Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts

Saturday, December 14, 2013

Amazing Argentinian "New Coke" Ad

So many brief--sometimes not even quite a full second long--moments in the lives of parents. I had to watch portions several times over. The dad's expressions beginning at 0:40 totally blow me away. How did he ever capture so many emotions in such a brief few seconds? I was sure it was horror . . . and then . . . --I'd better not give it away. And then to watch how his mouth is shaped and the sound of the music . . . !!!

It's exquisitely produced. Unbelievable. And what great acting.

Well worth the 60 seconds it takes to watch it the first time. And maybe a second and third 60 seconds as well. . . .


And the commentary by the creators is well worth reading, too:

This New Coke Ad Totally Captures The Reality Of Early Parenthood | Co.Create | creativity + culture + commerce

Friday, December 14, 2012

Get On the Bus: The Freedom Riders of 1961

Yow!

As I am looking for the best photos to go in my revision of Dr. Daniel Boorstin's The Landmark History of the American People, I came across an article that riveted me: Get On the Bus: The Freedom Riders of 1961 from NPR. Truly astonishing the things various brave people have done for the sake of justice.


I put myself, in my mind's eye, on that bus as it entered Anniston, Alabama, on Sunday, May 14, 1961:
Hank Thomas did not recall seeing anyone on the streets. He did remember the strange feeling that he and the other Riders experienced as the bus eased into the station parking lot just after 1:00 P.M.

The station was locked shut, and there was silence — and then suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a screaming mob led by Anniston Klan leader William Chappell rushed the bus. Thomas thought he heard Jones encourage the attackers with a sly greeting. "Well, boys, here they are," the driver reportedly said with a smirk. "I brought you some niggers and nigger-lovers." But it all happened so fast that no one was quite sure who was saying what to whom.

As the crowd of about fifty surrounded the bus, an eighteen-year-old Klansman and ex-convict named Roger Couch stretched out on the pavement in front of the bus to block any attempt to leave, while the rest — carrying metal pipes, clubs, and chains — milled around menacingly, some screaming, "Dirty Communists" and "Sieg heil!"

There was no sign of any police, even though Herman Glass, the manager of the Anniston Greyhound station, had warned local officials earlier in the day that a potentially violent mob had gathered around the station. After the driver opened the door, [two plain-clothes Alabama State Troopers (whose identities were unknown to the Freedom Riders] hurried to the front to prevent anyone from entering. Leaning on the door lever, the two unarmed investigators managed to close the door and seal the bus, but they could not stop several of the most frenzied attackers from smashing windows, denting the sides of the bus, and slashing tires.

"One man stood on the steps, yelling, and calling us cowards," [one of the Riders] noticed, but her attention soon turned to a second man who "walked by the side of the bus, slipped a pistol from his pocket and stared at me for some minutes." When she heard a loud noise and shattering glass, she yelled, "Duck, down everyone," thinking that a bullet had hit one of the windows. The projectile turned out to be a rock, but another assailant soon cracked the window above her seat with a fist full of brass knuckles. Joe Perkins's window later suffered a similar fate, as the siege continued for almost twenty minutes.

By the time the Anniston police arrived on the scene, the bus looked like it had been in a serious collision. Swaggering through the crowd with billy clubs in hand, the police officers examined the broken windows and slashed tires but showed no interest in arresting anyone. After a few minutes of friendly banter with members of the crowd, the officers suddenly cleared a path and motioned for the bus to exit the parking lot.

A police car escorted the battered Greyhound to the city limits but then turned back, once again leaving the bus to the mercy of the mob. A long line of cars and pickup trucks, plus one car carrying a news reporter and a photographer, had followed the police escort from the station and was ready to resume the assault.

Once the entourage reached an isolated stretch of Highway 202 east of Bynum, two of the cars (one of which was driven by Roger Couch's older brother Jerome) raced around the front of the bus and then slowed to a crawl, forcing the bus driver to slow down. Trailing behind were thirty or forty cars and trucks jammed with shrieking whites. Many, like Chappell and the Couches, were Klansmen, though none wore hoods or robes. Some, having just come from church, were dressed in their Sunday best — coats and ties and polished shoes — and a few even had children with them.

