For the hungry and the overfed
May we have enough.

For the mourners and the mockers
May we laugh together.

For the peacemakers and the warmongers
May clear truth and stern love lead us to harmony.

For the silenced and the propagandists
May we speak our own words in truth.

For the unemployed and the overworked
May our impress on the earth be kindly and creative.

For the troubled and the sleek
May we live together as wounded healers.

For the homeless and the cosseted
May our homes be simple, warm and welcoming.

For the vibrant and the dying
May we all die to live.

by Rainer Maria Rilke

I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
So many dull days, on my worried windowpanes
That a storm is coming,
And I hear the far-off fields say things
I can’t bear without a friend
I can’t love without a sister.

The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on
Across the woods and across time,
And the world looks as if it had no age:
The landscape, like a line in the psalm book,
Is seriousness and weight and eternity.

What we choose to fight is so tiny!
What fights with us is so great!
If only we would let ourselves be dominated
As things do by some immense storm,
We would become strong too, and not need names.

When we win, it’s with small things,
And the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
Does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the Angel who appeared
To the wrestlers of the Old Testament;
When the wrestler’s sinews
Grew long like metal strings,
He felt them under his fingers
Like chords of deep music.

Whoever was beaten by this Angel
(who often simply declined the fight)
Went away proud and strengthened
And great from that harsh hand,
That kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
By constantly greater beings.


*Photo by Carolyn Conner, Creative Commons
*Copyrighted material. Do not duplicate. For therapeutic or educational purposes only.

Opening
Now is the shining fabric of our day
Torn open, flung apart,
Rent wide by Love.
Never again
The tight, enclosing sky,
The blue bowl,
Or the star-illumined tent.
We are laid open to infinity,
For Easter Love
Has burst His tomb and ours.
Now nothing shelters us
From God’s desire –
Not flesh, not sky,
Not stars, not even sin.
Now Glory waits
So He can enter in.
Now does the dance begin.

-Elizabeth Rooney

In late February, I took a walk in the wooded area behind our home. I went to check on the daffodils whose buds started peeking out due to the unseasonably warm winter. I’m not really sure why I checked on them, as there was little help I could provide them against the impending cold. While on my walk, I noticed that my Lenten Rose bush was in full bloom. My eyes welled with tears.

The Lenten Rose is this small bush that can’t really figure out it’s place in the rhythm of things. I relate to it. It almost dies back in the winter, but not fully. While its green leaves are muted, they never quite submit to brown. It’s not particularly flashy and isn’t chosen often for yards and landscapes. If plants could tease one another, I think it would be the butt of the plant jokesters. While it’s often seen as nothing special, every year it stirs deep emotion in me. I have two of them in my yard.

In late winter/early spring, long before the daffodils and crocuses peek from the ground, blooms quietly emerge from this little plant. While other plants show off their blossoms, the Lenten Rose is demure about it. Bowing its head, the blooms gently fold themselves against the leafy foliage. Sometimes one has to look for it, as it tries to conceal its several shades of purple and pink against a white background.

Truth be told, the winter is always hard for me. I don’t do well with the sun going down early, dark cloudy days, and the lack of green. It’s also the season of my darkest hours in years past, and the reminder of it all sometimes settles in like a heavy fog. As the winter progresses, something in me always needs a sign, begs for a sign, of hope.

And so that morning, this dear little shrub greeted me, full of blossoms, showing up several weeks earlier than usual. It declared, “Spring will come. That which has descended to the earth will emerge again. Winter will not win.” And within a month or so, the Lenten Rose will be proved right.

I think that’s why Easter is my favorite day of the year. The signs of hope are proved to be true! Lent will be over, the stone will be rolled away, and as Wendell Berry says, I can “practice resurrection.”

Al Andrews
March 28, 2013

It was the first Thanksgiving after World War II, and their sons were coming home. The war was finally over and Andy and Margaret Andrews of Signal Mountain, Tennessee waited for their boys to walk up to their front door.

One was a paratrooper, one was a Navy man, and the other three, including my father, had enlisted in the Army. My grandmother was named Tennessee Mother of the Year, having sent all five of her sons off to war. I’m sure it was an award she would have gladly given up to keep them out of harm’s way.

Against all odds, they made it out alive and their reunion was on Thanksgiving Day. My father told me what that day was like. He particularly remembered when they all gathered around the table with their parents and their little sister. The usually boisterous boys were quiet. The war had made them men who now recognized the solemn moment engulfing the room.

My grandfather rose to pray, as he always had. Everyone’s head was bowed. And then there was silence. After a while they looked up and saw tears streaming down his face. His mouth was open, but he couldn’t speak. His gratitude was too intense, his relief was so great, and his heart was as full as it could be. There was no need for prayer. His heart had prayed where his voice could not. He and his family were blessed beyond measure.

