tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77575806953722585932024-02-20T07:00:31.113-06:00A Long Obedience in (Mostly) the Same DirectionDonnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.comBlogger798125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-29411644822569400872020-05-31T20:54:00.000-05:002020-05-31T20:54:32.229-05:00How Fascism WorksI just finished a book. Or maybe it was a puzzle? Or maybe I finally saw the hidden image in one of those "magic eye" posters. However you want to describe it, the pattern or image or political strategy revealed in Jason Stanley's book "<a href="https://www.amazon.com/How-Fascism-Works-Politics-Them/dp/0525511857/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=How%20Fascism%20Works&qid=1590946909&sr=8-1&fbclid=IwAR0G1dM1aCso59S1AEJWNtKuZRISzJ0AA82dZTxeZeIQKjcZ-RLaD7uvO5Y" target="_blank">How Fascism Works</a>" is a reality that, once seen, cannot be unseen. I'd picked up on some patterns and similarities in strategy and rhetoric over the years, having become more concerned when it all intensified with our current Presidential Administration but this brought home a clarity to the far-right movements gaining popularity in both our country and other countries across the world. The ideas in the book are important enough that I took the time to type out some quotes.<br /><br />
<u>Introduction</u><br />
Multiple countries, across the world, have been overtaken by a certain kind of
far-right nationalism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The list includes
Russia, Hungary, Poland, India, Turkey and the United States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The task of generalizing about such phenomena
is always vexing, as the context of each country is always unique but such
generalization is necessary in the current moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have chosen the label “fascism” for
ultra-nationalism of some variety, ethnic, religious, cultural, with the nation
represented in the person of an authoritarian leader who speaks on its
behalf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
My particular interest in this book is in fascist politics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Particularly, my interest is in fascist
tactics as a mechanism to achieve power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once those who employ such tactics come to power, the regimes they enact
are, in large part, determined by particular historical conditions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What occurred in Germany is different from
what occurred in Italy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fascists
politics does not necessarily lead to an explicitly fascist state but it is
dangerous, nonetheless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Fascist politics includes many distinct strategies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mythic past, propaganda,
anti-intellectualism, unreality (i.e. conspiracy theories), hierarchy, victimhood,
law-and-order, sexual anxiety, appeals to the heartland and a dismantling of
public welfare and unity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though a
defense of certain elements is legitimate and sometimes warranted, there are
times in history in which they come together in one party of political
movement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are dangerous
moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the US today, Republican
politicians employ these strategies with more and more frequency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their increasing tendency to engage in this
politics should give honest conservatives pause.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
The dangers <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of fascist politics comes in
the particular way it dehumanizes segments of the population.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By excluding these groups, it limits the
capacity for empathy among other citizens, leading to the justification of
inhuman treatment; from the repression of freedom, mass imprisonment and
expulsion to, in extreme cases, mass extermination.<br />
Fascist politics can dehumanize a minority group even when an explicitly
fascist state does not arrive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
The most telling symptom of fascist politics is division.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It aims to separate a population into an “us”
and a “them.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many kinds of political
movements involved such a division.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
example, Communist politics weaponizes class divisions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Giving a description of fascist politics
involves describing the very specific way that fascist politics distinguishes
“us” from “them.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Appealing to ethnic,
religious or racial distinctions and using this division to shape ideology and,
ultimately, policy.<br />
<br />
Fascist politicians justify their ideas by breaking down a common sense of
history, in creating a mythic past to support their vision for the
present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To support their vision for the
present, they rewrite the population’s shared understanding of reality by
twisting the language of ideals through propaganda and promoting anti-intellectualism,
attacking universities and educational systems which might challenge their
ideas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually, with these
techniques, fascist politics creates a state of unreality in which conspiracy
theories and fake news replace reasoned debate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As the common understanding of reality crumbles, fascist politics makes
rooms for dangerous and false beliefs to take root. <br />
First, fascist ideology seeks to naturalize group difference, thereby giving the
appearance of natural, scientific support for a hierarchy of human worth. When
social rankings and divisions solidify, fear fills in for understanding between
groups.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any progress for a minority
groups stokes feelings of victimhood among the dominant population.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Law-and-order politics has mass appeal, casting “us” as “lawful citizens” and
“them,” by contrast, as “lawless criminals” whose behavior poses an existential
threat to the manhood of the nation.<br />
Sexual anxiety is also typical of fascist politics as the patriarchal hierarchy
is threatened by growing gender equity.<br />
As the fear of “them” grows, “we” come to represent everything virtuous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We” live in the rural heartland where the
pure values and traditions of the nation still, miraculously, exist, despite
the threat of the cosmopolitanism of the nation’s cities alongside the hordes
of minorities who live there, emboldened by liberal tolerance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We” are hardworking and have earned our
pride of place by struggle and merit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“They” are lazy, surviving off the goods we produce by exploiting the generosity
of our welfare systems or by employing corrupt institutions such as labor
unions, meant to separate honest, hardworking citizens from their pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“We” are makers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They” are takers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
In its own history, the US can find a legacy of the best of liberal democracy