The whole scene was darkly surreal and became even more so when a pair of flat tires forced the bus driver to pull over to the side of the road in front of the Forsyth and Son grocery store six miles southwest of town, only a few hundred yards from the Anniston Army Depot. Flinging open the door, the driver, with Robinson trailing close behind, ran into the grocery store and began calling local garages in what turned out to be a futile effort to find replacement tires for the bus.

In the meantime, the passengers were left vulnerable to a swarm of onrushing vigilantes. Cowling[, one of the Alabama State Highway Patrolmen,] had just enough time to retrieve his revolver from the baggage compartment before the mob surrounded the bus. The first to reach the Greyhound was a teenage boy who smashed a crowbar through one of the side windows. While one group of men and boys rocked the bus in a vain attempt to turn the vehicle on its side, a second tried to enter through the front door.

With gun in hand, Cowling stood in the doorway to block the intruders, but he soon retreated, locking the door behind him. For the next twenty minutes Chappell and other Klansmen pounded on the bus demanding that the Freedom Riders come out to take what was coming to them, but they stayed in their seats, even after the arrival of two highway patrolmen. When neither patrolman made any effort to disperse the crowd, Cowling, Sims [the other Highway Patrolman onboard], and the Riders decided to stay put.

Eventually, however, two members of the mob, Roger Couch and Cecil "Goober" Lewallyn, decided that they had waited long enough. After returning to his car, which was parked a few yards behind the disabled Greyhound, Lewallyn suddenly ran toward the bus and tossed a flaming bundle of rags through a broken window. Within seconds the bundle exploded, sending dark gray smoke throughout the bus. . . .
The story continues. Not only about the Greyhound bus in Anniston, but about the fate of the Riders on a Trailways bus that wound up in Birmingham. (Horrifying.)

But I began this post with a comment about brave people seeking justice.

How's this for a 12-year-old girl in Anniston as she reached out with basic human kindness to the victims of the bus bombing? I haven't quoted the discussion of the choking smoke that filled the bus as the menacing mob seethed outside.

When one of the bus's gas tanks exploded, the people on board finally tumbled out.

I'm skipping more of the story, more gory details. But then there was this:
One little girl, twelve-year-old Janie Miller, supplied the choking victims with water, filling and refilling a five-gallon bucket while braving the insults and taunts of Klansmen. Later ostracized and threatened for this act of kindness, she and her family found it impossible to remain in Anniston in the aftermath of the bus bombing.
I am humbled. Would I exhibit that kind of bravery?

I urge you to read the rest of the article for yourself. Very powerful.

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Why you should do what you love

I'm sure you have heard the advice to do what you love rather than love what you do. I thought the following podcast from RadioLab did a great job of explaining the logic behind it.

Regular speed.

Double speed.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

How do you train yourself this way?

The Wall Street Journal, a national newspaper, seems to be a Denver newspaper when it comes to sports coverage, especially about Tim Tebow. I mean, for the last several weeks, it seems they have featured on their one-page sports page more articles--or, certainly, more column inches--about Tim Tebow than all other sports figures combined. And Saturday was no different.

I was blown away by this conclusion to a much longer and thought-provoking article titled Tim Tebow: God's Quarterback.
Mr. Tebow may indeed turn out to be a hypocrite, like other high-profile Christians in recent memory. Some of us might even want that to happen, because moral failure is something we understand. We know how to deal with disappointed expectations, to turn our songs of praise into condemnation.

What we are far less sure how to do is to take seriously a public figure's seemingly admirable character and professions of higher purpose. We don't know how to trust goodness.

And who can blame us? We don't want to be fooled again.

