The Champ and Me

June 5, 2016June 6, 2016 / phillipamory / Leave a comment

I’m an unapologetic bandwagoner. I love winners, I root for champions, always have. My favorite sports teams are the Terry Bradshaw Steelers, Joe Montana 49’rs, Tom Brady Patriots, Dr. J 76’rs, Magic Johnson Lakers, MJ Bulls. People who are part of dynasty building, larger than life, confident, cocky, defiant, relishing the big stage and the bigger moments, these are the people I cheer for. My youthful infatuation with Muhammed Ali was no different. From the basement of my WASP childhood home I turned on the 19″ B&W television, adjusted the tin foil on the rabbit ears until the reception was adequate, and watched with fascination as this upstart African American lit up the screen. As if I was trying to learn the latest dance craze, I memorized and imitated the choreography of Ali’s dance around the ring while flicking the jab relentlessly to helpless opponents, culminating with the Ali shuffle.

My middle brother Mark is 4 years older than I, and it was he who turned me on to Ali. On fight nights, he and I would stay up listening to the radio call, wild with anticipation, hanging on to every word from Howard Cosell, villainizing every opponent, dancing with joy with each victory, sitting in stunned disbelief at the rare defeat. When the big fights were not played live over the radio, we would have to wait for the morning paper to give us the fight news. Mark would cut out the story and put the clipping in an old shoebox. Eventually, Mark gifted those clippings to me when we were still kids, and I reverently taped each story to my scrapbook for safe keeping.

Today I went up into the attic and pulled down the dusty storage container that holds my childhood memories – old record albums, school trophies, one framed picture, and a faded scrapbook. I hadn’t opened the book in years and many of the pages were worn and stuck together. I flipped through the pages with the care of a wide-eyed scholar opening an ancient manuscript. Below is a sampling of the classics.

I closed the scrapbook and pulled out that vintage picture frame… It had been displayed proudly in my bedroom until I moved out of my parent’s house and got married.

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I stare at the picture and wonder what it was about this man, this picture, that so captured my imagination. What made me frame and hold on to this moment in history? It didn’t take me long to figure out that this is who I have always wanted to be – confident, outspoken, fearless, big dreamer, man of conviction, heart of a champion, soul of a servant, maybe misunderstood and even hated for political and religious stances, but nonetheless loved and admired worldwide.

It may be an esoteric reach, but in a moment of clarity I see myself as the champ in this picture… and I see myself as the helplessly vulnerable man on the mat. There are glimpses of who I was created to be, and then what I allow myself to become. Flashes of courage met by self doubt, instances of bravery that succumb to unintended cowardice. Prophetically I see a time when I too look down on that lesser me and with the same look of defiance, dare that person to ever get up again.

The framed picture and the scrapbook are safely tucked away on the attic shelf now, but my thoughts linger. Once again Ali has emerged to challenge me, inspire me, provoke me, to be the very best me.

“Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they’ve been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.”

― Muhammad Ali

Accuser and Accused

July 7, 2015July 7, 2015 / phillipamory / Leave a comment

An often told story in the Bible is of a provocative encounter between Jesus, the religious teachers of the day, and a woman who has been caught in the act of adultery. There are a lot of layers to this staged event, and it has very little to do with a sexual offense. The orthodox leaders are on a mission to trick Jesus into saying something that they can use against him. The woman is merely a convenient pawn in this power play. The loaded question presented is: This woman has been caught in the act of adultery, the law says to stone her, what do you say? You already know how the story ends… Jesus doesn’t play their silly game, but rather starts drawing in the ground and then challenges the one who is without sin to cast the first stone. Foiled again, the teachers drop their stones and sulk off. Jesus then looks at this woman, says that he does not condemn her, and tells her to go and sin no more…

This story has come back to me again and again over recent days. The painful truth that I’ve come to recognize is that we all play the role of the accusers and the accused. There are issues that I feel strongly about and I hear things that stir my sensibilities and I reach for the stones with clenched fists because I’m right and God is on my side – I am the accuser. There are things in my life that I’m not proud of, willful decisions that I have made that have hurt people, at times acting with uncaring insensitivity to those in need around me. My conscience drags me into the street, strips me of dignity and pride, and exposes me for the world to see – I am the accused.