as well as the roots of fascist thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Indeed, Hitler was inspired by the Confederacy and Jim Crow laws.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Following the horrors of WWII, which sent
millions of refugees fleeing across the world, the 1948 Declaration of Human
Rights affirmed the dignity of every human being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The drafting and adoption of the document were
spearheaded by former first lady, Eleanor Roosevelt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And after the war, it stood for the US’
ideals as much as those of the new United Nations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a bold statement, a powerful iteration
and expansion of liberal democratic understanding of personhood to include
literally the entire world community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
bound all nations and cultures to a shared commitment to valuing the equality
of every person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it rang with the
aspirations of millions in a shattered world confronting the devastation of
colonialism, genocide, racism, global war and, yes, fascism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
After the war, Article 14 was particularly poignant, solemnly affirming the
right of every person to seek asylum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even
as the declaration attempted to prevent a repetition of the suffering
experienced during WWII, it acknowledged that certain categories of people
might, once again, have to flee the nation-states under whose flag they once
lived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Fascism today might not look exactly like it did in the 1930s, but refugees are
once again on the road everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
multiple countries, their plight reinforces fascist propaganda that the nation
is under siege that aliens are a threat and danger, both within and outside
their borders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The suffering of
strangers can solidify the structure of fascism but it can also trigger empathy
once another lenses is clicked into place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<br />
<u>Chapter 1</u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mythic Past<br />
This imagined history provides proof to support the imposition of hierarchy in
the present and it dictates how contemporary society should look and
behave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a 1922 speech at the fascist
conference in Naples, Benito Mussolini declared, “We have created our
myth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The myth is a faith, a passion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not necessary for it to be a
reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our Myth is the nation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our Myth is the greatness of the nation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And to this Myth, this greatness, which we
want to translate into a total reality, we subordinate everything.”<br />
Here, Mussolini makes clear that the fascist mythic past is intentionally
mythical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The function of the Mythic
Past in fascist politics is to harness the emotion of nostalgia to the central
tenants of fascist ideology; Authoritarianism, Hierarchy, Purity and
Struggle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the creation of a mythic
past, fascism creates a link between nostalgia and the realization of fascist
ideals.<br />
<br />
<u>Chapter 2</u> Propaganda<br />
In book 8 of Plato’s <i>The Republic</i>, Socrates argues that people are not
naturally lead to self-governance but rather seek a strong leader to
follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Democracy, by permitting freedom
of speech, opens the door for a demagogue to exploit the people’s need for a
strongman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The strongman will use this
freedom to prey upon the people’s resentments and fears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once the strongman seizes power, he will end
democracy, replacing it with tyranny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
short, book 8 of <i>The Republic</i> argues that democracy is a
self-undermining system whose very ideals lead to its own demise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Fascists have always been well-acquainted with this recipe for using democracy’s
liberties against itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
It's hard to advance a policy that will harm a large group of people in
straight-forward terms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The role of
political propaganda is to conceal politicians or political movements’ clearly
problematic goals by masking them with ideals that are widely accepted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<u>Chapter 3</u> Anti-intellectual<br />
Fascist politics seeks to undermine public discourse by attacking and devaluing
education, expertise and language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Intelligent debate is impossible without an education, with access to
different perspectives, a respect for expertise when one’s own knowledge gives
out and a rich enough language to precisely describe reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When education, expertise and linguistic
distinctions are undermined, there remains only power and tribal identity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This does not mean there are no roles for
universities in fascist politics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
fascists ideology, there is only one legitimate viewpoint, that of the dominant
nation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Schools introduce students to
the dominant culture and it’s mythical past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Education therefore either poses a grave threat to fascism or becomes a
pillar of support for the mythical nation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<br />
<u>Chapter 4</u> Unreality<br />
When propaganda succeeds at twisting ideals against themselves and universities
are undermined and condemned as sources of bias, reality itself is cast into
doubt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can’t agree on truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fascist politics replaces reasoned debate
with fear and anger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When it is
successful, it’s audiences are left with the destabilized sense of loss and a
well of mistrust and anger against those whom it has been told are responsible
for this loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Hannah Arent, perhaps the 20<sup>th</sup> century’s greatest theorist for
Totalitarianism, gave clear warning of the importance of conspiracy theories in
anti-democratic politics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In “The
Origins of Totalitarianism” she writes, “Mysteriousness, as such, became the
first criterion for the choice of topics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The effectiveness of this kind of propaganda demonstrates one of the
chief characteristics of modern masses; they do not believe in anything
visible, in the reality of their own experience, they do not trust their eyes
and ears but only their imaginations which may be caught be anything that is at
once universal and consistent in itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What convinces masses are not facts and not even invented facts but only
the consistency of the system of which they are presumable a part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Repetition is only important because it