The one loss in Mr. Tebow's record as Denver's starting quarterback this season came in a 45-10 blowout against the Detroit Lions. Mr. Tebow completed just 46% of his passes. He suffered seven sacks, including one by Stephen Tulloch, after which Mr. Tulloch took a knee, "Tebowing" as Mr. Tebow struggled to rise.

When asked how he felt about Mr. Tulloch's mockery, Mr. Tebow responded, "He was probably just having fun and was excited he made a good play and had a sack. And good for him."
What?!? The guy is seeking to destroy you physically and, now, mentally, and you are able to respond in this way?!?

Clearly, Tebow has practiced, as Sarita said, "think[ing] the best" of his enemies or blessing those who curse him (Matthew 5:44).

And then the next two paragraphs from the same article:
Last week, after the Broncos' victory against Minnesota, Mr. Tebow was asked by a reporter to name something memorable that had been said to him in the wake of the extraordinary win.

"I'll tell you one thing that happened during the week that I remember," he said. Mr. Tebow proceeded to talk about spending time with a young leukemia patient from Florida who had just been transferred to hospice care and about how delighted Mr. Tebow was to say the kid's name on television and to let him know that someone cared.
May we all pursue similar selflessness.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Images from the opposite ends of life

I've never noticed this before, probably because I don't normally read these two sections of scripture in quite such a juxtaposition. But last year, in reading the whole Bible in one year, I felt the mid-section moved so slowly, I re-sequenced things and wound up reading Ecclesiastes 12 and the first few chapters of Song of Songs one right after the other this morning.

I may also have been helped to see this because we watched 17 Again last night. I am a bit more attentive, this morning, to the passage of time and its impact upon one's life.

Ecclesiastes 12 describes old age in highly imagistic terms:
Remember your Creator
   in the days of your youth,
before the days of trouble come
   and the years approach when you will say,
   “I find no pleasure in them”—
before the sun and the light
   and the moon and the stars grow dark,
   and the clouds return after the rain;
when the keepers of the house tremble,
   and the strong men stoop,
   when the grinders cease because they are few,
   and those looking through the windows grow dim;
when the doors to the street are closed
   and the sound of grinding fades;
when men rise up at the sound of birds,
   but all their songs grow faint;
when men are afraid of heights
   and of dangers in the streets;
when the almond tree blossoms
   and the grasshopper drags himself along
   and desire no longer is stirred.
Then man goes to his eternal home
   and mourners go about the streets.

Remember him—before the silver cord is severed,
   or the golden bowl is broken;
before the pitcher is shattered at the spring,
   or the wheel broken at the well,
and the dust returns to the ground it came from,
   and the spirit returns to God who gave it.

--Ecclesiastes 12:1-8 (NIV)


And then, almost like a bookend, I read The Song of Solomon or Song of Songs Chapter 2:

Listen! My lover!
   Look! Here he comes,
leaping across the mountains,
   bounding over the hills.
My lover is like a gazelle or a young stag.
   Look! There he stands behind our wall,
gazing through the windows,
   peering through the lattice.
My lover spoke and said to me,
   “Arise, my darling,
   my beautiful one, and come with me.
See! The winter is past;
   the rains are over and gone.
Flowers appear on the earth;
   the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
   is heard in our land.
The fig tree forms its early fruit;
   the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
   my beautiful one, come with me.”
Not sure where I'm going with this. It just struck me how the language of these two passages is so similar, even though they obviously have to do with different ends of life.

I guess, while I'm at it, I should comment on another thought that popped through my mind as I "listened" to these two sections of scripture. I was reminded of a song I have heard on my favorite Pandora station: "Garden in My Room" by Merril Bainbridge.

There's a garden in my room
Would you like to take a look?
There are fascinating things you'll find there

And if you care to come inside
There is nothing I will hide
Come where there is sweet perfume
In the garden in my room

There's a garden in my room
Would you like to take a look?
Rest your body on my velvet roses

Once you've tasted my delights
Many days will turn to nights
There is nothing you won't do
For the garden in my room
Kind of scary lyrics, actually, aren't they? "There is nothing you won't do for the garden in my room"? Yow!

