O Wretched Man That I Am

I have a confession to make. I am the person at your office who takes the last cup of coffee, then leaves the empty pot smoldering on the burner without starting a fresh one. I occasionally ride my bike without my helmet on, and I never walk it across crosswalks. I ate all the good candy from my kid’s Halloween stash and I let them watch too much TV when their mother is not home.

And why, you may ask, is he confessing to these grave moral indiscretions?

A few months ago, moved by I know not what, I was talking to the pastor at my church and I asked him if there was anything we could do for the needy, the “least of these” we like to call them around the pews. The hungry, the thirsty, the disenchanted, the sick, the naked, even the prisoners. Not to mention all those disenfranchised souls voting for Ron Paul and the destitute masses that continue to watch Lost with the naïve belief that they will be rewarded with a meaningful and satisfying ending.

Ours is a good pastor, always at the ready for such queries, and he welcomed me into various activities and programs that our fine church was organizing to help those folks in need. Which brings me to my next confession: I participated in exactly none of these.

There is a phrase that has been playing in the back of my mind ever since that conversation. O wretched man that I am.

I don’t want to sound preachy. Church talk often makes me squirm in my seat and roll my eyes, even when I subscribe to it. So if that doesn’t work for you, if the thought of a higher power turns you off, use whatever moral compass you like. Intuition, institution, Cosmopolitan, the Bill of Rights, ABC, CBS, NBC, CNN, TMZ, the autobiography of Mr. T, or any other initials you want.

But by whatever measure you want to use, if you take a moment to think about what the city of Burbank is doing for the area’s homeless and needy, you will see that it is anything but wretched. From the last minute opening of the winter shelter at the armory last year, to the renewal and expansion of that shelter this year, to the city council’s continued efforts to provide assistance to transient and low income families. While our representatives in Washington D.C. are handing out billion dollar bailout checks to major banks, insurance companies and car manufacturers, our local city council is looking straight into the eyes of those directly effected by homelessness and trying to make a difference at the individual level. They are doing something right despite some well-meaning resistance.

Globally some 30,000 children die everyday from malnutrition and poverty, entirely preventable diseases and conditions. Too much to think about? Locally some 524 individuals and families just lost their homes 15 miles up the road in Sylmar. We can argue the causes of homelessness and poverty, blaming the left, the right, predatory mortgage lenders, brush fires or just plain old poor personal decision-making.

But if we ignore it, it won’t go away. If we throw money at it without personal accountability, we only perpetuate the problem. Something tells me that if we seek the peace in our city, we’ll have peace elsewhere in our lives. The word peace often refers to completeness, soundness, welfare, health, safety and right relationship with each other. Our individual peace and welfare are bound to our city and to our community’s well being. The facts of poverty will not change until they become personal for us. And what do you get out of this? Nothing you can count. At least nothing that you can measure in dollars.

Is it easier to pity a fool, or pity a person in need? Religious or not, deep down we all know that giving to others, helping those in need, is good and right. I know that in the present economy none of this is easy. Not on a national level, a city level, and not at the home level. But that does not change the face of poverty and homelessness. These we will always have with us, as a wise man once said. That is a call to help, not an excuse to ignore.

Maybe it’s just that the holiday season always makes me feel like doing more unto others than I’ve done unto them in the previous 11 months of the year. Or maybe one or two of the things I’ve learned at church are starting to sink in despite my best efforts to resist them. But this holiday season I am going to try to remember to start a fresh pot of coffee whenever I take that last cup.

© 2008 Patrick Caneday

The Squiggle of Our Discontent

In response to the debate in Burbank, California, regarding our local bike path and whether to govern it more strictly:

The kids are arguing because one got a free giveaway ball from the dry cleaner and the other didn’t. The one without claims that I don’t love her as much as her sister. The dry cleaner ruined my favorite shirt. I broke my glasses. The wife is mad at me for spraying sunscreen in the girls’ eyes (again). Fox News is already blaming Obama for all the country’s woes.

And I am out of Prilosec.
Only one thing to do. Take a ride.

Last Christmas, my wife surprised me with a new bicycle. As a simple man in his early 40s, I choose to believe that this gift has more to do with the price of gas and my carbon footprint than the profundity of my midsection. Whatever her motive, the bike has become the best gift she has ever given to me outside of her love, her patience, her cute little bod and our two children. I’ve been a reluctant and unregimented exerciser my whole adult life, and for the first time ever I find myself craving the peace, meditation and physical output of my bike rides.

