, myself, some 25 years ago or more.

I saw myself, albeit in much humbler surroundings, as I approached the parts counter of the local John Deere.  I heard myself tell the parts counter man that I planned to start work there in two weeks, and, could he recommend which wrenches would work the best?

I saw my journey to the next parts store, as I continued to fill my kit with the necessary tools, although each could have been a textbook, if I had known then.

And, I heard in their voices, at the pizzeria, the same hope I heard in my voice, back then.  Because, they say, we humans always hope in some way or another, for something. 

And I heard and recognized in their hope, enthusiasm.  For life.  And all it could throw at them.  Because they felt invincible, just as I had.

Invincible, because I couldn’t have known, and neither could they, what life had on the table for me.

I couldn’t know of blazing hot service calls, without a drink for hours, and an angry customer standing nearby.

I hadn’t yet felt the accidental blows to fingers that were lifelong lessons in themselves.

I didn’t know yet of lachrymose machines that wept out never ending drops of oil as they sat, waiting, while I travailed in what seemed a vain attempt to heal their problem.

Nor could I know of friendly coworkers, without whom I would have decidedly failed.

Neither could I know of customers who, at just the right moment, offered an ice cold soft drink.

And, I never could have predicted, that some of those same customers would remain friends to this day.

So, I sat there, and I listened to them.

And, I realized that life is a great mediator, and even if they have lots of letters behind their name, it will humble and exalt them, just as it did me.

And so, in the end, I wondered.

Will their life be fuller, or not as much, as mine, because of where they went to school?

I wondered as I sat there with my dear ones and as I missed my sons who were even then working and dealing with life back at home. 

I wondered.

Did I need to feel humbled, as I sat in the presence of those who attend such a university as the one located nearby?

Your Choice

You and two of your friends are walking down a sidewalk that is wide enough for two.

You have the choice to either walk in front of, or behind your friends.

One choice says you may do well in the business world, and, perhaps not as well in the world of friendship. 

The other says you may have more friends, but perhaps not do so well in the business world.

Where you find yourself walking could say something about the person you are.

The choice is yours.

In My House

I am your typical first child in a family.

I am fastidious, because, by default I was taught to be. 

I am sensitive to my parents and their desires and wishes; they wouldn’t want it any other way.

I know, I know, any child not born first is going to raise the cry of ‘not true’ at what I say next.

My parents tried their best to get it right when they trained me.  Their discipline to me was straightforward and consistent.

Today, when I look at my younger brother, I don’t see it that way for him.  

He definitely gets more advantages than I did.

At least, that’s how I see it. 

And, I’m okay with it.  Mostly.  I know what is required of me, and I can give it in a way that is satisfactory to my folks.

I  know that in the end, me being the oldest, I’ll get first dibs on whatever it is my folks have to give when they choose to.

Knowing this, I recently entered into a partnership with my folks on the farm.  I’m interested in its legacy, and I’ll do what I can to see it through to the next generation.

*****

My little brother is a different sort entirely. 

I have yet to see any resemblance of responsibility shown by him. 

I don’t get it.  He is up late in the morning, and to bed way later than the rest of us.  You can pretty much guess how he faces each day living that kind of schedule.  The way I figure, he puts in a half day of work most days.  And then I still must go redo his work most of the time.

So, it came as a bit of relief one day when he approached our folks and told them he was interested in joining a trade school in a nearby town.  He said farming just wasn’t his thing. 

On our farm, we boys don’t get wages as such.  We get a pittance wage in return with the promise that when folks retire, the farm cedes to us.  In the meantime, our basic needs are met by folks. 

My folks listened attentively to my little brother, and I was amazed to hear my dad say he’d cover the first semester of trade school, and then he expected my little brother to pay his own way with afterhours work.

That first semester fee was more than the sum total of my wages I have received to date. 

My jaw dropped and stayed unhinged for quite some time after hearing those words, and it’s probably good it did, because if it had worked, I’m sure I would have said something I would have later regreted.

*****

Little bro was soon off to trade school.  Honestly, I didn’t notice much added to my workload.  Which proved my earlier suspicion; he really hadn’t pulled his share of the load anyway.

Well, the first semester came to an end, and we got word that jobs were scarce in the city, and, could the next semester be paid from home?  He would try his best to get a job and pay back the loan as quickly as he could.

I was okay with this, per se.  I encouraged folks to start a schedule of repayment for his loan.  I didn’t want any of that cash slipping out and gone for good.  We were running a slim enough margin that not much could go unaccounted for. 

We got busy on the farm then, and it seemed like just a few days, and the second semester was over.  I asked folks if their loan had been repaid.  Their answer stunned me. 

They said nothing had been paid back.

And they felt so badly, they said, that they advanced my brother more cash. 

They assured me it would be okay; they had confidence it would all come back. 

But it didn’t.

It wasn’t long, and I saw dad quietly selling some unused equipment.  Soon, he traded off more essential equipment, and purchased older, and smaller equipment to take its place.  What once had been a farm anyone could have been proud of started going to shambles.

I burned with fury.  It was obvious folks had overextended themselves.  Dad and I slaved day and part of the night with that older, high maintenance equipment, just trying to eek out enough to make it to the next year.

The livestock went next.  I was heartbroken.  I loved the cattle, they were my friends.

The years slipped by and with frugal living and careful farming methods, we began to slowly gain. 