And that reminds me of a few other passages I read only a couple of weeks ago in the Book of Proverbs. Say, like Proverbs 5:
My son, pay attention to my wisdom,
   listen well to my words of insight,
that you may maintain discretion
   and your lips may preserve knowledge.
For the lips of an adulteress drip honey,
   and her speech is smoother than oil;
but in the end she is bitter as gall,
   sharp as a double-edged sword.
Her feet go down to death;
   her steps lead straight to the grave. . . .

Keep to a path far from her,
   do not go near the door of her house,
lest you give your best strength to others
   and your years to one who is cruel,
lest strangers feast on your wealth
   and your toil enrich another man's house.
At the end of your life you will groan,
   when your flesh and body are spent.
You will say, “How I hated discipline!
   How my heart spurned correction!
I would not obey my teachers
   or listen to my instructors.
I have come to the brink of utter ruin
   in the midst of the whole assembly.” . . .

Why be captivated, my son, by an adulteress?
   Why embrace the bosom of another man's wife?
For a man's ways are in full view of the Lord,
   and he examines all his paths.
The evil deeds of a wicked man ensnare him;
   the cords of his sin hold him fast.
He will die for lack of discipline,
   led astray by his own great folly.

--Proverbs 5:1-5, 8-14, 20-23 (NIV)


Or Proverbs 7:
My son, keep my words
   and store up my commands within you. . . .
Say to wisdom, “You are my sister,”
   and call understanding your kinsman;
they will keep you from the adulteress,
   from the wayward wife with her seductive words.

At the window of my house
   I looked out through the lattice.
I saw among the simple, . . .
   a youth who lacked judgment.
He was going down the street near her corner,
   walking along in the direction of her house. . . .

Then out came a woman to meet him, . . .
She took hold of him and kissed him
   and with a brazen face she said:

“. . . I have covered my bed
   with colored linens from Egypt.
I have perfumed my bed
   with myrrh, aloes and cinnamon.
Come, let's drink deep of love till morning;
   let's enjoy ourselves with love!
My husband is not at home;
   he has gone on a long journey.
He took his purse filled with money
   and will not be home till full moon.”

With persuasive words she led him astray;
   she seduced him with her smooth talk.
All at once he followed her
   like an ox going to the slaughter,
like a deer stepping into a noose
   till an arrow pierces his liver,
like a bird darting into a snare,
   little knowing it will cost him his life.

Now then, my sons, listen to me; . . .
Do not let your heart turn to her ways
   or stray into her paths.
Many are the victims she has brought down;
   her slain are a mighty throng.
Her house is a highway to the grave,
   leading down to the chambers of death.

--Proverbs 7:1, 4-8, 10, 13, 16-27 (NIV)

Sunday, September 27, 2009

"I don't love you anymore. In fact, I don't think I ever did."

Someone wrote on the Sonlight forums,
I just got a call from a friend. The fourth friend in two years to call me with the exact same situation. The sixth person I know in real life who this has happened to. The upshot: her husband turned to her this morning over breakfast and said, "You know, I'm just not in love with you anymore. I don't want to be married to you anymore. It's not you. It's me. I'm really sorry." . . .

In the midst of my prayers for my friend, her husband and their precious children, I am asking myself WHY? Why does this kind of thing keep happening? Why does one party in a marriage suddenly feel the need to throw their hands up in the air and walk away? Why? Why? Why?
This post immediately reminded me of an article I read in The Week just a few weeks ago (actually, at this point, about a month ago). Powerful.

It was a reprint of an article from the July 31st edition of the New York Times: Those Aren't Fighting Words, Dear, in which the author was told exactly the same thing by her husband.
“I don’t love you anymore. I’m not sure I ever did.”

His words came at me like a speeding fist, like a sucker punch, yet somehow in that moment I was able to duck. And once I recovered and composed myself, I managed to say, “I don’t buy it.” Because I didn’t.

