Category Archives: Spirituality

A Christian Nation?

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From the NYT.

“Now, Supreme Court justices have become caught up in the debate over whether America is a Christian nation. While Justice Alito is hardly openly championing these views, he is embracing language and symbolism that line up with a much broader movement pushing back against the declining power of Christianity as a majority religion in America.

The country has grown more ethnically diverse and the share of American adults who describe themselves as religiously unaffiliated has risen steadily over the past decade. Still, a 2022 report from the Pew Research Center found that more than four in 10 adults believed America should be a ‘Christian nation.'”

Guess that means almost 6 in 10 grasp the profound difference between being a country with many Christians and being a “Christian country”.

And I can’t help but wonder if the “4 in 10” crowd has any real understanding of the persecution experienced by the earliest Christians, let alone believers in places like China and North Korea.

How To Be More Honest?

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Having blogged for a decade plus, I run the risk of repeating myself. But maybe you’ll forgive me if I come clean about it.

In September, 2018, I started a post titled “What We Get Wrong About Honesty” this way:

That it’s mostly telling the truth to others. But being honest with one’s self is a more essential starting point, and because we lack any semblance of objectivity, far more difficult.

None of us are ever completely honest with ourselves.

Especially as a writer, I want to be more honest with myself, and by extension, my readers. I suspect that starts with more honest internal dialogues.

My older sissy said something seemingly innocuous to me awhile back, that I can’t stop replaying in my head. I was telling her I want to really improve my freestyle swimming, but it’s hard given the years of imperfect muscle memory. I explained that I had checked a book out of the library that broke the freestyle stroke down and had watched lots of youtube vids.

I thought I had made a convincing case that I wanted to improve, I for sure had convinced myself, but when I came up for air, she offered this brutally matter-of-fact reply, “No, you don’t.”

Staggered by her honesty, I forget what came after that.

As soon as I regained my footing, I realized she was right. My efforts to improve were superficial at best. I hadn’t worked with a coach. I hadn’t used video. I hadn’t committed to the drills that help improve one’s catch.

Despite saying I want to improve, my elbows still drop, I still slap the water, and I don’t rotate nearly enough. My stroke is a mess, but that’s not the point. The point is, with no coach, with no video, with no commitment to drills and going slower to eventually go faster, I should stop lying to myself about wanting to improve. I should just accept that my stroke will always suck.

Of course, my shite freestyle doesn’t matter, at all, but the all important question raised by my sister’s “No, you don’t” is what else am I lying to myself about? Surely, lots of stuff of far more consequence.

I may never have high elbows, but can I learn to be more honest with myself, and by extension, you? I don’t know. But I think I’ll try. Just don’t tell my sister.

Phenomenon To Ponder

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Karen Kreider Yoder’s story perfectly captures 2024.

“It was a June afternoon in the Rockies just after I retired when we agreed that we must be turning into ghosts.

We had been cycling in the mountains since breaking camp before dawn, and we decided to splurge on a private room in a hostel. We checked in and headed through to the bike-storage area, walking our rig by young hostelers congregated in the common spaces.

We must have been a sight: two bedraggled 60-somethings pushing a tandem bicycle laden like a pack mule.

Except no one seemed to see us.

We crossed the living room, where 20-something hikers with ruddy faces studied their computer screens. No one looked up. We inched through the kitchen, where others were sautéing onions for a group meal. ‘Excuse us. Sorry to interrupt,’ one of us said as we squeezed through. ‘That sure smells good.’

They turned a bit, giving us space. But not a word. Not a ‘How’s it going?’ nor ‘Where’d you come from?’ nor ‘Cool rig.’ Nor eye contact.”

It’s My Parents’ Fault

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Suffice to say, my personal life has gotten significantly more difficult of late. Obviously, this isn’t the time or place for any details. Just know, as your humble blogger, I am “compartmentalizing” these days.

The GalPal wants me to find a therapist to help make things less difficult. I know lots of people who are benefitting from therapy, and intellectually I am definitely pro-therapy, but when push comes to shove, I am Resistant to seek the help of a mental health counselor myself.

Not only am I pro-therapy, I believe our well-being depends largely on the quality of our closest interpersonal relationships, and those relationships depend largely on our willingness to be vulnerable about our inner lives.

The gender stereotype that males think and talk almost exclusively about tangible objects—whether news, weather, or sports, okay maybe cars too—doesn’t apply to me. I’m always thinking about deeper things than just how bad UCLA men’s basketball is this year.* What to do with the nearly constant deeper inner dialogue, that is the question.

Two imperfect answers spring to mind. The first was modeled by a friend a week ago when he asked if we could talk. He suggested a bike ride, and despite the frigid temps, of course I was in. Looping FishTrap Loop shoulder to shoulder, I initiated, “So, what’s up?” “It’s a long story,” he started, but really it wasn’t. It was a very good talk/ride and I’d like to think he felt better afterwards.