convinces them of consistency, in time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because the audience for conspiracy theories regularly discount their
own experience, it is often unimportant that the conspiracy theories are
demonstrably false.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Texas House Bill 45, the “American laws for American courts” bill signed into
law by the Texas Governor in 2017, is intended to block Muslims from bringing
Sharia law into the state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That Muslims
are trying to sneakily transform Texas into an Islamic Republic is deeply
improbable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As is the hypothesis that
President Obama is a secret Muslim pretending to be a Christian in order to
overthrown the US government.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These
conspiracy theories are effective, never-the-less, because they provide simple
explanations for otherwise irrational emotions, such as resentment or
xenophobic fear in the face of perceived threats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The idea that President Obama is secretly a
Muslim, pretending to be a Christian, in order to overthrow the US government
makes rational sense of the irrational feelings of threat many white people had
upon his ascension to the Presidency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That Muslims are trying to sneak Sharia law into Texas makes rationale
sense of the feeling of fear caused by a combination of religious nationalists
spreading anti-muslim xenophobia and ISIS propaganda videos of terrorists acts
committed on far-off shores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once a
public accepts the comfort of conspiracy thinking for an explanation of
irrational fears and resentments, its members will cease to be guided by reason
in political deliberation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br /><br />
How can conspiracy theories spread if reason always wins out in the square of
public date in a liberal democracy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Shouldn’t liberal democracy promote a full airing of all possibilities,
even false and bizarre ones, because the truth will eventually prevail in the
marketplace of ideas?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Perhaps philosophies most famous defense of the freedom of speech was
articulated by John Stuart Mill, who defended the ideal in his 1859 work “On
Liberty.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mills sets out to establish
that silencing any opinion is wrong, even if the opinion is false.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To silence a false opinion is wrong because
knowledge arises only from the collision of truth with error.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other words, true belief becomes knowledge
only in emerging victorious from the den of argument and disagreement and
discussion. According to Mill, knowledge emerges only as the result of
deliberation with opposing positions, which must occur either with actual
opponents or through internal dialogue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Without this process, even true belief remains mere prejudice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We must allow all speech, even defense of
false claims and conspiracy theories because it is only then that we have the
chance of achieving knowledge.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether
rightly or wrongly, many associate Mills with the motif of a “market place of
ideas.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A realm which, if left to
operate on its own, will drive out prejudice and falsehood and produce
knowledge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
But the notion of a “marketplace of ideas” like that of a free-market generally
is predicated upon a utopian conception of consumers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the case of the metaphor of the
marketplace of ideals, the utopian assumptions is that conversation works by
exchange of reasons, with one party offering its reasons which are then
countered by the reasons of an opponent until the truth ultimately
emerges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But conversation is not just
used to communicate information.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Conversation is also used to shut out perspectives, raise fears and
heighten prejudice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
The argument for the “marketplace of ideas” presupposes that words are used
only in their descriptive, logical or semantic sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in politics, and most vividly in fascist
politics, language is not used simply or even chiefly, to convey information
but to illicit emotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The argument
from the “marketplace of ideas” model for free speech works only if the
underlying disposition of the society is to accept the force of reason over the
power of irrational resentments and prejudice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If the society is divided, however then a demagogique politician can
exploit the division by using language to sow fear, accentuate prejudice and
call for revenge against members of hated groups.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Attempting to counter such rhetoric with
reason is akin to using a pamphlet against a pistol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
[Marketplace of ideas] assumes that knowledge, and only knowledge, emerges from
arguments between dedicated opponents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Such a process, according to that theory, destroys prejudice. <br />
But in reality, objective truth gets drowned out in the cacophony of dissenting
voices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The effect of the myriad of
conspiracy theory producing websites across the world, including in the US, has
been to destabilize the shared reality that is, in fact, required for shared
democratic contestation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Disagreement requires a shared set of presuppositions about the world… You and
I might disagree over whether President Obama’s health care policy was a good
idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if you believe President Obama
was a secret Muslim seeking to destroy the US and I do not, our discussion will
not be productive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will not be
talking about the cost and benefits of Obama’s health policy but rather whether
or not any of his policies mask a devious, anti-democratic agenda.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Russian propagandists or “political
technologists” realized that, with a cacophony of opinions and outlandish
opinions, one could undermine the basic background set of presuppositions about
the world which allows for productive inquiry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One can hardly have reasoned discussion about climate policy when one
suspects that the scientists who tell us about climate change have a secret
“pro-homosexual agenda” as, for example the evangelical media member Tony
Perkins suggested on an October 29<sup>th</sup>, 2014 edition of his radio
program, “Washington Watch.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Allowing every opinion into the public sphere and giving it serious time for
consideration, far from resulting in a process that is conducive to knowledge
formation via deliberation, destroys its very possibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Responsible media, in a liberal democracy,
