Matters That Matter: A President’s Final Plan; My Teachers Series

Teachers are an important part of my life. Early on I learned to seek them out. Welcome them when they appeared. Thank them for finding me. Accept their teachings. See the meaning in our shared experiences. Below I honor a teacher of mine.

Bush.001The events memorializing former President George H. W. Bush were solemn and pageantry-rich. Much like the events memorializing the 38 presidents who preceded him in death. This is not surprising since Bush, like his predecessors, had, soon after taking office, helped put in place the plan for the events  following his death that commemorated his life and presidency.

Bush’s plan—thick, thorough, and quite specific—contained details for assorted arrivals and departures and the requisite trips by train, plane, and motorcade. It set aside time for his casket to lie in state at the US Capitol. Arranged for a state funeral at the National Cathedral and a private one at St. Martin’s Episcopal Church in Houston (funeral site for Bush’s wife, and former first lady, Barbara who died last April). According to the plan, interment was to be at the George Herbert Walker Bush Presidential Library in College Station, Texas. Where he would lay alongside Barbara and their daughter Robin.

In the plan there were requests unique to Bush and his family. Naming people to eulogize, sing, read, and officiate. Specifying songs and scriptures. Among the requests, was a provision calling for Sully, his service dog and “member of the family”to sit by his casket. As well as for the Oak Ridge Boys to sing Amazing Grace, and granddaughters to do readings at the state funeral.

Each event and every transition had a time, a location, and a person in charge. All designed—as has been the custom since the death of our Nation’s first president George Washington—for putting aside partisan differences, forgiving faults, honoring contributions, and celebrating the shared history of a presidency.

Since first drafting his plan nearly 30 years ago, Bush would periodically review it. And if he wanted revise and update the plan. The final review took place shortly before his passing at home in Houston, Texas on November 30.

The up-to-date status of the plan affords us a glimpse into what—at the end of a life that ranged from the skies of the Pacific during World War II to the Oval Office at the end of the Cold War to a heavenly reunion with Barbara his beloved wife of 73 years—mattered most to our 41stpresident.

Such a glimpse reveals that character mattered to Bush. Not just at the end of his life, but throughout. In an early letter to his mother, Bush laid out what he expected of himself, “Tell the truth. Don’t blame people. Be strong. Do your Best. Try hard. Forgive. Stay the course. All that kind of thing.” That kind of thing that he expected of himself was, in life, a source of much inspiration for those of us who worked for him, and in death, fertile fodder for tributes, anecdotes, and fond remembrances of a special man.

Doing good mattered to Bush too. As recent events and tributes made so clear, public service was a high calling for Bush. And politics were his chosen means for doing good. Conciliation, common sense, dignity, navigating the extremes, and love of country were the hallmarks of the ways that Bush did good.A prolific note-writer, Bush was unrepentantly respectful, even of media.

During the service at the National Cathedral, as tears flowed freely down the faces of family, friends, and colleagues, it was by plan, not accident, that every eulogist Bush had personally selected used their limited time to remind folks that humor was a serious matter for their former president, friend, and father

In a history making eulogy, George W. Bush said of his father, “He loved to laugh, especially at himself. He could tease and needle, but never out of malice. He placed great value on a good joke…” And friend and former Senator Alan Simpson said, “The punch line for George Herbert Walker Bush is this, you would have wanted him on your side. He never lost his sense of humor. Humor is the universal solvent against the abrasive elements of life.”

Of the many things that mattered to Bush, family was the one that mattered most. It was the north star of his life. He was at the center of his family. They—6 children and wife Barbara—were the center of his universe. The family house on Walker’s Point in Kennebunkport, Maine was their refuge.

It is a high tribute to Bush that his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren effusively express love and admiration for their Poppy. Calling him a “man of the highest character” and “the greatest human being that I will ever know.”

It is human nature to remember the last thing a person does. In the case of George H.W. Bush, him finalizing a plan for the events I, like you, experienced following his death gave me much to remember about what mattered to the man and in his life. He also gave me much to ponder about my life and myself. And what learned from him.


Note: This is the 3rd post in the My Teachers series. Please click the subscribe button on the right side of the blog page to be notified of future posts.

A TOUCH OF FORGIVENESS – The Heartland Series

In the deep recesses of my mind, tucked away in a well-protected crevasse is Heartland. Memories of my boyhood reside there. It is a place where a boy’s picturesque view of his world makes time stand still. I do not often go there, but when I do a warm memory always welcomes me. Let’s go there now. A memory of my boyhood is waiting for us.

The Methodist Church of Corydon, Iowa sits on the northeast corner of the intersection of North DeKalb and West Jackson streets. A steeple accentuates its grey-shingled roofline. Stained glass windows soften its red brick walls. A rose-shaped one distinguishes its front side. On which a thick, wooden door serves as the primary entrance to the church.

Standing at the door, I read, yet again, the note left on the kitchen table for me this morning. “Meet me at the parish office, 9:00 AM,” it says. Scribbled below the words is…Reverend M. E. Weston.

At  8:58 AM, I pull the door open. Step through it into the church lobby. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I find my way across the lobby. I pass an empty coat rack. Step around the bin for donated clothes. Go by the table on which a display of the Upper Room rests. Head up the stairs to the hallway that leads to sanctuary. Then stop at the door to the parish office.

At precisely 9:00 AM, I take a deep breath then knock on the door. It opens decisively. Leaving me standing face-to-face with Dad. Looking at him—formally dressed in a black suit, starched white shirt, and tie—I realize the man before me is the minister of the church, not dad.

“Mark Edward, I’ve been expecting you,” he says. “Please come in.” Pointing to a chair in front of a large desk, he tells me to sit there. As I settle in, he walks around the desk. Then seats himself in a large desk chair on rollers on the opposite side of the desk from me. Eyes on me, he leans forward. Puts his elbows on the desk. Intertwines his fingers and clasps his hands together.