He drew back in surprise. Apparently he’d expected me to burst into tears, to rage at him, to threaten him with a custody battle. Or beg him to change his mind.

So he turned mean. “I don’t like what you’ve become.”

Gut-wrenching pause. How could he say such a thing? That’s when I really wanted to fight. To rage. To cry. But I didn’t.

Instead, a shroud of calm enveloped me, and I repeated those words: “I don’t buy it.”

You see, I’d recently committed to a non-negotiable understanding with myself. I’d committed to “the End of Suffering.” I’d finally managed to exile the voices in my head that told me my personal happiness was only as good as my outward success, rooted in things that were often outside my control. I’d seen the insanity of that equation and decided to take responsibility for my own happiness. And I mean all of it.

My husband hadn’t yet come to this understanding with himself. He had enjoyed many years of hard work, and its rewards had supported our family of four all along. But his new endeavor hadn’t been going so well, and his ability to be the breadwinner was in rapid decline. He’d been miserable about this, felt useless, was losing himself emotionally and letting himself go physically. And now he wanted out of our marriage; to be done with our family.

But I wasn’t buying it.

I said: “It’s not age-appropriate to expect children to be concerned with their parents’ happiness. Not unless you want to create co-dependents who’ll spend their lives in bad relationships and therapy. There are times in every relationship when the parties involved need a break. What can we do to give you the distance you need, without hurting the family?”

“Huh?” he said.
The rest of the story is very well worth reading. Laura Munson, the author, should be given a medal. I believe what she has written could possibly save thousands--maybe millions--of marriages.

If only people will listen . . . and apply the wisdom she shares.

*****

I spoke with a woman on Friday who told me something very similar had happened with some dear friends of her family. The rebound took longer than it did in Munson's case, and the pain, it seems, may have been greater. But the end results were every bit as wonderful.

Friday, February 06, 2009

Selfless love

Came across this story in today's Spiritual Wealth by Alexander Green.

Challenging. (Have your hankie ready!)
As a young man, I was a devotee of Ayn Rand.

Reading her philosophical novels "Atlas Shrugged" and "The Fountainhead" strengthened my belief in free markets, individual liberty, personal integrity and the inspirational power of great art.

In particular, Rand's radical independence - she swore that she would never live her life for the sake of another person - seemed downright heroic.

It will come as no surprise, however, that Rand was childless. She also had a reputation for being ill-tempered and egotistical. And she bore grudges. ("She wanted me dead," her former paramour Nathaniel Branden told me over dinner one night.)

Hmm. Perhaps there are other heroes... better ones.

In Soul Food, Jack Kornfield and Christina Feldman tell the story of an Illinois family whose daughter became ill and was diagnosed with a life-threatening blood disease.

A search went out for a compatible blood donor but none could be found. Then it was discovered that her six-year-old brother shared her blood type. The boy's mother and doctor sat down with him to ask if he would be willing to donate blood to save the life of his sister.

To their surprise, he did not answer right away. He needed some time to think about it. After a few days, he came back to his mother and announced he would do it.

As Kornfield and Feldman write,
The following day the doctor brought both children to his clinic and placed them on cots next to each other. He wanted them to see how one was helping the other. First he drew a half pint of blood from the young boy's arm. Then he moved it over to his sister's cot and inserted the needle so her brother could see the effect. In a few minutes color began to pour back into her cheeks.

Then the boy motioned for the doctor to come over. He wanted to ask a question, very quietly.

Will I start to die right away?' he asked.

You see, when he had been asked to donate his blood to save his sister's life, his six-year-old mind understood the process literally.
He believed he was trading his life for his sister's. No wonder he needed a few days to mull it over.

In today's society, selflessness is often regarded as nave or idealistic, an outdated concept promoted by busybodies and do-gooders.

But those who focus solely on themselves have their own set of problems. For starters, many of them don't look terribly happy. . . .
Read the rest of One of the Best Secrets of Life.