must, in the face of this threat, try to report the truth and resist the
temptation to report on every possible theory, no matter how fantastical, as
long as someone advances it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
What happens when conspiracy theories become the coin of
politics and mainstream media and education institutions are discredited is
that citizens no longer have a common reality that can serve as background for
democratic deliberation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In such a
situation, citizens have no choice but to look for markers to follow other than
truth or reliability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What happens, in
such cases, as we see across the world, is that citizens look to politics for
tribal identifications, for addressing personal grievances and for entertainment.<br />
Fascist politics exchanges reality for the remarks of a
single individual or, perhaps, a political party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Regular, repeated and obvious lying is part
of the process by which fascists politics destroys the information space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A fascist leader can replace truth with
power. Ultimately lying without consequence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>By replacing the world with a person, fascist politics makes us unable
to assess arguments by a common standard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The fascist politician possess specific techniques to destroy
information spaces and break down reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
The University of Connecticut philosopher Michal Lynch has used the example of
“Pizza-gate” as evidence for the thesis that conspiracy theories are not
intended to be treated as ordinary information.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Lynch points out that if one were actually to believe that there was a
pizzeria in Washington DC that was trafficking in child sex slaves for
Democratic congressmen, it would be entirely rationale to act as Edgar Madison
Welch acted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet, Welch was roundly
condemned who promulgated the “Pizza-gate” conspiracy for his actions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lynch’s point is that the “Pizza-gate” conspiracy
was not intended to be treated as ordinary information.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The function of conspiracy theories is to
impugn and malign their targets but not necessarily be convincing their
audience that they are true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the case
of “Pizza-gate”, the conspiracy was mean to remain at the level of innuendo and
slander.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Donald Trump came to mainstream political attention by attacking the press for
their supposed censorship of the conspiracy called “Birtherism.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In an interview with CNN on May 29<sup>th</sup>,
2012, Trump railed at Wolf Blitzer and CNN for not covering the topic because,
according to Trump, they were working for Obama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fox News, in contrast, provided a ready
platform to promote his conspiracy theories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
President Trump is not an outlier here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Conspiracy theories are the calling cards of fascist politics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conspiracy theories are tools to attack those
who would ignore their existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By not
covering them, the media is made to appear biases and, ultimately, part of the
very conspiracy they refuse to cover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Fascist politicians discredit the “liberal media” for censoring discussion of
outlandish, right-wing conspiracy theories which suggest mendacious behavior
covered up by the veneer of liberal, democratic institutions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conspiracy theories play to the most paranoid
elements of society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the case of the
US, fear of foreigner elements and Islam, as in the “Birther theory” that
President Obama was born a Muslim in Kenya… the goal of the conspiracies is to
cause widespread mistrust and paranoia, justifying drastic measures such as
censuring or shutting down the “liberal media” and imprisoning enemies of the
state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
It is not without justification that Plato saw, in Democracy’s freedoms, an
allowance for the rise of a skilled demagogue who would take advantage of these
freedoms to tear reality asunder, offering himself or herself as a substitute….
Democracy cannot flourish on soil poisoned by inequality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not merely that the resentments bred by
such divisions are tempting targets for a demagogue, the more important point
is that dramatic inequality poses a mortal danger to the shared reality
required for a healthy, liberal democracy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those who benefit from inequalities are often burdened by certain
illusions that prevent them from recognizing the contingency of their
privilege.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When inequalities grow particularly
stark, these illusions tend to metastasize<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What dictator, king or emperor has not suspected that he was chosen by
the gods for his role.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What colonial
power has not entertained delusions of its ethnic superiority or the
superiority of its religion, culture or way of life. A superiority that
supposedly justifies its imperial expansions and conquests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Inequality is toxic to liberal democracy because it breeds delusions that mask
reality, undermining the possibility of joint deliberation to solve society’s
divisions (example given in book – the plantation class pitting poor black
against poor white in antebellum south).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those who benefit from large inequalities are inclined to believe they
have earned their privilege, an illusion that prevents them from seeing reality
as it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even those who demonstrably do
not benefit from hierarchies can be made to believe they do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hence, the use of racism to ensnare poor
white citizens in the US into supporting tax cuts for extravagantly wealthy
whites who happen to share their skin color.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Equality means that those with different levels of power and wealth,
nevertheless, are regarded as having equal worth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Liberal equality is, by definition, meant to
be compatible with economic inequality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And yet, when economic inequality is sufficiently extreme, myths that
are required to sustain it are bound to threaten liberal equality as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The myths that arise under conditions of
dramatic material inequality legitimize ignoring the proper common referee for
public discourse, which is the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To
completely destroy reality, fascist politics replaces the liberal ideal of
equality, with its opposite – hierarchy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br /><br />
<u>Chapter 5</u> <br />
Empires in decline are particular susceptible to fascist politics because of this