“Mark Edward, is there something you need to tell me?” he says. Heart beating rapidly, breathing laboriously my eight year-old mind races madly. “What is it I need to tell him?” I wonder. Could it be my messy room? Not cleaning Major’s poop from the yard? The pranks I play on Pamela? Not lifting the lid when I pee?

“Come now, Mark Edward, tell me what you’ve done,” he says. My mind fills with an assortment of indiscretions. Could it be my not eating the Brussels sprouts Mom served at dinner last Sunday? Wearing my underwear for three straight days? Not doing my math homework? My head about to explode with possibilities, I silently pray, “Great God in heaven, tell me, please, what have I done?”

A calm settles over me. Me being here, in this office, with the minister of the church, I conclude that what he seeks from me must be church related. Focusing, I think about the times I misbehaved during the Sunday service? The time I was late to Sunday school because I was outside playing in the snow with my dog Major? Perhaps it is about me plugging up the toilet, or drinking the grape juice for communion?

Interrupting my church-related-list-running reverie, he says, “Tell me what you’ve done, there will be no punishment. Truthfulness is the path to forgiveness.” Oh, how at this moment I so need forgiveness. But for which of my many transgressions should I seek it?

Sitting here, before him, my mouth is suddenly dry. I lick my parched lips. The rubbing of tongue on lip triggers a memory of the candy bars—a maple flavored Bun and a Zagnut bar—I ate yesterday afternoon. Each cost me ten cents at the Rexall drug store, on the square, downtown.

Thoughts arise within me of the table in the church lobby on which copies of the Upper Room are for sale. How the booklet is the basis for the daily devotions of the women of the church and an integral part of their monthly Prayer Chain meeting. On the table is a small, square, wooden box with a hinged top and clasp. In has a one-inch slit. Through which each woman who takes an Upper Room, slides a dime.

Tears welling up in my eyes, I know what warrants me being here. Realization turns to words. “I took two dimes from the box,” I say. Tears cascading down my cheeks, I lean forward, face in hands, elbows on knees. A few seconds later, a hand touches my shoulder. I look up. There is Dad, with tears in his eyes.

On this trip to Heartland, the memory that greets my arrival involves two candy bars, a donation box, and the minister of the church. It is a lesson about truthfulness, confession’s soul cleansing affects, and the power of forgiveness. Me realizing that discomforts from being devious arise from my desire to be virtuous. That living truthfully requires I confront such discomforts, and by so doing diminish my devious nature.

On a deeper level, I have come to understand that the encounter in the parish office was about the roles each of us must play. That Dad is sometimes Dad; other times the minister of the church. That sometimes I am son, other times parishioner. That sometimes roles overlap. When they do, it takes great care to preserve the unique goodness of each role, while honoring the possibility of new roles emerging.

Moreover, I now recognize that inherent in each role we play, should we care to see it, is a lesson. In the case of Dad and me, the lesson is about coming forth from a place of love. Being resolute, yet yielding. Teaching while learning.

For these reasons, this time as I leave Heartland, my heart carries a newfound sense of gratitude for the way Dad’s hand on my shoulder planted seeds of love within me that to this day continue to blossom. With each bloom that comes forth I think of him. And of the meaningful moment we shared in the office of the minister of the church.

Mark Edward

Note: This is the 27th post in the Heartland Series. Please click the subscribe button on the right side of the blog page to be notified of future posts.



There is a place where dreams are born and return to die. Puffy clouds caress its snowcapped peaks. Stars dance across its night sky. Each day has a spectacular sunrise and sunset. Here in DreamLand—amidst rocks, icy streams, stately pine trees, and noble wildlife—people like us connect with the source. Come there with me now. A story wants to be heard.

In the Rocky Mountain National Park, at a place called the Pool. Atop a bridge made of rough-hewn logs. I watch the Big Thompson River find its way along the steep rock walls that define this place.

I think about the river’s origin. High up on the western side of the park, east of the continental divide. Where Terra Tomah and Sundance mountains intersect and the headwaters of the river reside. There, fed by snowmelt and overflow from nearby lakes, the river goes forth. Rushing downward along sculpted mountainsides, hurrying through carved-out canyons.

Downstream, five miles or so, the river encounters the Pool. There, it begins slowly encircling itself. With each loop, the rush and hurry of the river give way to depth and reflectivity. Every lap becomes a silent tribute to the Pool’s transformative power.

While the Pool has its way with the river, my thoughts turn to the Heartland, home of my headwaters. Where backyards are ball fields, trees wait climbing, doors have no locks, and cornrows go on forever. How from there, my loving parents, and the good people of Corydon, Iowa sent me forth with aspirations born of blanket forts, campouts, and vacation bible school. Filled with dreams. Fueled by hope. Seeking a future jam-packed with service and accomplishment.

Now, here at the Pool my mind begins circling itself. Ever-tightening laps give rise to thoughts about how, between the then of my headwaters and the now of the Pool, disappointment dampened my aspirations. Despair displaced my hope. Realities of the present burst apart my dreams of the there and then.

The loops of my mind join those of the river in the Pool. Creating a reflection of my face on its glassy surface. As I look at my mirrored image, tears moisten my eyes. Squinting, I see wrinkles of despair. Mouth edges pulled downward by long-since-passed realities. Neck and shoulders stooped from the weight of disappointment, frustration, and regret.

I think about how, battered, disfigured, and disenchanted from the trail-of-my-life, I retired here to the Colorado Mountains. Wanting to be alone. Trying to forget the past. Seeking to find solace in solitude of the tundra. Communing with trees and wildlife. My once busy days now filled with meandering hikes along rock-strewn trails to remote destinations, such as the Pool.

I look at the reflection. It looks at me. In an instant we both realize that despite the affordances of the mountains, the pain of the past still haunts me. At this insight, a Breeze ruffles across the Pool. Erasing the reflection, she whispers, “Deeper Mark Edward, look deeper. Seek the source of your pain.”

Heeding the Breeze’s admonishment, I peer into pool. There I see images of every person who ever hurt or wronged me. To them, I say, “Why me? Didn’t I deserve better?”