The power in this story and the reason that it resonates is because the accusers are convicted and the accused is released. This is a profound life lesson about motive, and self examination, forgiveness and reconciliation. In times like this when I recognize that I can no longer stand up to the scrutiny of being the accuser, I’m tempted to offer a parting shot to the accused to “sin no more”, as if I must get in the last word on the moral high-ground. God has never looked at sin as a behavior issue, it’s always a heart issue, and a casual reading of the Sermon on the Mount is a humbling reminder to me that God is not impressed with the physical constraints I offer up to humanity as a sign of my goodness. I do believe that when Jesus looked into the eyes of this humiliated woman he saw into her very soul – and when he said, go and sin no more, it had nothing to do with the act of adultery. What he wanted to convey to her, and to me, is that the sin is not in the action but in the heart condition that creates the outward manifestation. This woman lived in a culture that relegated females to second class status, to be seen and not heard, be enjoyed and then cast aside. She no doubt learned to believe that she could make a man treat her differently, make a man love her, cherish her, see something special about her, if only she gave herself completely over to him. Jesus knew the culture, had personally bucked the system by making the female outcasts part of his inner circle, and now his plea is for this woman, in this moment, to grasp her worth not on the basis of what her neighbors think of her, but what her Creator thinks of her. She was created by God to live a life of fulfillment and purpose and meaning, and she had allowed the world to blind her to those divine attributes in exchange for shame, guilt, and self loathing. Her sin and mine, is to miss our true identity – to live a life dictated by cultural expectations, locked in a spiral of regret and remorse. The command is not to ‘stop doing’ but to ‘start believing’.

I stand before you today as the accuser and the accused, and both break my heart. I desperately want to drop the stones and unclench my fists – I cling to the truth that God created me in his image, to be special, to matter, to love, and to be loved.

My Year, My Story…

November 8, 2014October 29, 2020 / phillipamory / 6 Comments

November is naturally a time of reflection – tree leaves have left their autumn glory, the night comes quicker, and a favorite sweatshirt takes the place of shorts and flip-flops. The pending Thanksgiving holiday forces us to put aside our trivial grievances and be grateful for the people in our lives and the things that we so easily take for granted.

I had the year that a dad could only dream of. Both of my amazing daughters got married within 6 months of each other. I had the unbelievable twice-in-a-lifetime opportunity to preside over both ceremonies.

I had the year that a son could only dread. I watched helplessly as my mom heroically fought but ultimately lost a bizarre and complex fight for her life.

These intertwined milestone events and subsequent range of emotions has left me strangely void of the ability to articulate in words, the depth of my thoughts. I imagine myself as a struggling painter who has a vision in his mind that he wants to convey but has no idea where to dip the brush into the color palette or where to put the first stroke on the canvas. Somewhere in this abstract, I hope to find the story.

My dad chronicled mom’s illness from the beginning, and his journal entry for the new year stated the following:

The Hospice assessor came today to check Loreen’s progress. She concluded that Loreen had reached a plateau, as far as physical and occupational therapy are concerned, and therefore therapy services would be discontinued. The nursing, and nurse assistant services will be continued. Loreen is gradually becoming weaker, and more confused, symptoms which have been prevalent in the past when she has had urinary tract infection.

This was a typical day in my hometown of Lynchburg, Virginia that would repeat itself in peaks and valleys for the next 7 months.

Meanwhile, the typical day in North Carolina was filled with wedding portraits, vendor contracts, table settings, and decor…

In March of 2013 Trenton proposed to Lauren in Wilmington, NC. They were high school sweethearts who had weathered the long distance challenges of college and the Marine Corps. A wedding date was set for the following March. Jackie and I were over the moon with excitement as we anticipated and planned for the big day.

Lauren’s Wedding Shower in Lynchburg

On February 2nd, my extended family in Lynchburg hosted a wedding shower for Lauren.

It was an incredibly special day for all of us – that mom could not only attend but looked and felt good. It was a time of expectation and hope. We made arrangements for mom and dad to travel to Raleigh for the wedding.