sense of loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is in the very nature
of Empire to create a hierarchy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Empires
legitimize their colonial enterprises by a myth of their own exceptionalism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the course of decline, the population is easily
lead to sense of national humiliation that can be mobilized in fascists
politics to serve various purposes.<br />
<br />
<u>Chapter 6</u><br />
45% of President Trump’s supporters believe that whites are the most discriminated
against racial group in America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>54% of
Trump supporters believe that Christians are the most persecuted religious
group in America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a crucial
distinction, of course, between feelings of resentment and depression [as a
result of the loss of majority status] and genuine inequality and
discrimination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a long history
of social, psychological research about the fact that increased representation
of members of traditional minority groups is experienced by dominant groups as
threatening in various ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More
recently, a growing body of social/psychological evidence substantiates the phenomenon
of dominant group feelings of victimization at the prospect of sharing power
equally with members of minority groups.<br />
<br />
A great deal of attention has been paid in the US to the fact that by around 2050,
the US will be a “majority-minority” country, meaning that whites will no
longer be the majority of Americans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Taking advantage of the salience of this information, some social
psychologists have tested what happens when white Americans are primed with
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a 2014 study, the psychologists
Maureen Craig and Jennifer Richardson found that simply making salient the
impending national shift to a “majority-minority” country significantly increased
politically unaffiliated white American’s support for right-wing policies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
At the core of fascism is loyalty to tribe, ethnic identity, religion,
tradition or, in a word, “nation.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, in
stark contrast to a version of nationalism with equality as its goal, fascist
nationalism is a repudiation of the liberal-democratic ideal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is nationalism in the service of
domination, with the goal of preserving, maintaining or gaining a position at
the top of a hierarchy of power and status. <br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Rectifying unjust inequalities will always bring
pain to those who benefitted from such injustices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This pain will inevitably be experienced by
some as “oppression.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Equality-driven nationalism can rapidly turn oppressive itself if one is not
paying enough attention to shifts in power. <br />
<br />
When groups in power use the mask of nationalism of the oppressed or genuine
oppression in the past to advance their own hegemony, they are using it to
undermine equality. <br />
<br />
<u>Chapter 7</u><br />
It turns out we tend to describe the actions of those we regard as “one of us”
quite differently then we describe the actions of those we regard as “one of
them.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
These [Civil rights] protests were regularly described in the media as “riots.”<br />
As James Baldwin wrote, at the time, about the media description of these
protests, “when white men rise up against oppression, they are heroes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When black men rise, they have reverted to
their native savagery.”<br />
<br />
<u>Chapter 8</u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
The rhetoric on immigration that surrounded the Trump campaign, and continues
to surround his administration, parallels the tactics of Russian propaganda
outlets, which spread fake news stories, as well as grossly exaggerating facts,
about middle eastern immigrants raping white women in Europe.<br />
<br />
<u>Chapter 9</u><br />
During the 2016 Presidential election, Donald Trump’s harsh, anti-immigration
rhetoric was particularly effective in rural areas with very few
immigrants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fascists politics aims it
message at the populace outside large cities, to whom it is most
flattering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is especially resistant
during times of globalization, when economic power swings toward the large
urban areas as locations of the merging global economy, as during the 30’s in
Europe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fascist politics highlights the
wrongs a globalized economy does to rural areas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Adding to it a focus upon traditional rural
values of self-sufficiency supposedly put at risk by the success of liberal
cities, culturally and economically.<br />
<br />
Fascist politics characteristically represents the minority populations living
in cites as “rodents” or “parasites,” “living off the honest hard work of rural
populations.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>[Author gives example from
“Mein Kompf.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<u>Chapter 10</u><br />
But what is most terrifying about these rhetorical divides is that it is
typical of fascist movements to attempt to transform myths about “them” into
reality through social policy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
In an ideology that measures worth by productivity, propaganda that represents
members of an out group as “lazy” is a way to justify placing them lower on a
hierarchy of worth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>[i.e. “makers and
takers” rhetoric]<br />
<br />
The basis of a commitment to a generous, universal welfare system is an
expression of the belief in the fundamental value of each citizen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The liberal-democrat does not pit “makers”
verses “takers” in a competition for value.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A generous social welfare system unites a community in mutual bonds of
care rather than dividing it into factions which demagogues can exploit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
The pull of fascist politics is powerful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It simplifies human existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gives us an object, a “them” whose supposed laziness highlights our own
virtue and discipline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Encourages us to identify
with a forceful leader who helps us make sense of the world, whose bluntness
regarding the “undeserving people in the world” is refreshing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Democracy looks like a successful business,
if the CEO is “tough-talking” and cares little for democratic institutions,
even denigrates them, so much the better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fascist politics preys upon the human frailty which makes our own
suffering seem bearable if we know those we look down upon are being made to
suffer more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Democratic citizenship requires a degree of empathy, insight and kindness that
demands a great deal of all of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