Words barely away from my lips, the Breeze again ruffles across the Pool. Her ruffling is more forceful than the last time. She says, “Deeper, Mark Edward. You must go deeper.”

At that, shapes swirling beneath the pool’s surface become visible. I see them for what they are, the shadows of my life. Indignities I felt. Wrongs I received. Sorrow from opportunities pursued but not realized. Regrets about offices not sought, work not finished, and friendships offered but rejected. The words of love, acceptance, and appreciation that I so longed to hear, but never did. The son I wanted, who never came.

The shadows—so raw and unresolved—bring me low. I feel mortal, as though my time has run out. Is this my last stand? What comes next—Alzheimer’s disease, cancer, or diabetes?

Tears flow freely for dreams unrealized and aspirations thwarted. Their saltiness burns my eyes and stings my cheeks. I say, “Oh merciful and compassionate God—end my suffering.” My plea gets no response. Again, I cry out, “Do not forsake me. God take away my suffering.” Granted no reprieve, spent and hopeless I collapse on the bridge. In my blob-like-emotional state, I hear the Breeze say, “Look inside, Mark Edward. Your pain comes from within.”

With that, my insides start churning. Thoughts arise of all the people I hurt in pursuit of the dreams born in my heartland. Memories of times, when in the zeal of aspiration, I was jealous, envious, or petty. The ways I ruthlessly betrayed, mistreated, or neglected colleagues, friends, family-members, and bystanders. Their screams, moans, and cries now reverberate in my head. Guilt overcomes me. Things go blank.

I have no idea how much time passes, but some time later, the shaking of my body wakens me. Weak and confused, I look around. Noticing that the bridge on which I stand is dry. However, my clothes, skin, and hair are wet. My body shivers to stave off hypothermia.

The river and pool are mostly dark. Lit only by a star reflecting on their waters. Looking up, I see the star is Polaris, the North Star. In her light, I get some food and dry clothes from my backpack. I replace wet clothes with dry ones. Eat two Odwalla bars. Sip some Gatorade. Then, warmed and fed, I place my wet clothes on the handrails of the bridge.

As my energy returns, I think about this day. How, I, like the river, was sent forth into the world from a headwater. To hike a path that is sometimes perilous. Unaware that my response to perils, not the perils, will define me, determine what I accomplish, and where I end up. I think about how I wish I had known, when I left the headwaters of the Heartland, that dreams and aspirations are not free. They have costs. That actions taken along the way, incur tolls. The pain I distribute in a dream’s pursuit, eventually pursues the distributor.

Looking around, I understand that this is the lesson the Breeze has been trying to teach me. That being here—in the mountains, at the Pool, with the river—came at tremendous cost to me, people who love me, and countless others. How, I would not be here had I had no pain and suffering, only success. That teachers and guides, such as the Breeze, help me withstand the pain and realize that suffering shapes my character, gives me depth.

With this a feeling of lightness washes over me. I grab a piece of my wet clothing. Holding it over the Pool, I wring it with both hands. Murky droplets fall toward the Pool. Each droplet accepted by the Pool releases a putrid smell of pain, disappointment, and despair.

Transformation complete, pain gone, I recalibrate my internal compass against the constancy of the North Star. With a sense of purpose renewed by her assurances of love and value, I don my backpack. Then, step on the trail. Humbled from facing my pain. Liberated from understanding its source. Compassionate from knowing the pain of living connects all things. A promise in my heart to aid all travellers I encounter. Guided by a moonbeam, I step lively along the trail of life.

Mark Edward

This post is in remembrance of my mother, Murrell Virginia Weston. To whom I am eternally grateful for instilling within me a deep appreciation of the subtleties of life.

Note: This is the first post in the DreamLand series. Please click the subscribe button on the right side of the blog page to be notified of future posts in this and other series.

THE (not so) GREAT WALL – The Sacred Places Series

Since the earliest times, people have ascribed sacred significance to certain places. Such places—whether human made or naturally occurring—typically inspire awe, and often invoke devotion and respect. Not surprisingly many of these places are revered and well known. There are some places, however, that are less known, even hidden. They await discovery. Here I pay homage to a place that has sacred meaning for me.

wall-picture-001I stand atop a flat stone. My feet and legs feel the coldness it radiates. My eyes see that it connects to other equally cold stones. They in turn connect to stones, on and on to make a Great Wall. An expanse—30 feet wide, 25 feet tall, and 13,171-miles long—that coldly splits mountains, plains, and desert. Forming the northern boundary of what was once ancient China.

I think about the Emperors who wanted the wall. The cold, distant manner in which they treated the millions of laborers—soldiers, peasants, and prisoners—who built the wall. How the backs of the laborers must have ached from the tons of bricks, rocks, sand, and dirt they had to carry. That using the simple tools of the time to process these materials would have pained their calloused hands. The way the sweat, blood, and flesh of the laborers bind everything together here. Making each inch and every ounce of the wall a cold, somber, and unspoken tribute to them.

My perseveration on the building of the wall abruptly stops when history grabs my mind. Forcing me to ponder the long forgotten merchants, priests, families, and Silk Road travellers who once stood where I now stand. The countless lives lived and lost here. Empires and eras the wall has shaped. Trade and communication it enabled. Battles fought and deals made on these very stones. How the cold, inert, and unfeeling wall has for over 2300 years affected these things and more.

img_0113-2The west side of the wall pulls me to it. Struggling to keep my fear of heights in check, I nauseously peer over the edge at its steepness. The smooth stone-on-stone patina of the west wall, has no cracks or crevasses into which a finger or toe might fit. Leaving no way for scaling it. Too thick and too hard, there is no way to bore through it. Sending a cold, uncaring message to people outside of the wall—GO AWAY!

On the east side of the wall, I look at its steep and impenetrable capacity for keeping people inside. Coldly insulating them from outside influences and opportunities. Curtailing their mobility. Encouraging collectivity. Quelling rebellion. Stifling creativity. The inside wall is constant reminder to people living here to maintain the status quo.