I set out one recent morning just before sunrise and made my way to Forest Lawn Drive at Barham. Along the way I encountered stoplights and traffic; there was much road work along the way, detouring me down busier streets than I would like. Half-filled and overfilled potholes made the ride bumpier as well.

Once I hit the bike lane at the top of Forest Lawn, I began my ride south. I felt a great sense of relief having finally made it to the path. I work hard, provide for my family, pay my taxes, go to church regularly, buy cookies from girls outside the supermarket and generally try to be a responsible member of society. Finally, as I began what I hoped would be a nice, long, relaxing cruise, I was getting what I deserved. Peace. Is that too much to ask for?

Then one truck and another passed by me so close as to nearly knock me from my bike. Quick, dodge that dead opossum! (Wasn’t that here last week, too?) Broken glass and other debris pushed me out into the road where I narrowly escaped becoming a hood ornament for people too eager to get to their office and surf the Web. There were odors I would rather not know, bugs, dust and exhaust that I couldn’t help but inhale. Grave sites checkered the hillside and gave me caution and pause. Even the wind pushing against me seemed to beg my frustration.

This wasn’t working, so I veered off Forest Lawn through the quiet streets of the Rancho and headed for home unfulfilled. As I passed the park with a giant purple dinosaur for a slide, I saw balloons trapped in the telephone wires, remnants of some child’s birthday party. I sympathized with those balloons. As I approached home, I felt gypped. I tried to escape for just a little while, find some peace, and could not get there. So, I continued right past my house and headed through more sleepy streets, avoiding main roads like Buena Vista and Olive. My goal: the Chandler Bikeway.

I’d say it was about 6:30 a.m. when I finally hit the path and started my journey to the east. The San Fernando Mountains seemed oddly majestic and awe-inspiring in the morning haze. I’ve seen this before at the base of the Sierra Nevada or the Rockies. I’d just never seen our local mountains look like this before.

There was an early-morning dew on the grass and plants all around. A soft mist blanketed everything. The dawning sun just cresting the hills ahead of me sparkled fresh light off the landscape like floating crystals. The light reflected especially brightly off the painted lines of the bike path marking the lanes.

I knew that in a few minutes, the sun would move on and the particular intensity of the refracting sunlight would disappear, perhaps never to be seen exactly like this ever again.

I looked around and saw bikers and walkers and dog-walkers, fast, slow and stationary, making their way along this bright path. And I was struck by something I had never realized before. The Chandler Bikeway is crooked.

It is a scribble, a squiggle if you will, through our city. Not a straight and perfect path that I guess I had always envisioned it was. And in that imperfection, I found a kind of perfect peace.

Isn’t it interesting how we can cruise along in life thinking one thing, and in an instant, have that preconception shattered? Perhaps that “too good to be true” mortgage you may have gotten into a couple of years ago?

That smell in Griffith Park is feces. Manure. But what makes that is ponies. Ponies! And ponies make little kids smile and laugh, which makes me smile and laugh. That may be a dead and flattened opossum ahead, but overhead is a flock of exotic parakeets — yes, wild parakeets in Burbank! Their collective chirping sounds like a thousand marbles colliding.

Sometimes there is road work and potholes and exhaust along our ride, walkers in the bike lane and bikers in the walk lane. But there will always be that one old man with his walker, slowly making his way along the path at his own pace, stopping to chat with anyone and everyone willing to take a moment and enjoy good company. He looks like he has more stories to tell than I do mistakes in my life.

Beyond the smells, the garbage and the traffic, there will always be carousels, fountains, ponies and good people willing to share a crooked path with one another.

The straight path to a comfortable and happy life, the straight shot to heaven or salvation or just plain contentedness is real. And it is easy, but only in the decision to actually take the path. In practice, the path is not straight or easy.

There will be obstacles, stumbling blocks, broken glass, dead opossums and foul odors. Sin, if that’s your bag. We can choose only to see obstacles or we can choose to see hope. We can choose to slow down a little, walk together or move out of one another’s way politely. We can choose to do in our hearts what we know is right rather than alienate and demonize one another with rhetoric, rules and restrictions.

Choose to argue or choose to get along. It is not a straight path. But it is our only path.