Category: Gratitude

Friends who disagree

I’m blogging every day of November, with each day being a post about a thing for which I am grateful. – HH

On the fifth day, I’m grateful for people in my life who disagree with me and yet try to stay connected with me.

I am a passionate person. I feel things deeply. I have a highly developed sense of empathy, and so I feel what I perceive as injustices to others viscerally. I don’t bend easily. I look around at the world as it is, with all our problems and it feels unbearable to me.

This runs a lot of folks off. And that’s regrettable, but I get it. There are some people who I so disagree with I cannot stand to be in the same room with them. So for the ones who try hard to stay in the room with me, I really appreciate the effort.

The other night, I was talking to someone I went to high school with, but hadn’t talked to since 1990 or so. Things have changed a lot since then (I probably had a Bush/ Quayle sicker on my car in those days) and I was trying to catch her up. She was someone whose essential convictions had not really changed – she was a progressive teenager, and is a progressive adult. I was just right of center on a lot of things, and moved dramatically left.

How did that happen, she asked?

I explained that moving away and meeting all sorts of people who were different than I am was a big part of it. As my relationships changed, my beliefs had to run to catch up with my relationships. In short, I changed because my relationships changed.

For me, it’s all personal. It’s all extremely personal.

I’m pro-choice because of the people I know and love. I’m pro LGBT people because of people I know and love. I’m a Universalist because of the people I know and love. I’m for Civil Rights because of people I know and love. I’m for the South because of people I know and love. I’m for working-class folks over Billionaires because of people I know and love.

And this extrapolates, too, to issues where I don’t know anyone personally involved. Because people I know and love have been on the wrong end of the Powerful, as long as there are people on the bottom of class and power, I’m for them, regardless of the particular issue.

I agree with Eugene Debs, who said, “While there is a lower class, I am in it, while there is a criminal element, I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.”

Every single bit of who I am and fight for is personal.

And all that happened because the people I ate with, the people I had conversations with, the people who fed me, the people who held me, and the people who loved me, changed. And when I was confronted with ideas from those people that challenged me, I didn’t run away, but I tried hard to understand, because they mattered to me, and I wanted to stay connected to them. And so I appreciate the people who disagree with me, who I make uncomfortable, who struggle to stay in the room with me, but do.

I think that ultimately, nothing has more potential to impact us and the world around us – for good or ill – as much as our relationships do. And for the people who disagree with me but try real hard to stay connected to me, I’m grateful for you. I see how hard you try, and it means the world to me.

Freethinker – Day 4

I’m blogging every day of November, with each day being a post about a thing for which I am grateful. – HH

On the fourth day, I’m grateful to have been taught to be a free-thinker by my parents, even when it hurt them.

I know I tell a lot more stories about my dad than I do my mom, but that’s mainly because Mom is a pretty private person. The truth is my personality is almost a perfect split of the two of them – the part of me that is calm and introverted and pastoral, that stays calm in the midst of crisis, that can solve mechanical problems – that was Dad.

But the part of me that makes me the Mennonite you most want with you in a bar fight; the part of me that that marched a couple of dozen folks without houses into the city council chambers of Raleigh, NC; the part that gets so damned angry when people use their power to take advantage of others – that is all Mom.

I have lots of stories, but they are not mine to tell. But I will tell you this one, which also sums up a lot of our relationship.

I was back home for the weekend of my 20th High School reunion. That Sunday, the church I grew up in was having a Homecoming Sunday service, and so I went with Mom and Dad.

It was after the service and they were all up in the potluck supper. Dozens and dozens of people were crammed in this room, plates balanced precariously as they stood in line to get chicken and dumplings, various casseroles, and caramel cake. The people were all talking, and I had said hi to a bunch of folks, but most of the people I knew were dead now, and so mostly I was just eating food and looking around, when I heard my name mentioned.

I sort of hid behind the cake table to see who was talking about me.

Old Lady: My son showed me the sort of things Hugh writes on Facebook. I know you didn’t raise him to be so liberal. I’m sorry he ended up like that. It’s not your fault, you know.