Walking along the top of the wall, I think about all the energy and resources it has taken to maintain this massive structure for all these years. The constant diligence and never ending attention to detail that doing so requires. How for the wall to fulfill its obligation of keeping people out and in, there must be no softening. For a warming of resolve at one point compromises the integrity of the entire wall.

A gate is the only way to get from one side to the other of an uncompromised wall. Heavily fortified and carefully guarded, gates are located at predictable intervals along the wall. A gate on one side is opposite a gate on the other side, a passageway between them.

img_0106-2People wanting to pass through the wall must first go through one gate. Then pause in the passageway while the gate they just came through is closed. And finally when the gate on the other side opens, they go through it. Passage is not free. Nor, as the tedious steps, tolls, taxes, or tariffs make clear, are the people passing through the gates.

The passageways between most gates have a stairs leading top of the wall. The stone atop the wall on which I have been standing, is near one such stairs. I walk down it to a passageway. Then go out a gate.

Walking away, I think about my life and the walls I erect. How some walls I erect keep me safe, mitigate risk, and preserve health. These I construct from experience and knowledge. They set boundaries of behavior—moderation in food and drink, balance between work and play, acceptable places and relationships to enter, and so on. These walls rest atop a foundation of prudence.

I erect other walls to repel, curtail, and control people with whom I do not want to engage. Many of them are different than me. Others challenge my thinking. Some question my authority. I build these walls with my actions, thoughts, and beliefs. They, like the Great Wall on which I recently stood, tell people to GO AWAY. Emotions and values are the foundation on which such walls rest.

Some walls I erect to prevent people from seeing my true nature. They hide my vulnerabilities, mask my intentions, and help me avoid responsibility. Sublimated needs, kept secrets, and repressed feelings are the building blocks for these walls. Selfishness is the foundation on which I build them.

Continuing to walk, I think about how fears, doubts, and insecurities led me to erect each type of wall. How fear of injury, taking risks, and getting sick prompted me to erect walls of safety. That doubts of being good enough or different compelled me to erect walls that kept people out. And the way my insecurities became a justification for not giving voice to my needs and intentions.

Stopping to look back at the Great Wall one last time, I see the way it coldly splits the countryside. How it enables people on one side to not deal with those on the other side. I think about the walls I erect, how they enable me to avoid dealing with issues within myself. That when confronted by an issue, rather than deal with it then and there I erect a wall.

It has been seven years since I stood atop the Great Wall. I have done my best to apply the lesson I learned there to my life. To see the walls I erect or encounter. Consider why each is there. Call it by its true name. Refuse to maintain it. Let it crumble and fade away.

Mastering this lesson has brought me face-to-face with the cold, hard truth about my walls. They do not curtail people and issues, they curtail me. To bring down walls, acceptance must replace fear, openness must replace doubt, tolerance must supplant small-mindedness,  and giving must replace selfishness. Amidst the present day talk of erecting more and bigger walls, I choose to be accepting, open, tolerant, and giving. What do you choose?


Note: This is the fourth post in the Sacred Places series. Please click the subscribe button on the right side of the blog page to be notified of future posts.

A MAJOR FEAST: Giving, Getting and Taking – The Heartland Series

In the deep recesses of my mind, tucked away in a well-protected crevasse is Heartland. Memories of my boyhood reside there. It is a place where a boy’s picturesque view of his world makes time stand still. I do not often go there, but when I do a warm memory always welcomes me. Let’s go there now. A memory of my boyhood is waiting for us.


On this Sunday morning in 1960, the parsonage of the Methodist Church of Corydon, Iowa is bustling with Christmas activity. There is a dinner to fix, 9:00 AM service to attend, presents to open, and a feast to consume. Dad, Mom, Pamela, and I are each doing our part.

As Pamela and I do our part, Major, my 175-pound, apricot colored mastiff watches us set the dinner table. Put a hand-carved nativity scene mid-table, atop a white tablecloth. Arrange four place settings, each with two forks, china plate, knife (blade toward the plate), two spoons, water goblet, and wine glass. Then add a rolled, bright red napkin exclamation point to each.

Then, in the kitchen, Major watches Mom prepare dinner. She is trying to have every dish ready, or nearly ready, before church, so after church finishing touches will make dinner ready for serving. On the stove, tomato soup simmers in a pot. Peeled potatoes boil in an 8-quart stockpot. Broth for gravy sits in a 2-quart saucepan. And green bean casserole bakes in the oven. With each stir that Mom gives a pot, the drool hanging from Major’s jowls lengthens.

Major’s eyes widen as Mom looks in the refrigerator at the salad bowl containing an apple, raisin, and whipped cream concoction. Then at the smaller bowls holding homemade pickles—cucumber, pepper, and melon. And a plate of neatly aligned deviled eggs, lightly sprinkled with paprika.

When Mom places three loaves of uncut, freshly baked bread—white, cinnamon swirl, and mixed-grain—on a wood platter on the counter, Major fidgets. When she places a big slab of butter on a dish next to the bread, drool streams from both sides of Major’s jowls.

Nearby on the counter are two jars of jam (one rhubarb-strawberry, the other cherry), a jar of crabapple jelly, and one of peach preserves. Beside them are a cherry pie, apple pie, and a platter of homemade cookies, assorted bars, fudge, and two types of divinity. An 8-pound smoked ham sits in a pan on the other side of the counter. When Major see it, splat! His drool hits the floor.

Table set and meal as ready as can be, we head to church. Dad drives. Mom sits beside him, fiddling with her hair. Pamela and I in the backseat, dreaming of what awaits us after church. Major at home.

At the church, Dad, stands in the narthex, greeting parishioners. Mom, Pamela, and I stand beside him. I hear Dad thank the Milners for the eggs they gave our family. Tell Mrs. Gargin how much we appreciate her cinnamon bread. I see Dad embrace Dr. Gramel for giving us a ham.