What’s imperfect about that? With occasional exceptions like the one just described, my closest friends, being of the male persuasion, aren’t as adept as women at talking about their feelings. As a result, it’s rare for a male friend to genuinely ask, “So, what’s up?” Could I take more initiative with my friends in digging deeper into “real” life? Fo sho.

In theory, writing could be a helpful outlet too. That is, if I could figure out the endlessly convoluted privacy concerns of those nearest and dearest to me. Which I can’t. And before you suggest it, journaling ain’t the answer, because that’s just a more visible form of the inner dialogue.

So, given those limitations, why not just “do” therapy? Asked differently, what the hell is wrong with me, that I’m so resistant to “professional” help?

I’ve been mulling that around and around.

What I’ve concluded is that the Good Wife doesn’t fully appreciate just how much I am a product of my parents’ “too extreme for their own good” intense independence. Both my mom and my dad grew up without much, during the Depression, in eastern Montana. When my dad died, his obituary was in the New York Times. Individually and together, they developed resilient, “grin and bare it” approaches to life that worked for them.

Mostly. Better for my dad than my mom who would have benefitted greatly from therapy after my dad’s death, from which she never really recovered.

Again though, that knowledge of how helpful therapy can be is overridden by my parents’ modeling which was rooted in the brutal conditions of eastern Montana in the 1930’s. Suffering was synonymous with living. You just endure it, in whatever form it takes.

Asking me to just dial up a therapist feels like asking me to break from my past and my people, to defy my DNA. Despite all the decades, I am still of eastern Montana, still of Don Byrnes, still of Carol Byrnes, still of believing that I must grin and bare it mostly alone.

For better, or more likely, for worse.

*thank goodness for the women

The Church Is Up Against It

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Post pandemic congregants not returning to the pews. Evangelicals under Orange Jesus’s spell. Secularism running amok.

As if that’s not enough Oregon spanked Liberty 45-6 in the Fiesta Bowl. Add to that, today’s ESPN headline, “Grambling women beat College of Biblical Studies 159-18”.*

Don’t be surprised if historians point to the College of Biblical Studies loss as the church’s low point.

*Reminds me of one of the youngest’s middle school basketball games, which her team lost 49-7. “Dad,” she said afterwards, “we lost by the square root!”

The Only New Year’s Resolution You Need

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Because I’m amazing, this time of year I provide an amazing service to family and friends. I assign personalized New Year’s Resolutions. Even if they don’t always show it, I know, deep down, my family loves off-loading the resolution making to me! Here’s just one example of my genius. This is the year The GalPal is going to load the dishwasher from back to front.

This year I’m streamlining things and providing the only New Year’s resolution you need. Repeat after me, “I hereby resolve to not let an artificial moment in time make me feel like I’m not enough. Next year, I will not lose any weight, I will not save more money, and I will not exercise more. Instead, I will strive to change one thing about me. To be more accepting of my unique self, including all my imperfections, and to practice self-compassion.”

You’re welcome.

The Big Question In Retirement

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Who am I now that I’m not working? That’s the question Stephen Kreider Yoder, 66, and Karen Kreider Yoder, 67, reflect on in this Wall Street Journal essay.

Karen writes:

“I no longer have the career that was the dominant part of my identity. Instead, I have a many-faceted identity.

Sure, there are mornings when I feel melancholy, often when the coming day feels unstructured or without purpose. On rare occasions, I stay in my pajamas all morning and wish I were back to my routine of setting off before dawn by bike to the ferry, across the San Francisco Bay and back on the bike for the last leg to the university. It was an invigorating commute, and I had heady work building a department that made an impact in the community.

But the pressure and the stress? The sleepless nights preparing for meetings and classes? I am happy to have left that behind, and the place it had in my identity. Now, if I’m not satisfied with my day, it’s my own fault.”

I wonder though, is it her own fault?

I’m struck by the limited opportunities for retired peeps to share their unique skills and work/life experiences, insights, and wisdom. A cynical view would be that “society” just doesn’t care. That it has an ageist, “thank you for coming”, perspective.

Sure, retired people can volunteer for any number of non-profits, and some create “encore” careers, but for the vast majority it’s not easy to find the right fit. To be able to make similar contributions as they did when working, just in significantly less time, and with less stress.

I wonder if I happened onto a large part of the answer when I entered the crib last Saturday afternoon. The GalPal had just finished tutoring a recently retired lawyer-friend who is learning Spanish. Afterwards, she said she felt a sense of purpose that is decidedly more elusive in her post-teaching life.

I wonder. If for retired people struggling with their new, post paid work identities, the answer may be informal small groups where each participant contributes a unique skill.

Which leaves me wondering. How might we facilitate more grass roots, retirement, purpose making?