Mom: What? Of course it’s not.

Old Lady: Well, I mean, I didn’t want you to think I thought you failed somehow, raising him.

Mom: No, we didn’t fail at all. If our goal was to make him think like us, we would have failed. But that wasn’t our goal. Our goal was to teach him how to think for himself, and he does that, and that’s great, even if he doesn’t always think like we do. He does good work, and we are very proud of him.

The old lady shrugged and walked away, and I went and got some more cake.

I rode home in the car with them later, and nobody mentioned anything about that conversation. And 12 years later, we still haven’t.

Books – Day 3

II’m blogging every day of November, with each day being a post about a thing for which I am grateful. – HH

On the third day, I am grateful for my love of books.

I grew up on 33 acres, 10 miles away from a town with 800 people in it. My best friend lived a mile and a half away. It could have been a lonely life. But I never felt that, because I had my books.

I can never remember not being surrounded by books. Our home had piles of them everywhere, and both of my parents read before bed every night, and they both read to me every night, and eventually I read to them every night, and even now, I cannot go to sleep without reading first.

My parents were just babies themselves when I came along, but I was mostly raised by people in their 50’s and 60’s, the elders in our community that stepped in for my dead and absent grandparents. And those people loved to read, and they ooohed and awed over my reading. I remember being five or so and at a neighbor’s when they had company over, and handed a newspaper and getting a rousing ovation for being able to read it.

They also didn’t cater to me. When I was 8 or so and would stay over at my great aunt’s, I would read her paperback mystery novels, largely because there were no “children’s” books to be had. I was taught to use the dictionary for words I did not understand, and I learned to love both dictionaries and pulpy mystery novels.

To this day I can get lost in either – there is nothing more comfortable to me than seeing Hercule Poirot assemble everyone in the drawing room for a satisfying denouement, or getting sidetracked in my search for a word by finding other words I did not know existed.

My immediate neighbors, an elderly retired farm couple, did not read books, but they read the paper each day as if it were Holy Writ, and taught me to do the same. It was a never-ending story, current events were, with chapters spread out that you had to piece together yourself.

In the small town we lived near, the town hall, the fire department, and the library were all in the same building. The library was really just a small room, perhaps 20×15, with shelves around the perimeter and a row of shelves down the middle. Ms. Lea was the librarian, and she was a retired English teacher. They only were open a few days a week – perhaps Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, and only a few hours each of those days.

I read books at a prodigious rate and would, in the summer time, check out a stack of books on Saturday, bring them back on Thursday, and get one or two then to tide me over until Saturday again.

They had a summer reading program every summer, and after my winning each summer for 3 summers in a row, I was given the equivalent of a lifetime award and was not eligible for further participation, “to let the other kids have a chance.”

I didn’t care, as long as they let me read the books. I would rather read than compete: Still would, in fact.

In my early 30’s I would, for a few years, own a bookshop, which is somewhat akin to being an alcoholic and owning a bar. I had just gone through a horrible divorce, and I would sit in my quiet shop, early in the morning, before the shop would open.

The sun would come in the windows, and dust would catch on the rays of the sunlight against the backdrop of the thousands of books on their shelves and I would feel like I was surrounded by friends, and I knew – just knew – that nothing very bad could happen to me.

I still read at a prodigious rate. For instance, a quick search of my records tells me I have borrowed 121 library books since January, and bought another 43 (almost all used), plus others I have gotten as gifts, and I have reread more than a few.

My office is at the front of our house, and I can look out my window at the world going by, but inside here, I am surrounded by bookshelves on every wall. And every time I enter it, it is like being surrounded by friends, and I know – just know – that nothing very bad can happen to me there.

Imperfection – Day 2

I’m blogging every day of November, with each day being a post about a thing for which I am grateful. – HH

I’m grateful for having had parents that encouraged me to be bad at things.

My dad was a pretty good photographer. He was a pretty good woodworker, and a pretty good carpenter, and a pretty good electrician. He wasn’t amazing at any of them, but better than most.

And he was OK with doing it less than perfectly.

