It Just Happened Again!

It just happened again.

Minding my own business on my daily, noon-time walk around the little lake adjacent to our office building. I was listening to my iPod. My mind was five time zones away in Dublin.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of this guy that looked like he was trying to get my attention. He was an elderly gentleman on one of those little electric scooter thingies. His rotund wife was standing behind him.

And I could read his lips: “You look like John Bolton!”

Well, I knew where that was coming from. For this is now about the fourth time I have been accused of that.

I whipped my headphones off and moved closer to him. Only now I could hear his voice, “You look like John Bolton.”

Well. I laughed. Told him it wasn’t the first time . . . that it had happened before.

But he added, “But I won’t hold that against you personally!”

At that, I lunged for the sky, arms outstretched, fingers waving in fanatical flurry, tying my best to impersonate some I’m-Saved-Too-Bad-About-You-Born-Again-Emotion-Possessed-Spectral-Infused-Evangelical-Wing-Nut, and shouting out “Praise the Lord! Thank you God! He’s not going to hold it against me personally!”

I lowered my arms, looked down at him, and felt the need to nearly catch him as he was about roll off that thingie laughing.

His wife, however, was a little stunned. But she soon caught herself and said, “You really don’t seem to have that nasty proclivity that John Bolton has.”

I tried to assure her that I certainly did not. That kind of temperament is just not within me.

We laughed, and parted our ways.

But I often wonder about the old woman who, a year ago, who stood in the dairy section in the Safeway store, clutching and waving a carton of eggs at me and yelling, “YOU ARE John Bolton!”

And I thought she was about to make a cackleberry shell omelet right there in her knurled fingers.

Believe me, it is frightening to look like somebody you don’t want to be.

Somehow, it is a lot more satisfying to emulate somebody that you do want to be.

The Refectory Manager

[John Bolton is now back in the news for his second round of US Senate confirmation hearings to be the US Ambassador to the U.N. He does have a public persona!]

On Wrestling, Wounding, Transforming, and Blessing

His name is Jake. But no matter, could be anything. For he is simply an exemplar. An exemplar for me. An exemplar for you. For no matter what, he’s been there, done that! And no matter what, each of us will have been there, done that too, or inevitably will.

Wrestle. Wrestle, that is. Yes, wrestle.

Wrestle a night of living hell relationship.

Jake was/is like all of us. We simply do things to each other or are the recipient of things done to us that gets us into trouble.

History, from earliest of the written missives, is full of story after story of people, of families, and of relationships that become entangled, endangered, seemingly intractable, seemingly irreparable. And Jake was no different. That private agenda that was deep within him, rationalized a breach of trust . . . a relationship was fractured, seemingly for eternity.

And with each of us, it doesn’t matter. We each have carry-on and checked baggage of relationships that have become entangled, endangered, seemingly intractable, seemingly irreparable. And yes, there are times when that baggage should be dumped in the lost baggage chute that goes to straight to relationship-baggage hell.

But on that night, it was Jake who was the one who thought it was he who was on the way to relationship-baggage hell.

And that night could have been my night, or your night. Perhaps it was last night, Perhaps yet tonight. Perhaps on some night-of-the-morrow. But there is a night. There has been a night. There will yet be a night. A night of the wrestling of a living hell relationship.

And in the pitch blackness of Jake’s wretched night, he felt another there. And that other was hostile, confrontational, belligerent, and physical. The words were harsh, stinging, poisoned, demanding. And the physical got rough. Maliciously rough. And the emotional, the verbal, the physical wrestling went on for hours, and hours. And the living hell of relationship was excoriated with pain. And the wrestling was a struggle to the seeming death. This relationship was doomed. There would be no over-comer. It was a inter-locked stalemate of intractable stubbornness of the custody of relationship baggage.

But without warning, the other wrestler grabbed and jabbed and violently twisted Jake’s leg. Punched his hip, twisted and jerked until Jake screamed with excruciating pain. And even so, the pop of the dislocated hip was plainly heard. And the wrestling, mercifully, came to an end.

And with me, or with you, the dislocating of a joint, may have been the uttering of words that simply eviscerated the life out of our very being. It may have been the realization of what is . . . is . . . and what it will not be.

The wrestling ends with wounding.

Wounding. Painful, horrible, disfiguring wounding.

A crippling wound that would forever alter the quality of life for Jake.

A seminal wound that forever shapes my perspective of life. Or for you, a wound that marks the edge of an epic in your life.

But what is a wound if it is not an opportunity for transformation. The object for a healing experience.

And so Jake found himself before the dawn on that relentless night, writhing in anguish, nursing a wound that dulled the pain of hellish relationship. But in that struggle, he demanded to know the identity of the true protagonist. Jake knew deep within himself that the protagonist had a power to transform, to heal, to un-entangle relationships from hell. And Jake, writhing in agony, pleaded with the wrestler for some semblance of recognition, for some face-saving validation, for something to facilitate a new day that was fast approaching.

But the Wrestler left. Quickly left. And left Jake with some words that transformed him.

Transformed him. A wound allowed him to be transformed.

Transformed.

For as the light of day was now breaking the blackness of the night, Jake felt infused with a new perspective, a transformation. A new way of looking at things. What had appeared to be entangled, endangered, intractable, irreparable, now looked so very different in the light of this new day. For his perspective had been transformed. He had been transformed.

And for me, for you, it too is a transformation. To be able to experience a vision, a hope, a future. And whatever that entails for that relationship from hell, that baggage, in that form, has now been recycled. There is now a new, nascent, different, doable, livable perspective on relationship, on life. For the brightness of the new day is transforming in perspective. The rising from the immersion of the depths of wrestling, being wounded, is the feeling of a rising phoenix.

As Jake struggled with his hip, with his problems at hand, he felt that inner freedom of relief. He had that inner sense of blessing. Of being blessed. And yes, it was and is a blessing.

Blessing.

An old, old word for healing.

Healing the transformed wounded.

And with Jake, that sense of blessing was balm to his soul.

And for me, for you . . . that sense of blessing, of healing, is a soothing ointment to each of our souls.

And ya’, Jake did eventually realize his blessing. He realized his transformation. He realized the nature of his wound. He finally found out what happened in the night of the wrestling with the relationship from hell.

And when he was transformed, he got a new name.

And when we are transformed, we will have a new perspective on an old relationship.

And the blessing can foster healing. And the healing fosters the transformation. And the transformation puts the wound into perspective. And wound broke the stalemate of the wrestling with the relationship from hell.

And so Jake has now been there, done that, and as a result forever changed.

Only I will know my experience of wrestling, of the wound that is inflicted upon me, of my being transformed, of my being blessed, healed.

And your situation will be yours. It may be intensely private. It may be shared. But for you, it will be your night of wrestling, your experience, your transformation, and yes, your healing.

And yes, Jake is an exemplar. And he did have a horrendous relationship crisis in his life. And he wrestled, and got his hip dislocated. And he was transformed. And he was blessed.

And you can read the nitty-gritty of the details of Jake’s story in the Hebrew Bible. You can find it at about chapter 32 in the book of Genesis.

The Recfectory Manager