Lauren and Trenton’s wedding was held on March 15th at the Stockroom, on Fayetteville St. in downtown Raleigh. That morning, I was at the venue helping with last minute preparations when I got a call from my dad telling me that mom was not doing well and they were not going to be able to make the trip. I wasn’t surprised but I felt an immediate pang in my heart and a lump in my throat that I pushed back.

From the St. Patrick’s Day festival that was happening right outside the Stockroom doors, to the looks of adoring glances stole by the bride and groom, the wedding was truly magical. The place and time, the vibe, good friends and family, all came together in a confluence of celebration. The absence of my mom and dad cast a slight shadow – and at one point in the service, my voice gave way to the gravity of the moment as I reminded the couple of their heritage of faithful love:

Lauren – your grandma and grandpa just celebrated 61 years of what it means to be there each other “for better or worse, in sickness and in health”. For the last 30 years, your mom and I have been soul mates in marriage.

As I said those words, I thought about the reserved empty chair in the front row that had my mom’s name on the placard. Like a time lapse movie playing in front of my glistening eyes, precious family moments flooded my consciousness. The night before, at the rehearsal dinner, I had given Lauren this note written on a napkin.

Lauren, years ago I would pack your lunch for school. The brown bag would be loaded with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a baggy of chips, a fruit snack, a nutty bar, and a napkin. The napkin would have a message from me that I hoped would brighten your day and inspire you. Those days are long behind you, but I thought this might be a good time for one more napkin message. I’m so happy for you, and feel so blessed to be a part of your wedding day. It’s tough to think of losing my baby girl to the care and responsibility of another man, but I know Trenton will take good care of you. You were born for this moment and I’m so very proud of you. You’ve been a most wonderful daughter, you’re an amazing teacher, and you will be an incredible wife and mom. I can’t wait to see how your life continues to play out. If you ever get discouraged or need an encouraging word, you know I’ll always be here for you. No matter what you need or when you need it, I’m only a call or a text away – Know that our hearts are eternally connected. So go and be a big girl now, do big girl things – but I’ll be watching from a distance and smiling with love and pride, at my baby girl.

Love, Dad

The day is a blur but as I look back at the pictures, the one common element in every frame, is pure joy – a joy that allows you to dance without inhibition, to hug a little longer and a bit tighter, to laugh till you hurt, and to push the cares of the world aside for a moment. Every moment of that day reminded me of how very fortunate I was to to be a part of the giving and receiving of such passion.

My 51st birthday was April 23rd, and Jay’s plan was to ask Amanda if she would agree to be his wife, the night of my celebration dinner out – on the 26th. The evening got unexpectedly complicated (we can laugh about it now) and Jay ended up proposing the next morning. Little did we know that Amanda would opt for an abbreviated engagement, exactly 6 months from her sister’s wedding! Wedding plans were put into overdrive with a chosen destination venue of picturesque Addison Farms Vineyard in Asheville, NC.

Soon we were having the déjà vu experience of driving back to Lynchburg for the extended family wedding shower – this time for Amanda and Jay. I remember having the radio on and hearing the song Say Something by A Great Big World. I was listening to the lyrics and thinking of mom, and tears quickly clouded up my vision as I drove… the collision of my overwhelming joy for Amanda and my sense of gloom over mom’s suffering was too much.

And I – will swallow my pride
You’re the one that I love, and I’m saying goodbye
Say something I’m giving up on you
And I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you
And anywhere I would have followed you, oh
Say something I’m giving up on you

My dad’s journal entry for that day was as follows:

On Sunday the 13^th , Mandy was having a wedding shower, and everyone came here for lunch, four generations were represented. Loreen had a downturn that morning and couldn’t get out of bed . Each one came in and spoke to her, and she acknowledged their presence…

Before leaving the house, dad called Amanda and Jay into the bedroom where mom was, to give them their wedding gift. It was a Bible that was inscribed with a special message, and mom roused long enough to hug them and tell them they were loved.

