trish hermanson

My hero is a loser.
     Every way he tried to find happiness and purpose failed. A broken marriage. A broken career. Broken political dreams. A broken reputation. And broken health, leaving this once handsome man bent and blind.
     He thought he could create paradise on Earth, but everything let him down one way or another.
Isn't that how life is? We put our hope in a social movement; it falls short. Or in politicians; they break promises. Or a business venture; it takes more than it gives. Or in love and friendship; people hurt us. Or we knock ourselves out at work, and no one fully appreciates our sacrifice.
     Futility dogs us. Even my carefully tended landscaping sprouts weeds.
     The best in life eventually leaves us aching for more.
     Author C.S. Lewis explains this discontent: “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” Only in that other realm, God’s paradise, will everything be whole. Perfect. Complete.
     That’s why John Milton is my hero. When this Seventeenth Century writer grasped that nothing would completely satisfy, he wrote “Paradise Lost.” It landed in the trashcan of obscurity.
     Not until after his death did critics recognize it as the greatest English epic poem ever crafted. But such praise wouldn’t have mattered to Milton anymore. He’d already graduated to the land of absolute fulfillment.
  Which leaves me wondering whether I’m searching for utopia here, or there.

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How General Jackson Helps 'Conduct' My Ways

7/12/2019

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Who would guess that what I’m learning in choir would help to set a course for my life?
     But that’s what occurs through my choral director, a spry woman of eighty-nine sometimes called General Jackson. Jo Ann warns that singing is boring if we punch out every word at the same volume. The gentle general says we need dynamics, variations between a whisper and a crescendo.
     Through her graciousness in teaching music, Jo Ann demonstrates that even though I can’t orchestrate life completely, I can sometimes pick up the baton and direct the music of my days. If I constantly throw myself into a frenzied forte, I exhaust myself. I need times of pianissimo - quiet.
     Just as notes are organized into measures, I can arrange my activities so I’m not overwhelmed - schedule.
     I can pay attention to the tempo and declare when I need a rest note - a break.
     And I can give myself grace notes, those unnecessary flourishes that add richness - chocolate?
     So how am I “conducting” my days and my energy? Am I creating a symphony with this God-given treasure of time?
     Every life is worth it.

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At my county courthouse, not even Thomas Jefferson could keep me from the bright light of justice. I was among the potential jurors, and frankly, none of us wanted to be there. We’d had to shift work responsibilities, find child care, bend schedules.
But there we were, ages twenty-one to seventy. Among us a bar tender, a nurse, a student, a home renovator, a tutor, a writer, a man with a runny nose, and a woman with a cleavage deeper than the Grand Canyon. Nothing would normally bring us together, except we were all randomly selected from the same judicial district in Jefferson County.
     Yet in our hands lay the fate of a man across the room, his eyes cast down. Was he innocent? Guilty? Whatever we decided would change his life forever. That’s what made me realize that we, the people - ordinary folks in jeans and tie dye - wielded more power than the Robe behind the bench and the Suits behind their desks.
Sometimes we simple folk think we lack power. That we don’t have a voice. But in a courtroom, we wield the authority to deliver justice for all.
  The verdict wasn’t in yet for the defendant, but one thing was clear: I had an awesome responsibility, one that made me proud to be there.

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At an aquarium, I met an axolotl, a salamander that is doomed to remain in the water because it doesn’t matur fully, and I wondered whether I’m sometimes an axolotl.
During metamorphosis, this strange creature loses its tail fin and develops legs, but continues breathing through gills. It’s stuck in the water while other salamanders climb onto land and breath fresh air.
     I get stuck in the waters of immaturity sometimes, too. Like when I don’t accept responsibility for my words - whether they build up or tear down. Or my actions - whether they hurt or heal. Or my time - whether I give it freely or hoard it. Or my finances - whether I invest wisely or consume it all. Or my relationships - whether I encourage or discourage.
     None of us remains fully adult. We dip in and out of immaturity, perhaps because our self awareness is as blurry as murky water. As Fifteenth Century writer Thomas à Kempis says, “We rebuke small faults in others but overlook greater faults in ourselves.”
     What a breath of fresh air when I choose to be grown up.
     But it is a choice that requires amazing grace.
     *** Photo: Stan Shebs, Steinhart Aquarium, San Francisco.

Congratulations to Doug Reents, who bid the highest for lunch with me, and whose bid goes to JeffCo Eats, which provides food for kids who sometimes find their pantry bare. Between Doug's bid and others who donated outright to jeffcoeats.org, we raised more than $200. I just popped into the mail a Panera gift card for Doug because we don't live in the same community. Enjoy!

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