My ears perk up when Mom gives Francine a hug of thanks for the gift of dill pickles and strawberry-rhubarb jam and inquires about her niece, and my pal, Julie. Next, a thanks for a bushel of apples, follows a thanks for bread and fresh milk, and a thanks for a cherry pie.

On it goes as Dad walks down the aisle to the altar. A nod here, a wink there, acknowledge the generosity of particular parishioner. While during the sermon, Dad, shares God’s word, I look around. People smile, some laugh, and a few cry—as they receive Dad’s gift.

Riding home, warmness pervades the car that has yet to warm up. We speak no words. Giving and getting occupy my thoughts.

Once home, the warmness of the car carries Pamela and me into the living room. There a Christmas tree (a gift) stands guard over a pile packages. Pamela and I sit on the floor, Dad on the couch. Dutifully waiting for Mom to join us, we listen to her bang and clang, open and close, in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on dinner.

Mom’s ear-piercingly-loud “OH NO!” shatters our reverie. We dash to the kitchen. There, Mom stands over Major. Lying on his bed in the kitchen corner, a ham-bone is by his side. Belly swollen, breathing labored, the source of Major’s misery is the 8-pound ham that is now inside him.

A memory about a Christmas long ago waits my arrival at Heartland. It reminds me that a gift’s true value resides not in the item, but in the spirit in which it is given. That personal labor adds value to a gift. As does giving a gift freely with no expectation. That a gift’s value increases when the getter partakes of it joyfully and the giver expresses thanks genuinely. How value grows exponentially when the warmth that a gift generates in the hearts of the receiver and giver warms the hearts people around both.

As for Major, well, miserable Major teaches me a lesson about taking. That some people take because of lust or greed, others take to fulfill what they lack or need. Sometimes, as is the case with Major, people take because of alienation. Regardless of reason, taking breaks trust. Mom leaving the ham on the countertop is an act of trust. Major eating it, broke the trust. I will think twice before doing so again. As this trip to Heartland reminds me, there is a place at the table, part to play, and gifts to receive for every member of our family except Major. Having none, he takes the ham.

Over the years, I have come to see Christmas not as an event but a way of living. That generous gifts of belonging, supporting, and love are what generate the warmth that knows no time or season. Nurturing faith, hope, charity in myself nurtures the same in others. Doing what I can, where I am, with what I have is always my greatest gift.

That day, as I sit at the dinner table, the events of the morning sit with me. I think of each bite as a gift, every morsel the fruit of someone’s labor. How the abundance before me, is, even with no ham, nonetheless major feast. A moan from the kitchen reminds me that I have what I need, no need to take more.


PS. In the year ahead, I will give freely of my gifts and express gratitude for my abundance.

Note: This is the 26nd post in the Heartland Series. Please click the subscribe button on the right side of the blog page to be notified of future posts.

McMurray Hill: A Transcendent Moment – The Heartland Series

In the deep recesses of my mind, tucked away in a well-protected crevasse is Heartland. Memories of my boyhood reside there. It is a place where a boy’s picturesque view of his world makes time stand still. I do not often go there, but when I do a warm memory always welcomes me. Let’s go there now. A memory of my boyhood is waiting for us.

mcmurray-hill-pic-001A deep stillness is there when I wake up. Curious, to understand it, I get out of bed. Go to the bedroom window. Peering through its frosted pane I see trees, yard, and streets smothered by freshly fallen snow.

I rush out of my room, down the hall, to Pamela’s bedroom. There, I quietly open the door. Silently approach the bed in which she is sleeping. Stand as tall as my ten-year old body can stand. Put my lips near her ear, then whisper, “Wake up Pamela. There’s fresh fallen snow. Wake up.”

Pamela, my older sister by three years, opens one eye, then another. An ever so wry smile graces her face. Indicating she understands the significance of my words.

Giddy with excitement I hurry back to my room. Where, off go my pajamas, and on come pair of underwear. A turtleneck slides over my head. I wiggle into a pair of long johns. Then pull on socks, jeans, a wool sweater, and shoes…in that order.

Pamela meets me in the kitchen. We eat the breakfast—oatmeal with raisins, cinnamon, and brown sugar—Mom has waiting for us. After which we each put on galoshes, a scarf, stocking cap, and coat. After putting on my coat, mittens dangling from a string running sleeve to sleeve, I head outside. Leaving Mom to fret over Pamela’s coat and gloves.

When Pamela steps out the back door, she finds me waiting. Astride a slick, five-foot long, brand new, never been used Flexible Flyer. Eager to get going, I fidget as Mom positions Pamela on my sled. After which she wraps a quilt around Pamela’s feet and legs. Satisfied that Pamela is warm and comfortable, Mom sends us on our way. Me pulling, Pamela giggling, we head to McMurray Hill.

Located on the other side of Corydon, about a mile from our house, McMurray Hill is hardly a hill. Too steep to pave and heavily rutted from years of neglect, most of the year no one cares about the hill. That changes in January and February when the hill becomes a treacherous quarter-mile sheet of snow and ice that attracts thrill-seekers from throughout Wayne County flock to its incline.

The thrill-seekers, in turn, attract townsfolk seeking a much-needed diversion from the winter tedium. Wrapped in blankets, they huddle hillside, sipping beverages from thermoses and brown paper covered bottles. Their cheers send forth people on sleds, toboggans, and an occasional car hood. The oohs and ahs they emit mark each slider’s downward progress, or lack thereof. An encounter with a snow pile, tree, or the creek at the hill’s base, earns a slider a grateful round of applause. A string of lights, running top to bottom and back to the top of the hill, gives a festive feeling to the hill

Today the hill attracts Pamela and me. When we arrive, a line of people waits to slide down it. Carefully I help Pamela off the sled. Walk with her to a picnic table, where three of her friends are saving a seat. When I am comfortable that she is comfortable, I add myself to the line. Seven people stand between the hill and me.