Six days later I was back in that same bedroom holding on to my mom’s hand as she took her last breath. My sister Amy laid across the bed, her head on mom’s chest, having released her dearest and best friend to a better place. My brothers, with their wives, and my niece, clung to mom and grieved. My greatest encourager, Jackie, held onto me as I held tightly to mom’s hand. I was as much relieved that her struggle was over, as I was sad. I had the high honor of offering the eulogy at mom’s funeral.

Time stops for no one… and so, on ThursdaySeptember 11th we packed up as much stuff as we could fit into my Jeep and headed to Asheville for wedding weekend #2. My daughter Amanda, is the consummate planner and risk avoider. She had talked her sister out of the notion of an outdoor wedding and had been adamant that she would never put her wedding day at odds with the whims of mother nature. Things don’t always happen the way we envision them – Note the picture of a tent being assembled for an outdoor wedding…

The Weather Channel app had a million hits that week and they were all from me. The weather in Asheville is unpredictable at best, but when we got heavy rain the night of the rehearsal dinner, I went to Amanda and said – “so… if it starts to pour down rain in the middle of the service do you want me to just pronounce you man and wife and make a run for it, or what?” We decided to ‘believe’ for good weather, and made no exit strategy.

Nothing helps to heal a gaping emotional wound like the soothing salve of love. Our family found an abundance of it in a beautiful cabin situated on 20 acres of stunning mountain and river vistas. The cabin slept 16 and we tried to fill it up. Many of my extended family stayed with us, including my dad, who would take long reflective walks in the morning before anyone else was awake. We talked a little about mom and how she would have loved to have been with us, but I kept her conspicuous absence at arms length. On Saturday morning, Amanda wandered into our empty bedroom and sprawled across the bed with her furry four legged child, Finley. As she lay there contemplating the day, the sun broke through the mountain clouds and shone brightly on her face. In that moment she knew in her spirit that God was going to show her favor on this day.

The bride’s maids all arrived for a festive brunch and retreated to the basement family room for hair and makeup preparations. I sheepishly walked down the stairs, realizing that I was intruding on this sacred space. I half apologized to the wedding party as I explained that Mandy and I have a common interest that I don’t share with my male friends, our appreciation of Oprah and her Super Soul Sundays. We’ve been inspired by the likes of Brene Brown, Dr. Wayne Dyer, Elizabeth Gilbert and others and who have spawned many deep philosophical conversations between us. I had picked up a book at Barnes and Noble entitled What I know for Sure – The back cover had this Oprah inscription:

“I know for sure: Your journey begins with a choice to get up, step out, and live fully.”

That was my prayer – that she and Jay would live fully and fearlessly, that they would dream big and then step headlong into those dreams, to live them out.

In spite of Amanda’s revelation, we arrived at Addison Farms with ominous clouds overhead. I walked the majestic vineyard and felt a deep spiritual connection with creation. Whether a fanciful notion of my conjuring, or a cosmic reality – I can’t say for sure – but I felt my mom’s presence with me, and I spoke to her for the first time since being at her death bed.

The guests assembled under the tent, the wedding party entered, I walked Amanda down the aisle and took my place, to begin the ceremony. It was beautiful and intimate, and I was able to keep my composure, until I followed a reading of the love chapter in 1 Corinthians 13. My voice broke as I choked back the tears and repeated the words that I had haltingly spoke to Lauren and Trenton:

Amanda – your grandma and grandpa celebrated 61 years of what it means to be there for each other “for better or worse, in sickness and in health”. Today I believe Grauma has the very best view of this blessed day, and is smiling on you.

The moisture in the clouds was so thick that I could feel the dampness on my hands, but not a single drop of rain fell. I knew in my heart that this was mom’s wedding gift to Amanda – that somehow she had cut a deal with God and it was NOT going to rain on this day, in this vineyard!