Today, I wonder what would happen if we paused before saying grace over our meal and thought for a minute. What if we remembered the times that we survived. The moments we were spared. The day we were rescued. The decision to come home again.

My hunch is that if we let our hearts linger on this for a while, we too would be silenced and our thankful tears would be our prayer.

Al Andrews
Thanksgiving Day, 2012

My friend Bob Goff says that when you have a dream and you share it with other people, one by one, they join you in that dream. “It’s like a pick up basketball game,” he says. “People just want to play!”

In the last few years, I’ve found his words to be true. My dream of becoming a philanthropist by writing a selling a book has been joined by friends and by those who saw the game being played and wanted to be a part.

When I started Improbable Philanthropy, I had NO idea how much was required to do it. Becoming a publisher and a marketer was something for which I was unprepared.

And then, one by one, people would say, “I’d like to help with that!” or “Can I do this for you?” Soon, we’d gathered what I call Team Improbable. Their help and support has been invaluable. We’re thinking about getting jerseys with numbers on them for members of the team.

Among the things I’ve learned in this journey, the importance of comrades coming alongside is top on the list. To have friends, old and new, join a dream is both a gift and a necessity. Without them, the dream won’t take flight.

Here’s what people have brought to my dream/pick-up game:

Mailing and Shipping
Publishing and Printing Advice
Art Direction
Website Design and social media
A Film
Management
Publicity
Legal Counsel
Blogging Advice
Photography
Framing the original art
Original scores for the book
Book launch party
Everyone who’s bought a book

I can’t tell you how grateful I am to be a part of a community who dreams and who have become a part of mine.

And the latest member of Team Improbable is Jason Germain, who wrote a score and created the following video. Enjoy:

Al Andrews
November 15, 2012

Meet Don Richie. Don is 84 years old and recently received a bravery medal and the Order of Australia, the country’s second highest civilian honor. He got the award because he saves lives. Here’s his story.

About 40 years ago, Don and his wife, Moya, bought a house overlooking Sydney Harbor. It’s an area called, “The Gap,” and their dream home had stunning views of the cliffs and the water. What they didn’t know when they bought the house was that across the street was the spot from which at least 50 people a year committed suicide by jumping off the cliff’s edge to the rocks below.

Most people would have moved, but from the first day they arrived, Don decided to do something about it. Through his large picture window, he kept his eye on the area across the street. And if he saw someone lingering, he walked across the road, said hello, and offered them a cup of tea.

One morning, he saw a woman sitting on the edge of the cliff. “I quickly got dressed and went over. She had already put her handbag and shoes outside the fence, which is pretty common. They very often leave something behind.”

“I said to her, ‘Why don’t you come over and have a cup of tea?’ She came with me, and Moya made her breakfast. When she got home, she rang to say she was feeling much better. Two or three months later, she walked up the garden path with a magnum of French champagne.”

Over the years, he’s coaxed hundreds of people back from the edge with his invitation. But for some, his kind words were the last thing they heard. “I’m just trying to save a life,” he says. “I used to sell kitchen scales and bacon cutters. At the Gap, I’m trying to sell people life.” No wonder he’s known as the Angel at the Gap.

“Selling people life.” I love that phrase!

What if we all lived with that kind of generosity of heart? Spending our days, surveying the landscape with an eager vigilance, watching for those who linger at the brink, and inviting them over for tea…and the chance to live.

-Al

*The photo and quotes in this blog and the story about Don Richie comes from an article by Kathy Marks in the Christian Science Monitor 10/18/10

Henri the painter is one of Steinbeck’s quirky characters in Cannery Row. He’s known for the unique and intricate boats he builds, often taking years to work on each one.

*Photo by Stephen A. Wolfe, Creative Commons

But there’s something odd about Henri. He never finishes a boat. When it’s almost completed, he takes it apart and begins anew, having no intention of ever putting the boat in the water. Two of his friends discuss his behavior:

“Every time he gets it nearly finished, he changes it and starts all over again. I think he’s nuts. Seven years on a boat!”

“You don’t understand. Henri loves boats, but he’s afraid of the ocean. He likes boats, but suppose he finishes his boat. Once it’s finished people will say, ‘Why don’t you put it in the water?’ Then if he puts it in the water, he’ll have to go out in it and he hates the water. So you see, he never finishes the boat – so he doesn’t ever have to launch it.”

Isn’t that what happens with so many of our dreams? We become afraid of what might happen if our dreams become a reality. The risk simply feels too great. And so we move through life, playing it safe. Rather than dealing with our fear of the water, we work on boats that we never plan to finish.

What is it that you’ve dreamed but never really pursued?

What has been simmering deep inside of you that you’ve not been attentive to?