My pulse quickens as a boy twice my age launches, slides, and skids off course. My throat tightens as the cheers of the onlookers send Bob, manager of the local Texaco station, off down the hill. Cheers grow louder as he and sled go sideways. Applause erupts when they part ways, tumbling separately to the bottom. My palms become moist when Mrs. Hayes, mother of classmate Emma, takes her turn. Getting a cheer and applause similar to the ones previous sliders got, none of who made it safely to the bottom of the hill.

When my turn comes, my clothes are sweat soaked. Knees wobble from fear, not cold. Stepping to the line, I refuse to look down the hill. Instead I look to Pamela, my dear fragile sister. Her smile erases my doubt. She mouths the words, “Go Mark-E.” A wave of her hand sends me forth with confidence.

Gravity pushes. Speed builds. Time slows. Mind, body, and sled meld together. Leans and weight shifts, not thoughts, respond to bumps and ruts. Down I go. The bottom of the hill rushes toward me then flies by. Up the opposite side of the hill I go. As some deft foot dragging brings my body to a halt, my mind speeds up. Yet, somehow I find the wherewithal to look up at Pamela.

Our eyes lock. The expression on Pamela’s face is unlike any I have seen before. The complete and utter love, admiration, and hope it conveys tell me that I am no longer her little brother. I am at once elated, overwhelmed, and confused. A nod of her head shows she understands my emotions. Her smile tells me that I will be okay. The tears that run down her cheek reveal Pamela’s joyful realization that, from now on, my future is her future.

After gathering my wits, I walk up the hill that I had slid down. The applause of the townsfolk, though loud, passes through me. My thoughts are with Pamela. I think about how as I pull her home, she will giggle and tease me about the accomplishment of this day.

On this trip to Heartland, a memory of sliding down McMurray Hill awaits my arrival. It reminds me how important setting goals and overcoming fears are in achieving success. That looking past the weaknesses and failures of others enables me to transcend fear and achieve success for Pamela and myself.

Going deeper, I recognize that the sled ride down McMurray Hill changed Pamela and my dynamic. How afterwards my going where Pamela could not go expands her world vicariously. Her external fragility activates my inner strength. Love connects us. And, I will forever be Mark-E, Pamela’s little brother.


Note: This is the 25nd post in the Heartland Series. Please click the subscribe button on the right side of the blog page to be notified of future posts.


Teachers are an important part of my life. Early on I learned to seek them out. Welcome them when they appear. Thank them for finding me. See the meaning in the experiences we share. Join me here as I honor one of my teachers. See if I learn the lesson taught to me.


Eulogy for James Louis Andersen Delivered October 21, 2016, at Hamilton Funeral Home West Des Moines, Iowa

PLEASE take a deep breath,

Exhale slowly.

Again, breathe deeply, exhale slowly.

FOLLOW the breath into your heart.


Push aside sorrow,

Let go of sadness.


Hear Jim’s soft, distinctive voice inviting us

To join together,

To experience, and then reflect.

To muster up the courage,

To LISTEN respectfully and intentionally,

To share, internalize, and grow.


LOOK at Jim. See how  he nods.

Notice that with each nod,  Jim encourages you to explore and learn.

FEEL a peaceful energy growing within you.


As the energy grows, feel a desire to strive, and serve,

To fully actualize your self.

AS the energy grows within you, LOOK at Jim.

See the way his presence makes it okay for you to cry,

To play, laugh, create,

And to love.

NOW, think about my words,

This experience.

The way both evoke, in your heart:

Feelings of Jims enduring friendship,

His never-ending support and encouragement,

And, his courageous teaching.

IN this moment, with these words, experiences, and feelings,

Let us, together…acknowledge,

That what resides in our hearts,


PLEASE NOD if you understand this.

WELL… it would be easy. Actually quite convenient, for me to stop here.

BUT I can’t. Jim would’t let me. Perhaps you feel the same way.

No, Jim would say, “Mark, what are you feeling?”

“Go deeper Mark, deeper.”jim-and-mark-001

GOING deeper, I realize that merely carrying the message of Jim’s life,

In my heart,

Is not enough.


NO, every second of every hour of every day, I must go into my heart,

Where the message resides,

And from there I must emerge.

AS I do, I send forth the message of my life,

With each, and every breath,

Action, thought, hope, and aspiration.


IN this way I will honor the life of Jim Andersen, my teacher, friend, and companion.

I will demonstrate that I learned the lesson of his life, through the way I live mine.


Note: This is the 2nd post in the My Teachers series. Please click the subscribe button on the right side of the blog page to be notified of future posts.

A FINAL LESSON – My Teachers Series

Teachers are an important part of my life. Early on I learned to seek them out. Welcome them when they appear. Thank them for finding me. See the meaning in the experiences we share. Join me as I honor one of my teachers. See if I learn the lesson taught to me.

einsteinAugust 9, 2015

Dunwoody, Georgia

Dear Jim,

I sit here, fingers above keys, eyes on computer screen, reflecting on our just finished phone conversation. Your words, “I have Lewy Body Dementia”, freeze me in place. My hands cannot move. I cannot summon the strength to make my fingers type the words I must to say to you that I do not want to read.

Palms sweating, images of you race through my head. There is the gentle, respectful manner in which you interact with people. The ways you listen, hear, and intuit. How your personal explorations become courses through which participants courageously dig deep into their psyches, surface unresolved issues, and then seek resolution. There are images of you sailing your boat on Big Creek, hands in clay sculpting in the studio, sipping wine with friends, and munching cookies with Beth. A wry smile is on your face and a twinkle is in your eye as you do each.

The images make me think about the constancy of our relationship. How over 40-years we are rarely together, yet constantly in touch. How one week our conversation is about the meaning of life, the Iowa Hawkeyes, and the bottle of pinot grigio you drank last night. Then the next week we focus on recently read books, the state of public education, and your newest favorite flavor of ice cream. Sometimes, in person we delve into matters of the heart, share dreams and aspirations, and troubleshoot issues, as we did while riding through upstate New York, hiking in Colorado, or visiting museums in Washington DC.