The story is far from over – for my daughters, it’s just beginning – but for now, I’ve done all I can do with this painting. I let the brush take me where it willed, and it is woefully incomplete. I cannot begin to untangle the overlapping hues of elation and despair, love and loss, release and connection. I’m grateful and thankful that I was a part of these moments. There have been times when I was so full of joy that I was sure my physical body could not contain it. There have been times when I could not stop the tears that dripped into my heavy heart. But this is my year, this is my story…

“To love someone fiercely, to believe in something with your whole heart, to celebrate a fleeting moment in time, to fully engage in a life that doesn’t come with guarantees – these are risks that involve vulnerability and often pain. But, I’m learning that recognizing and leaning into the discomfort of vulnerability teaches us how to live with joy, gratitude and grace.”
― Brené Brown, The Gifts of Imperfection

This past weekend we were back in Lynchburg to celebrate Jackie’s birthday. My brother Steve went to the cabinet where the family photo albums are kept, to do some reminiscing. To our surprise, among the albums were four individual packets of bundled up memories – one for each of mom’s kids. Like a child at Christmas, I sifted through the old keepsakes that mom had stowed away – school programs, my little league baseball picture, and a poem that I had written for her 41 years ago…

Me and Mom…

Going Home

May 17, 2013June 22, 2013 / phillipamory / Leave a comment

In his novel You Can’t Go Home Again, Thomas Wolfe wrote:

“You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood … back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of fame … back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.”

I left my hometown of Lynchburg, Virginia, 20 years ago this July. My wife and I packed up our 6 and 4 year old daughters and all of our worldly possessions and moved to North Carolina, never looking back. Though less than a 3 hour drive, we rarely made it back to the Commonwealth, beyond the annual pilgrimage at Thanksgiving and Christmas. We were busy with homework, and soccer, and cheerleading; church on Sunday – no time for the commute north.

Today I found myself back in my hometown of Lynchburg. I made the journey alone, driving on stretches of road that I could close my eyes and navigate. My destination was Lynchburg General Hospital. The patient was my mom. She has been sick for sometime with a non-functioning gall bladder, exacerbated by Addison’s Disease. Thankfully the surgery went well.

I left the hospital with the plan to make an immediate return to North Carolina but reflective thoughts of the experience with mom made me detour. I drove streets that 20 years prior had been so familiar but now seemed vague. Unchanged landmarks intertwined with the “new and improved”.

I drove past the Baptist church I was raised in and recalled “walking the aisle” at the age of 5 and being baptized at age 6. Attached to the church was the pre-school that I attended, and where my mom taught 3 and 4 years olds as a labor of love for nearly 30 years.

I drove on to the first house that Jackie and I purchased together. Jackie’s mom worked tirelessly on it before we were married and made sure it was move-in-ready when we returned from our honeymoon. My oldest daughter’s nursery was in that small second bedroom, and my beloved dog Roscoe is buried at the tree line on the edge of the property.

I kept driving till I reached the second home we lived in as a young family. My younger daughter got the benefit of a nicer nursery, and somewhere there is an old video of her taking her first steps on wobbly legs while singing some indiscernible tune. The old shed that I kept my stuff in was still there, and the bushes I planted were mature. The patch of earth that I could never get grass to grow on was still bare, and that made me smile.

I had one last stop, to make the journey complete… I stood in front of the brick rancher where I lived from age 4 till I was married at age 20. Memories of climbing trees, shooting hoops in the driveway, camping out in the backyard, all flashed before my eyes. When it was finally time to downsize, Mom and Dad sold the home place to my big brother. It’s great that the house is still in the family, but like those vaguely familiar roads, the structure is the same, but the feeling is different.

I reflected back to a poignant moment earlier that morning in the hospital recovery room… mom had just been settled in, and her kids in turn greeted her with a relieved kiss. Dad waited patiently, but soon gravitated to her side and simply put his hand on her cheek and held it there. It was a moment etched in my mind and I was instantly gripped by this incredible image of love that I felt and knew so well. Dad’s heavy sigh seemed an attempt to exhale out all of the anxiety that he had been holding in. In that simple gesture there was a felt current of connection between them – a shared gaze, a lifetime of commitment. My throat clenched as I realized that this was my inheritance, I had been shown how to love deeply.

I backed out of the driveway and pointed my Jeep toward North Carolina. My incredible wife of nearly 30 years, and my two amazing daughters were there. Weddings will take place and my grandkids will be born there. There, is where I want to be… but remnants of me remain scattered in the place – I called home.