What’s the boat you are building?

Perhaps it’s time to take that boat down to the water, launch it, and hoist the sails! The wind will take it from there.

A woman with multiple felonies sat to my left.  Across from me, seated next to one another, were two women who’d prostituted themselves in the past to pay for their drug habits.  To my right was a woman who’d lost count of the number of times she’d been arrested and put in jail.

I was attending “the circle,” a weekly open meeting at Thistle Farms, and this was my first visit.  I’d come to see what it  was all about.  What it is about is this:  women who have struggled with drug addiction and prostitution find a place to live and recover at Magdalene House, a two year residential program in Nashville. Thistle Farms, a social enterprise, is where they work.

At the circle meeting, a devotional is read and then, going around the room, women introduce themselves and say whatever they need to say.  Sometimes it’s “Hi. My name is Mary and I’m a grateful recovering addict.”  And other times someone shares a story of their week – how they’re doing or what they’re struggling with while others submit requests for prayer.

As the sharing that morning proceeded from woman to woman, my thought was this, “I think I might be able to help these women. They’ve had a hard life and I’ve been blessed. I believe I have something to give them.”

If I’m truthful, embedded in my thought was a condescending stance and a self-assurance that I was in a better place than they.  They had significant problems and though I was admittedly a “sinner,” well, I’d never been jailed or arrested or hooked on illegal substances.

The sharing continued, “Sometimes I feel like I just can’t walk anymore.  I’m tired.  So tired.  But I don’t have to fall down and I don’t have to use again.  So I guess I’ll just stand.   I can’t walk, but I can stand.” The next woman spoke. “We are like palm trees.  The wind bends us so far that it feels like we’re going to break.  But God won’t let us break.  I will bend, but I won’t break.” And as each woman spoke, truth and hope poured out of them like some sort of grace-filled, overflowing spring.

By the time it was my turn to speak, I had been nudged several times.  I don’t think it was the woman beside me.  I think it was probably Jesus. Ever so gently, He had been whispering to me the words he said to the Pharisees, the guys who felt that they were better because they were able to avoid the bad stuff.

And then Jesus raised the “good guy” bar by saying “If you’ve hated, you’ve murdered. If you’ve coveted, you’re a thief, and if you’ve lusted, you’re an adulterer.”  It was as if he said to me, “Welcome to the circle. This is where you belong. These are your people, your sisters, your community.  This is where YOU will be healed.” And then it was my turn to speak.

“Hi. I’m Al,” I said. “I think I’m recovering from myself.”

“Hi Al. Welcome,” said the group of women I came to assist.

Since that day many months ago, I have been a part of the circle almost every week. I go because I too am a former prostitute, who gave people what they wanted from me rather than what they needed.  I go because I am a recovering addict, having tried to comfort my pain with things that bring no relief.  I go because I need the healing brought by a community of real people who don’t judge because they are better than me, but rather invite me into the circle as one of their own.  I go because love heals and I need to be healed.  I go because I need my sisters and my sisters need a brother.

I go because it is not just a circle.  It is home.

The day he was born, I walked outside with my tools and began to dig. I wasn’t sure why I was digging. I simply knew I must break into the hard ground to make it something it was not.

I wasn’t digging a hole. Rather I was preparing a smooth surface, free from obstacles, small and large. Daily I tore into the ground, breaking rocks into small pieces, cutting down trees, and tearing out roots that would find their way to the surface again. Sometimes my boy would work alongside me, not knowing what we were building or why, but glad to be with me and a part of the task.

I don’t remember the day I realized we were constructing some sort of path. Perhaps it was when I saw that it was not deep enough for a foundation and too long for a garden. The path was wide and never meandered. It was smooth and level.

There were difficult years, particularly when hills had to be cut through. But time and patience saw them open wide and finally welcome the path as an old friend.

A few weeks ago, a little more than eighteen years after I began this project, I realized what it was. It was when my eldest son began to gather his things in boxes. And one by one, he placed them at spot where my work began. His belongings were all there – his instruments, his books, his trophies, his mattress – stacked up at the path’s starting point. As he stood there, tall and manly, he looked down the path beyond its end and toward the horizon, bright with the morning son.

Then it came to me. There before us was a runway, wide and long and smooth. And he, with an eager heart and a long wingspan, was ready for takeoff.

This morning, we will load the truck and Hunter will be moving into his own apartment. For the first time in all of his years, he will be leaving to return only for visits. While my grief is profound, it is overwhelmed by gratitude for his tenure with us and with hope for all of his adventure-filled flights to come.

I can hear the pilot’s voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for liftoff.” It is a voice I have dreaded since the day he entered this world. And it is a voice that I embrace for all that will be his.

Al Andrews
Early morning
Moving day
July 1, 2012