Regardless of topic or location, we bring our best selves to each other. Refusing to squelch feelings. Never do we disparage other people. Always owning our words—no bullshit, no spin. We share, listen, explore. As we do, I grow. You, I think, grow too. Our bond deepens.

You are my best friend. The older brother, I always wanted but never had. The confidante I need. The advocate I must have. Yet, while each of the roles you play means the world to me, they pale in significance to the role you play as my teacher

With you as my teacher, I chart and navigate the course of my life. Challenging myself to think deeply about issues immense, and small. Viewing people and things through respectful eyes. Digging deep to be the person I want to be. Always commenting about the present, not the past or future.

scan-13The experiences we share help me to actualize my self. They stimulate my mind through the topical workshops and courses you facilitate—human relations, humor, wellness, creative problem solving, achievement motivation, and so on. You soften my heart through the experiential manner you utilize to engage me with the material you teach. How you prepare me to facilitate those very same courses helps me take charge of my own learning. The way, when I facilitate a course, I internalize what I learn from you.

Over the years, in every interaction we have, whether course, call, or face-to-face you are present, truly present. You treat me with respect. At first I do not know what to make of this, but over time I come to understand that you are being in the moment. You are living courageously. As you do, you show me how to live.

Nothing you showed me prepares me for the phone call, and the gut-wrenching feeling of the moment. My core is shaken. I want you as my strong and capable teacher, a never-ending source of love and support, not a weakened and lifeless soul. I want more phone chats, visits, and camaraderie. I want more lessons. I do not want to give you up.

I remember you saying, “Joy is part of our lives, as is pain. Living courageously involves acknowledging both.” In my heart of hearts, the place you always tell me to go, I know that even though I may want to hold on to our joys, being here, now, in this moment demands that I go into my pain. There I must accept the impermanence of life. Realize there will never be an easy time to part. I must carry on without you. As I do, I will demonstrate what I learned. Typing the words I do not want to read is the first step. Here goes.

Jim, please teach how me how to die with the dignity, courage, and respect that you have lived. Make this my final lesson. I promise to learn it well.

Your loving student,


Note: This is the 1st post in the My Teachers series. Please click the subscribe button on the right side of the blog page to be notified of future posts.

TESTED AT THE SPEED OF LIFE – The Learning Lesson Series


Life is a series of tests that take various shapes and forms. Some tests involve people. Others are about places or situations. Many of them are complex, have numerous dimensions, and seem to never end. The short ones demand quick responses.

Some of life’s tests that come my way, I pass. Many of them I do not. Those I fail, life makes me retake until I pass them. The events of this day test me. Read on to see whether I pass or fail?

Temperatures are in the high sixties. The sun is bright. Puffy-clouds lazily float above the mountains. A perfect day for Elk Fest, the annual transition to fall and celebration of Estes Park’s signature wildlife and natural beauty.

Bond Park, the epicenter of Elk Fest, has 43 booths, hundreds of people and, ironically, no elk. There is barely room for any of us people to walk, let alone park cars and find food to eat. Proof that the thousands of elk who populate the Rocky Mountain region are more intelligent than those of us who are attending the fest in their honor.

Bzzt Bzzzt! Bzzt Bzzzt! I look at my iPhone. Caller-ID shows a call from Fran, my friend. The commotion of the fest makes answering her call impossible. Since she seldom calls me, it must be important. Feeling an urgency to call Fran, I wiggle myself through the crowd, going past one booth then another and another, until I reach the west side of the Town Hall. There, in an oasis of quiet, I press re-call. Fran answers. She starts talking. I was correct, the call is important—health issues.

While listening to Fran describe her impending surgery, I notice a steady stream of people coming in and out of the Town Hall building. It soon becomes apparent that they are not going into the building to do business with the town. Rather they are going in to do their business. As some pass by me, a few nod at me. The looks of relief on their faces confirm—business done.

As Fran and I continue talking, a woman leaves the building. I nod at her. She politely nods back. As she passes, my eyes follow. I notice that the back of her skirt is tucked into her navy blue tights. Her hind-side, though covered by the tights, is more visible to the world than she would want.

My mind is in overdrive. I think about asking Fran how to handle the situation. But there is no time. Why should I care? I consider letting the woman go on, back to the fest, where surely someone will inform her. Suddenly, the woman stops to comb her hair. She looks at me, our eyes connect. Oh my, what do I do?

Without thinking, I point to my hip. She looks down, at her hip. Mortified, she lets the comb drop to the sidewalk. Her face reddens, as her hands pull the tucked-in portion of the skirt from her tights. It falls in place.

The woman looks around. No one, except me, saw her hind-side. Her dignity preserved, she looks at me. Her lips mouth the words T H A N K – Y O U. I nod. No smile, laugh or smart remark, just a nod. Knowing that this test need never be taken again.

Later, heading home, walking along MacGregor Avenue, on the outskirts of Estes, I watch a herd of elk in a field. Munching grass—nothing more, nothing less—they are living in the moment. What comes their way, they take in stride. Each moment is their festival.

Nearing home, with night settling in, I think about the speed of life. How choosing to go to the park, the commotion there, and an unscheduled phone call brought me together with a woman, whose skirt is in her tights. The way her moment of need bound us together. How in an instant her drama became my test. How an instant later, her drama, and my test are over. The way each of us goes on with our respective lives.

Walking up the driveway, the North Star captures my attention. She reminds me that the tests of life make us better people. How true, false, or multiple-choice answers are insufficient. Only answers of the heart—manifest through thoughts, actions, and deeds—will suffice.

Unlocking the front door, I pause. In that moment, I realize the tests are part of the festival of our lives. The foibles that the tests force us to experience, add color and meaning to the events and traditions in which we partake. The connections they forge enrich us. Through them we celebrate our commonality and honor our diversity.

Entering my house, I say a prayer of thanks for the tests of this day. And ask that more tests come my way tomorrow. Then I say the same prayer for you. As I do, a nearby elk bugles…Amen.


