“I am tired of people criticizing my generation,” wrote a Millennial in our recent questionnaire. “Why can’t people just listen — and then call out the best in me? Even if they are considered an elder, I want a friend. I want someone to help me thrive and succeed. And I think I can help them see from a different perspective about what I see in them.”
Come take a stroll with me down the streets of the internet, the only place I know where people the world over are all your neighbors. Mr. Rogers never had it so good. Some people claim you can’t have real relationships on line. We beg to differ.
There’s no two ways about it: Death sucks. And death has visited our Catch community at least twice in the last few weeks.
Priscilla, our longtime MemberPartner from Rochester, New York, just recently moved into a new home, and before she could even adjust to the move, she lost her dear husband, Jack. Born November 9, 1933, he was a sports enthusiast, and coached basketball and soccer at Roberts Wesleyan College. Jack was Athletic Director there for 13 years, and in 1982, he was inducted into the RWC Hall of Fame. Priscilla thinks he’s the handsomest man in the world, and she may be right.
“I accept this award today with an abiding faith in America and an audacious faith in the future of mankind. I refuse to accept despair as the final response to the ambiguities of history. I refuse to accept the idea that the ‘isness’ of man’s present nature makes him morally incapable of reaching up for the eternal ‘oughtness’ that forever confronts him. I refuse to accept the idea that man is mere flotsam and jetsam in the river of life, unable to influence the unfolding events which surround him. I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality.”
– Martin Luther King Jr. upon receiving the 1964 Nobel Peace Prize
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Philippians 4:8
Kudos to those who took my challenge to think a little more deeply about the song by Steve Earle, that I’ve been talking about over the last few days, “God is God.” (Go to www.catchjohnfischer.com and scroll down for the last two Catches.) We’ve seen the songwriter’s version of his own song and a Joan Baez live recording of it and followed the lyrics for two days. Why do this?
“This is the kind of song that you write when you’re 56.” – Steve Earle
We’re going to spend one more day on the song “God is God” by Steve Earle. Yesterday’s recording of the song was by Joan Baez, but today I want you to hear it from the songwriter himself.
Our Catch today is a song I’d liked you to hear and think about. It’s by Joan Baez. She didn’t write it but I must assume that because she is singing it she must believe at least most of it. I do too — most of it.
The final verse is a little ambiguous, but I can accept that as part of the dialogue of an open mind that we must have in order to walk alongside another soul who is searching and listen for where they are at.
To him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy — to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen. Jude 1:24-25
I just recalled the longest night and reread the Catch about it and realized we are in a different place now. Not that everything is suddenly great for everybody, but at least we are headed in the right direction, even though you might not feel it. Spring training starts in a little over six weeks. Every day, those of us in the northern hemisphere are inching closer to the sun’s warmth. I know that some of you are just settling in for a long winter’s nap, but it’s still true that progress is being made toward longer days and warmer weather. It’s inevitable.
I was just climbing into bed at two in the morning last night when I smelled something burning. Believe it or not, we do have fireplaces here in southern California, and some people actually use them to burn real wood, but this was not that. It smelled like something synthetic being burned. I doubted anyone was burning plastic in their fireplace. Since none of our smoke alarms were going off, I followed Marti outside and sure enough, there was that smell, and even a little smoke visible. We got an unhappy Chandler out of bed to look around and he ruled that it was indeed a house fire or car fire in the neighborhood and that he had even seen something red. Quick to pass that off as a fire engine, he went back to bed. Looking in the direction he pointed, I surmised the fire engine would have to be sitting on my neighbor’s roof in order to be seen. Nevertheless, he has an uncanny sense about things like this so I was most likely to trust him though I was still a little uncertain as to whether this was an official fire and whether the fire department had it covered. Could I be confident about going to sleep?
There have been times I have cursed my mentor, Ron Ritchie, for convincing Marti and me to set our wedding date in early January. After spending a good part of the previous year waiting for certain obstacles to the forward progress of our relationship to be cleared away — sort of like waiting for an amber light to turn green — when that green light came on late in the previous year, he had encouraged us, “Why wait?” It seemed good at the time, but as the years have played out, it soon became apparent that a wedding anniversary that close to the holidays can seem like an afterthought. We sort of fall into each other’s arms, spent from Christmas and New Years with ne’er a glass of champagne left over with which to offer a toast. But that’s an excuse, and excuses, whatever the reason, do not set well with my wife. She’s right. This is a day, whenever it falls, that must be marked with intimacy, tenderness and renewed love.
John Fischer The Catch 