In the dining room of our current house, the doorway has a piece of trim I put up and the miter is imperfect. It’s noticeable, but really only if you are looking for it. Of course, the first time they came over I pointed it out, embarrassed.

Being Dad, he told me not to worry about it, and then told me about a friend of his that studied how to make furniture.

“He would take all year to make a bookcase, but when he was done, it was absolutely perfect. But I wanted to know how to make a bookcase, and how to make a cabinet, and how to wire it for lights, and how to fix the engine on my car, and how to carve a whistle. He could make a bookcase better than me, no doubt. But he only knew how to do one thing perfectly, and I learned how to do lots of things imperfectly.”

I was never pressured to be perfect. I was never pressured to fit into their idea of what I should be, and it was fine for me to bring any grade home as long as it was a C or above.

“Because C is average, and you are not below average.”

Or this exchange I will never forget, when I was about 12:

Dad: Son, what do you want to be when you grow up?
Me: I don’t know Dad. What do you want me to be?
Dad: Happy, son. I want you to be happy when you grow up.

Renee – Day 1

I’m blogging every day of November, with each day being a post about a thing for which I am grateful. – HH

I take privacy pretty seriously. I am pretty open with my life, but I made the choice to be. As someone who has been writing on the web since 2003, I’m pretty clear about what parts of my life are open for sharing, and which are not.

Other people get to choose that as well.

You have the unlimited right to tell your story. But you don’t have the right to other people’s stories. My wife Renee is much more private than I am, and so I don’t write much about her here, and anything I do choose to say about her has been read by her before I hit publish.

So what I wrote below is a fraction of what I could say about her, but sometimes, less is more.

Any list of the things I am thankful for has to start with Renee. The list of things she has given up to be married to me is long and lengthy. She’s always believed I could do it, no matter what “it” was. She believed in me and my ability to make it work when I couldn’t. Her confidence in us is staggering.

Her love for me is rivaled only by her love for 90’s Hip Hop. And even though she would much rather eat Kraft mac & cheese and chicken fingers than anything I want to cook, she lets me do all the cooking.

Whatever my idea of living a good life is comprised of, it includes her.

(That picture was taken on our first full day of married life, back in 2009, at Carolina Beach. I always love this smile)

30 Days of Gratitude

I said when I started this project that it was ultimately about my trying to learn how to live a good life. I went through a lot of pains to try to come up with categories that I thought went into that, like Resilience, and Reflecting, and Sharing, but you never think of everything up front: One I forgot was Gratitude.

I have been incredibly fortunate in this life. I’ve swam in both oceans. Seen other countries. Ate Michelin starred food. Been published in National and International publications. I have a row of books on my shelves in which I’m quoted. There are at least a couple of dozen people alive right now because of work I’ve done, that would most likely not be had I not done it. I have lectured at Graduate schools and Seminaries. Read at least 8,000 books. Seen works of art that stagger the mind. There are several nonprofits around the country doing amazing work whose origin story includes my work. My wife and I helped raise more than a dozen kids, including six that lived with us when they didn’t have anywhere else to go. My refrigerator is covered with pictures of friends from all over the world, who live on every continent but Antarctica. My wife loves me and together we have faced down death, tragedy, slander, depression and suicidal ideation and we came out the other side intact. I’ve exceeded every expectation anybody ever had for a working class kid from Marshall County, MS.

If it all ended tomorrow, I don’t see how I would have any complaint at all. My life has been amazing. And it seems to me that, in light of all that, the only proper response to it all is gratitude.

There is a popular meme on Social Media where people note the things for which they are thankful, one a day for the 30 days of November. I have often meant to participate in this, but being the ADHD-riddled Chaos Muppet I am, incapable of advance planning, I forget until we are halfway through the month.

This time, I remembered. But as often happens with me, once I started writing, I had a hard time stopping. So while other people would write, “I’m grateful for books!” I wrote 1,000 words talking about how grateful I am for books. So I decided I would post the series here on the blog – a post a day for the rest of November.

As always, I would to know what you are grateful for, either in the comments here or on one of the social sites where this blog is shared.