Enough so, that one day we were able to buy a good-looking heifer that was bred with good bloodlines.  We figured if her calf was a bull, we were set, as it looked like by then we might have enough to purchase a small heifer calf to pair with it.  And we did.  We got that heifer calf, and if all went well, in a few months we planned to turn her in with the bull. 

My hopes begin to rise, ever so slightly.

I even dared to hope that I might be able to get married, which was something I didn’t feel like was possible with the estate the farm was in, even though my folks encouraged me to take the step in faith; that it all would work out if I did.

One day I was out planting.  It looked like the seed was going into good moisture, and there was a chance of rain that night.  If I put in a few extra hours, I knew I could finish and then we’d see if that rain came or not.

I was about finished when I happened to glance toward the house. 

My heart froze. 

Every light was on.  Had there been an accident?  I saw vehicles filled the yard and spilled out onto the road.

I picked up and ran for all I was worth in that direction.  I came even with the corrals and my heart sank.  I saw a blood trail leave it and go towards the house, but I was still clueless as to what had happened.

And then suddenly I knew. 

I just felt it, I guess.

My little brother was home.

I tasted the bitter, acrid taste of the most conflicting emotion I have ever known.

I was stunned.  Speechless.

Not only had my little brother drained the farm and us of all we had, but rumor had also filtered back that the life he was living never was a life at school. 

He had turned our good family name into a travesty.

Now, here he was, back home, and from the looks of things, all the stops had been pulled out and a huge celebration was in the makings.

All for an imbecile, who just happened to be my little brother.

And then, I must have gone berserk. 

I really don’t remember much of what happened next. 

I was standing near one of the outbuildings of the place, and, I must have lost it.

“NO!”  I screamed.

“NO!  NO!  NO!  You suffering fool!”

“NO!”  And I slammed my fist into the wall of the shed. 

I continued screaming and hitting the building until, spent and bloodied, I sat down against the wall facing away from the house.

And then, I started sobbing.  Deep, horrific sobs that are the loneliest thing a man can ever endure.  I cried in anger, rage, and frustration. 

Finally, my sobs lost some of their force, and I sat there, quietly crying, in the deepest sadness I had ever known. 

And then I realized someone was sitting beside me. 

I don’t know how long he had been there. 

He waited for my crying to cease, and, then, sat in silence with me for a few minutes before asking, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

I told him everything. 

It came out in a torrent of words that I couldn’t have stopped if I tried.  At one point, my language got so vile, I stopped, appalled at what he must be thinking.

“Go on,” he said, in the kindest of tones.

When I finished, we sat there, in silence, and I waited for the blow to fall. 

I was sure he would chastise me, lay some harsh words down on me.

But he didn’t. 

“I get it,” he said. 

And, we sat in silence again, for a spell.

“You have every reason to feel the way you are feeling,” he said, after a while.

“You worked so hard, and I’m sure your father noticed that, and appreciated it.”

I began to sob again.

He draped a kind, loving arm across my shoulders and continued.

“You did everything right.  You worked so hard.  You had the long view in mind, which is always good. 

You were, in a sense, everything your brother wasn’t.”

It was such a relief to hear those words.

“But you need to be in the house,” he said.

“What?”

“Yes.  You need to be in the house.  Together with them.”

“No.  No, there is no way I could be.  Not after everything that has happened.”

“You belong in the house.”

“Obviously not.  Look at the fuss they are making over my brother.  And after all he did. 

No.  They don’t want me there.”

“It’s in the house you’ll find yourself,” he continued, seeming somehow to understand what I was feeling, and yet urging me on to something I did not yet understand.

“You did it right, and your father has every reason to be proud of you.  You saved the farm, more than you’ll ever know.”

He paused.

“But it’s been lonely, hasn’t it.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“It’s just been you and your work, all these years.”

“Yes.”

“A person, living in your situation, has the tendency to become a law unto himself, or self-right.  I wouldn’t blame you if it happened to you.  It can happen to anyone.

You tend to start doing things the way you think they ought to be done, and it soon becomes the only way they are done.  It’s sort of like you live your life by good works, and, really, you have done quite well in that.”

“But my brother . . . “

“Ah, yes.  He’s on the other side of the coin, isn’t he.  You could say that in a way, his life was one for plumbing the depths of grace, while yours has been one for plumbing the depths of good works.  Every day, your brother got farther and farther away, in your mind, because you were isolating yourself from him and hedging yourself around with the good work you did.  You sort of removed yourself from all of life, for that matter. You had become an island unto yourself. 

Meanwhile, as his circumstances got more and more desperate, and the grace so freely extended to your brother was finally siphoned away to what seemed nothing, your brother became just as isolated; his isolation was terrible.  There seemed to be no hope for him.”

We sat silent for a while, and then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to me. 

I blew my nose and wiped the tear streaks away. 

“Keep it,” he said, when I handed it back to him.  “I want you to have something from me to remember our time with.”

“Thanks,” I said, and then, I got my first really good look at him.

“Your brother was at his end; hopeless.  Total despair.  He knew he had squandered every drop of grace, or so it seemed.

But there’s always grace.  Not for him in the huge amounts like it was when he started out, but enough to warm him to the thought of what it must be like in his father’s house.

And he got himself there; and surprisingly for you, he used some of the same effort you have used these last few years.

Grace alone couldn’t do it for him.  Good works alone can’t do it for you.”

The light began to dawn on me, and I suddenly realized what a fool I had been.

“The farm can wait,” he said.

“You need to be in my house.

They are waiting for you there.”