are easier ways to live. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For example, we
can reduce our public engagement to consumption, viewing our labor as whatever
we need do to enter the consumer marketplace with money in our pockets, free to
choose our widgets to shape an identity based upon consumption.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or we can go global and expand our
understanding of “us” by wandering the world and appreciating its cultures and
wonders, considering both the people living in the refugee camps in the world
and the residents of small towns in Iowa to be our neighbors while maintaining a
connection with our own local traditions and beauties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
But this engaging vision of the self, moving through time and cultures, is
deeply problematic under conditions of stark economic inequality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It requires profound experiences with
differences of all sorts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may require
an education that is generous, wise, committed to secular science and poetic
truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When, in the US, it can take an
entire family income to pay for a year at a good university for one child, we
must ask “who of us ends up becoming members of such a successful and
broad-minded citizenry?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
universities are as expensive as they are in the US, their generous, liberal
visions are easy targets for fascist demagoguery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Under conditions of stark, economic
inequality benefits of liberal education and the exposure to diverse cultures
and norms are available only to the wealthy few, liberal tolerance can be
smoothly represented as “elite privilege.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Stark economic inequality creates conditions which are richly conducive
to fascist demagoguery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a fantasy
to think that liberal democratic norms can flourish under such conditions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<u>Chapter 11</u><br />
In the US, as Donald Trump’s campaign against immigration intensifies, it is
sweeping untold numbers of undocumented workers of all backgrounds into
anonymous, privately run detention centers where they are concealed from view
and public concern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
What normalization does is transform the morally extraordinary into the
ordinary, makes us able to tolerate what was once intolerable by making it seem
as if this is the way things have always been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>By contrast, the word “fascist” has acquired a feeling of extreme, like
crying wolf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Normalization of fascist
ideology, by definition, would make charges of fascism seem like an
overreaction, even in societies whose norms are transforming along these
worrisome lines.<br />
<br />
That our sense of the normal and our ability to judge it is shifting does not
mean that fascism is now upon us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
it means is that the intuitive sense that charges of “fascism” is exaggerated
is not a good enough argument against the word’s use.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather, arguments about the encroachment of
fascist politics need a specific understanding of its meaning and the tactics
that fall under its umbrella.<br />
<br />
Those who employ fascist tactics for political gain have varying goals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, at least, it does not appear that they
seek to mobilize populations for world domination as, for example, Hitler
intended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, though the goals are
varied, there are common aspects of fascist thought and politics working in
synergy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since I am an American, I must
note that one goal appears to be to use fascist tactics, hypocritically, waving
the banner of nationalism, in front of middle and working class white people,
in order to funnel the state’s spoils into the hands of oligarchs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the same time, as during the Jim Crow era,
politicians continue to assure their supporters that national identity,
variously defined, provides status and dignity that are priceless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Fascist politics lures its audiences with the temptation of freedom from
democratic norms while masking the fact that the alternative proposed is not a
form of freedom that can sustain a stable nation state and can scarcely
guarantee liberty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A state-based ethnic,
religious, racial or national conflict between “us” and “them” can hardly
remain stable for long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yes, even if
fascism could sustain a stable state, would it be a good political
community?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A decent country within which
children can be socialized to become empathetic human beings?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Children can certainly be taught to
hate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But to affirm hatred as a form of
socialization has unintended consequences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Does anyone really want their children’s sense of identity to be based
upon a legacy of marginalization of others?<i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
</i><br />
Under a fascist agenda, the refugee narrative (life in refugee camps, the
journey from fear and conflict to such camps, the hopelessness which
accompanies extended time in these places) rather than engendering empathy is
cast as the origin story of terrorism and danger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These populations struggle through
unspeakable horrors to reach safer shores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That even such people could be painted as fundamental threats is a
testament to the illusory power of fascist myth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
In the direct targets of fascist politics: refugees, feminism, labor unions,
racial and religious and sexual minorities, we can see the methods used to
divide us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we must never forget that
the chief target of fascist politics is its intended audience; those it seeks
to ensnare in its loosery grip, to enroll in a state where everyone deemed
“worthy of human status” is increasingly subjugated by mass illusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those not included in that audience and
status wait in the camps of the world, straw men and women ready to be cast
into the roles of rapists, murderers, terrorists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By refusing to be bewitched by fascist myths,
we remain free to engage one another, all of us flawed, all of us partial in
our thinking, experience and understanding, but none of us demons.</span>Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-2512068885865457402020-03-22T19:01:00.000-05:002020-03-22T19:49:27.071-05:00Back to School<span style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">As
tends to be the case on this blog, by the time I get around to writing a post,