Note: This is the 18th post in the Learning Lessons series. Please click the subscribe button on the right side of the blog page to be notified of future posts.

RE-TYING THE TEACHING KNOT – The Learning Lesson Series


“Today, you will learn to tie a bowline knot,” I say. Then quickly add, “Mastery for the lesson I am teaching is you tying the knot three times without assistance. My goal is to have everyone achieve mastery, and for at least 10 of you to tie the knot behind your back with your eyes closed.”

I pause while the 100 teachers in the room absorb the learning goals for my lesson—100-percent mastery, 10-percent exceeds, and none fail. Knowing full well that not a single one of them consistently achieves such results with their teaching. Then say, “Let’s get started.”

I proceed to provide information about the bowline. How the working end of the rope and a fixed loop comprise the knot. That, during the making of the knot, a portion of the loop may pass around or through an object, such as a pole or person. How pulling the non-loop part of the line tightens the knot. The knot, when tight, will not slip or come loose.

The tightness, non-slipping is why sailors use a bowline to raise and lower the sails of their ships. Forest rangers use it to rescue people who have fallen off a cliff onto a ledge. Firefighters use it help people get out of burning buildings. Soldiers rely on the knot to repel down fortress walls. And aviators use it for tying down light aircraft.

“Okay, eyes on me,” I say. “Watch as I tie a bowline knot.” Facing the class, using both hands, I tie a bowline with a three-foot piece of rope. All the while, holding the rope, with knot and loop visible for all to see. Done, I say, “Now, you tie a bowline knot using your piece of rope.”

I stand at the front of the room, holding the rope with the knot and loop as teachers attempt to tie the knot. As seconds pass, groans fill the room. Soon, groans turn to pleas for help. Not budging from the front of the room, I wait a few minutes then say, “Who correctly tied the knot?”

Six teachers proudly present their knots. A quick check determines that four are correct. On a nearby whiteboard, I write four out of 100. Four percent is woefully short of my goal—all correctly tying the knot.

bowline-003“Okay, let’s try this again,” I say. “Please follow along. Hold one end of your rope between the thumb and index finger of your left hand.” Standing in front of the room, I hold up my rope—its end between the thumb and index finger of my left hand. “Now, with your right hand, make a small loop in the rope,” I say as I make a loop. “Now take the end of the rope in your left hand. Put it through the loop, around the rope, and back into the loop. Pull it tight.” I model each step.

Holding up my rope, with knot and loop, I ask, “Who has a correct knot?” Hands rise. I count them—33. After checking the knots, I write 31-percent on the board, 31 out of 100 correct. My goal attainment remains far away.

“One more time,” I say. “Here is a strategy for tying the knot. Watch me as I teach the strategy.” Holding up the rope, I make a loop. Holding the loop with my right thumb and index finger, I say, “This is a rabbit hole.” Holding the far end of the rope with my left thumb and index finger, I shake the end while saying, “This is the rabbit.”

“Now, watch carefully,” I say. “The rabbit comes out of the hole.” As I say this, I bring the end of the rope up through the loop. “It goes around the tree,” I say as I bring the end of the rope over the lower portion of the rope. “Now the rabbit goes back into the hole,” I say as I pull the rope taunt to form a bowline knot.

“Let’s do this together, one step at a time, using the strategy,” I say. I model each step of the strategy—the hole, the rabbit, out of the hole, around the tree, and back in the hole. At each step, I rotate around the room, checking to see if teachers correctly do each step. When not, I provide instruction.

Steps complete, I ask, “Who correctly tied the knot?” This time, most hands go up. A quick check indicates 92-percent with a correct knot. My goal near, I push on.

bowline-002“Now, please tie it again. This time by yourself, without my help,” I say. Each time a teacher holds up her knot, I review its correctness then, if correct I say, “Again.” The first teacher to tie the knot correctly three times, I match with one the eight teachers who has yet to succeed, saying, “Show her how you tie the knot.” I do the same with the second, third and so on until eight pairs of teachers are tying knots together.

Once more I ask, “Who has a correct knot?” All teachers eagerly hold their ropes high. I say, “Please check each other’s work for correctness.” The report out, all teachers with correct knots, means one goal achieved, now for the other.

“Volunteers, please come forward,” I say. Eleven teachers rush to the front of the room. I pull one aside, give her a stopwatch, and ask that she keep time. I line the remaining ten teachers facing the large group of teachers, then say, “With your eyes closed, tie the bowline knot behind your back—ready, set, GO!”

Tick, tick, tick…five seconds pass, tick, tick, tick, and then ten. Tick, tick at the 13-second mark, one teacher holds up her knot. One more second passes, another teacher holds up her knot. Then another, another, and another…at the 27-second mark the last of the 10 teachers holds up her knot. Quick inspection, all knots correct. Behind their backs, with eyes closed—second goal achieved.

When the teachers are back in their seats, and the applause subsides, I ask, “What did you learn today?” An animated exchange ensues. During which no teacher, not one, mentions learning to tie a bowline knot. Not even the ten who tie knots with eyes closed.

The exchange is about how students learn differently and at various rates. That insufficient instruction–as my first teaching shows–does work for some students. However, if the goal is for most students to achieve, and some to exceed mastery then instruction must be well designed and delivered. It must establish the relevance of the lesson, consider the learning styles of students, teach strategies that aid learning, scaffold learning-tasks, guide practice, rotate-and-check learning, harness peer power… and more.

Every time I teach this lesson, and I often do, a similar pattern emerges. As teachers learn to tie the bowline knot, their instructional practices start slipping and sliding. They question their instruction and its effect on their students’ learning. They want for all their students what they experience during the lesson. So they untie, and retie their instruction to enable that to happen. Teachers who persevere in this way, make previously unattainable learning goals attainable for themselves and their students. They have a knot that holds true.


Note: This is the 17th post in the Learning Lessons series. Please click the subscribe button on the right side of the blog page to be notified of future posts.