I feel obliged to preface it with “this post has been a long time coming.”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3G6adsc6QQyOAJXm7BpbJNV-RRiWVOllBK5YfANkLhof9kOfCkhY6T76K41tS-vMDnv8A9S_VvK23VteR6ZJAZe0GJ3iodt6x6AQ9oVL6KRJnTknSCJLEVi6X1Yorpq-wjhy0Ah5Fizs/s1600/IMG_20180831_201102728_BURST001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3G6adsc6QQyOAJXm7BpbJNV-RRiWVOllBK5YfANkLhof9kOfCkhY6T76K41tS-vMDnv8A9S_VvK23VteR6ZJAZe0GJ3iodt6x6AQ9oVL6KRJnTknSCJLEVi6X1Yorpq-wjhy0Ah5Fizs/s200/IMG_20180831_201102728_BURST001.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Olathe North Eagle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />
[Picks up pencil, prepares paper, clears throat] “This post has been a long
time coming. So long, in fact, I’m not
exactly sure which past even should serve as the starting point.”<br />
<br />
Maybe I start in the fall of 2018, when, as a French II teacher at Olathe North
High School, I reassumed the role of classroom teacher for the first time since
I fled George Melcher elementary 8 years prior, with my tail between my legs,
my head down and in the midst of the first and only nervous breakdown of my
life. As that fall semester and that
long-term substitute position both came to an end, my supervising principal gave
the direct advice to “finish your teaching certification as quickly as possible
because a high school classroom is where you’re meant to be, you clearly have
the teaching and relational skill set to thrive in that setting.”<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">Maybe
I start in May of 2018, on a drive up north to visit my parents for the
weekend, when my then girlfriend advised, “you’ve been talking about wanting to
finish this French degree since we met. I
think you need to go ahead and finish it because, if you don’t, you’ll likely
regret it the rest of your life.” Insightful woman, that wife of mine.<br />
<br />
Maybe I start in the fall of 2017, when a friend of mine who is two years older
than me started his Masters of Education program at <a href="https://www.rockhurst.edu/education/graduate/master" target="_blank">Rockhurst University.</a> He started the program at 40 and by age 42
had secured a teaching position. Two years
later, I enrolled in evening classes in the same program, knowing that I was
young enough to still put in a solid career as a teacher but old enough that my
window for doing so was rapidly closing.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">
<!--[endif]--></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-_SCAH5h327I_pGveFmh4qN7Q82QIzyb5eVjrGvbFHqqStCi7HLZmJWmA8JbNdyUacW59TnJKFE0P40xqPFKKsz7z8LT-o5rcSGN4q__wnD5K-DKTAtQZOmY6mVzpf88nITn0zOgtlA/s1600/PA130002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-_SCAH5h327I_pGveFmh4qN7Q82QIzyb5eVjrGvbFHqqStCi7HLZmJWmA8JbNdyUacW59TnJKFE0P40xqPFKKsz7z8LT-o5rcSGN4q__wnD5K-DKTAtQZOmY6mVzpf88nITn0zOgtlA/s200/PA130002.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tailgating before a Blazer football game<br />
fall of 2006</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Maybe
I start in October of 2011, when I walked away from the Kansas City Missouri
School District and <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/search/label/Teach%20for%20America" target="_blank">Teach For America,</a> regretting every having fallen for the recruiting
propaganda of TFA, thus bypassing the traditional teacher-training program at
Rockhurst (the same program from which I’m set to graduate in about six weeks)
and wondering whether I’d ever again have the opportunity to teach.<br />
<br />
Maybe I start in the fall of 2010, when I’m living across the street from Gardner-Edgerton
High School, taking French classes in the evening, pushing my son in a stroller
across the GEHS parking lot during afternoon walks, tailgating before Friday
night Blazer football games and <s>wondering whether</s> dreaming about having
the opportunity to one day coach football and teach French at GEHS.<br />
<!--[endif]--></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzgnSJ3tXNdiG8mAdBf_qryBSKT_bSOVKAkqJCl97CSxAYZ7UeXI81UnMvdefz7JjvGg7iZiTkitq9pUNofc08t7CUbss7HFgIxFE6wLb4-VH_xHXbJO9Xw3F6P3NEY8zEMYVZ9v4724/s1600/P9060451.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzgnSJ3tXNdiG8mAdBf_qryBSKT_bSOVKAkqJCl97CSxAYZ7UeXI81UnMvdefz7JjvGg7iZiTkitq9pUNofc08t7CUbss7HFgIxFE6wLb4-VH_xHXbJO9Xw3F6P3NEY8zEMYVZ9v4724/s200/P9060451.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2007 season</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Maybe
I start in the fall of 2008, when I took my first <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/search/label/french" target="_blank">French</a> class with Lorie Beckum
at MNU. At the time, I just wanted a new
hobby and learning a new language seemed as good of a hobby as anything, especially
after experiencing the disappointment of not getting to coach again that fall. I do however, remember telling a person in
our church who asked why I’d take the time to learn a new language, “I’m not quite
sure why but it seems like the right thing to do.” <br />
<br />
Maybe I start in the fall of 2007, when I had the incredible opportunity to<a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/search/label/coaching" target="_blank"> coach</a>
the Wheatridge Middle School 7<sup>th</sup> grade JV football team. Watching those kids progress from barely
being able to line up correctly to winning their last few games was an
experience to which I’ve kept hoping to be able to return, though many times over
the past decade it hasn’t seemed very likely.
<br />
<br />
Maybe I start over 20 years ago, when I’m a college student at MidAmerica
Nazarene University, taking classes to prepare me to be a pastor while telling
anyone who’d listen, “if I wasn’t going to be a pastor, I’d be a high school
history teacher and football coach.”<br />
<br />
All of the above options are great possibilities. They have all been steps in the journey
leading me to a brand-new (while surprisingly familiar) starting point. After giving it some thought though, I think
I’ll start my story just a few weeks in the past. It was the Tuesday before Spring Break. Just a regular day in my semester long-assignment
as a Student Teacher in a French classroom at Olathe East High School. Little did I, or anyone else, realize that would
actually be the last Tuesday of the school year as, just one week later, the Governor
of Kansas would issue a decree closing all Kansas schools for the remainder of
the year. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">In the midst of that school day, I interviewed at a
nearby middle school for a Social Studies position. It was a great opportunity. I’d be working
with some friends, for one of the best administrators in the district, with the
opportunity to coach football again, as well as the stated hope that I’d also
consider coaching track and helping sponsor the theatre department. I came away from that interview excited about
the possibility of teaching in that school.</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
After school was out that day, I had another interview. This interview was at Gardner-Edgerton High
School for a French position. As I was
driving from Olathe to Gardner, I couldn’t help but think to myself, “this was
my dream job. Yeah, it was about nine
years ago but there was a time in my life in which I believed the chance to
teach French at GEHS a possibility too good to even hope for.” I found out during the interview that while
coaching would be a possibility with this position, it wasn’t an expectation,
which would certainly render my first year of teaching much more manageable. <br />
<br />
Later that night, per the advice given during one of the interviews, Sarah and
I discussed which option would be the best one to take should I be offered both
positions. Actually, a better description
of what happened would be to state that I talked out all the positives and
negative while Sarah listened, giving advice or providing affirmations when she
deemed it prudent. It was really a
matter of choosing between two great options.
It was a matter of finding out where my “true self” (to quote the book I’ll
reference below) was leading. <br />
<br />
On one side stood my love of history, desire to coach football again, the chance
to teach in the district where my son attends school and idealism regarding the
chance to help middle schoolers successfully navigate that identity-forming period
of their lives. Not only is history such
a natural subject for me that, despite not having taken upper-level history
classes in college, I was able to ace the National Praxis Content exam, middle
school social studies was the bait which Teach For America used to hook me into
their program before switching my placement to elementary school when it was already
too late for me to back out. <br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtWSzb-Torm65R1DVudDU827MZ80zg4nEeP1ipplW1iCw6KDhOaML1gF5wAjRM7f3aBsfeZnzUtcr6kVCWvKBcV4oXplZzbTt02u8QKP_z0MDzxeJit7Ixob4l1Zmkdug-XxKsW0yuJEU/s1600/20200322_145104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtWSzb-Torm65R1DVudDU827MZ80zg4nEeP1ipplW1iCw6KDhOaML1gF5wAjRM7f3aBsfeZnzUtcr6kVCWvKBcV4oXplZzbTt02u8QKP_z0MDzxeJit7Ixob4l1Zmkdug-XxKsW0yuJEU/s200/20200322_145104.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibL99EriM62IMldVahQYwUbyWNyhKLZJS9PbQIzXDkAsA7m7vMmv0m3Ucpaqydrba6dMVQZtd97WKkqIrkSJJb-sxArqXrBoRx4xBH-QhazxhcOHOven-3DXDQrMJnZmsQMCiXv1kysGo/s1600/20200322_145256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibL99EriM62IMldVahQYwUbyWNyhKLZJS9PbQIzXDkAsA7m7vMmv0m3Ucpaqydrba6dMVQZtd97WKkqIrkSJJb-sxArqXrBoRx4xBH-QhazxhcOHOven-3DXDQrMJnZmsQMCiXv1kysGo/s200/20200322_145256.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proud to be a Blazer... again</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">On the other side stood my love of all things
French, the chance to lead student tours of France, my natural ease at relating
to high school students, the professional challenge of continuing to improve my
French proficiency, the opportunity to teach alongside friends I’d made from Gardner
Community Theatre and the chance to fulfill what just a few years ago I’d
considered to be my dream job. <br />
<br />
By the time I talked myself into making the following announcement, the lovely
and intelligent ginger with whom I have the amazing privilege of sharing my
life simply gave a knowing smile. “I
could always choose to teach history in the future, should I later decide that’s
what I want to do. This might, however
be my one opportunity to teach High School French. I’m fairly certain that if I pass up this opportunity,
I’m likely to regret it for the rest of my teaching career (due to a limited number
of teaching positions, “losing” my French, etc.)”. The fact that Sarah’s knowing smile seemed to
radiate less from her lips and more from her eyes revealed she’d been patiently
waiting for me to come to the conclusion which she’d reached long before me. Looking back, I realize she’d been discreetly
clearing the way for my head to agree with what my heart had long ago decided. I couldn’t NOT teach French. <br />
</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">
Two nights later, at the Lenexa Rec Center (a place I greatly miss during the
Coronavirus lockdown) I was watching a French TV show on the history of Paris
while striding in place on the elliptical when I was struck by a profound gratitude
over the upcoming opportunity to teach French language and history. While thinking of how I could possibly use
this video for an upper level French class I was simultaneously relishing the assurance
that I’d made the right decision. In
just a few months, I’ll be back in yet another French classroom. This time however, I’ll be facing in the opposite
direction. </span></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmswrcAHgy_XXm5v6TilYP7_C8fNvEOOpcBmWLar2r4Jr5hZgWd7RjNeaCAWfbquKHlTA9mjaOVlgFoFNbRL0iOFx7LU7ze4Y4IOsQ7geI3xC4WvsVFhZ53NmbjigvsYfkbPYf8krT4lM/s1600/IMG_20190919_120028268_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmswrcAHgy_XXm5v6TilYP7_C8fNvEOOpcBmWLar2r4Jr5hZgWd7RjNeaCAWfbquKHlTA9mjaOVlgFoFNbRL0iOFx7LU7ze4Y4IOsQ7geI3xC4WvsVFhZ53NmbjigvsYfkbPYf8krT4lM/s200/IMG_20190919_120028268_HDR.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">KU, fall of 2019</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">One
final thought, let’s just state the unstated obvious; I wouldn’t be standing at
the starting line of this mid-life career move had I not experienced some unexpected
turns and face-planting failures along the way.
</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">At the advice of a friend who has talked me through many of those turns
and failures, I’ve just finished </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Falling-Upward-Spirituality-Halves-Life/dp/0470907754/ref=sr_1_2?crid=HR1XVVA2S63D&keywords=falling+upward+by+richard+rohr&qid=1584920432&sprefix=falling+upward%2Caps%2C167&sr=8-2" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;" target="_blank">“Falling Upward” A Spirituality for the Two Halvesof Life.”</a><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">I’m actually a bit embarrassed
to admit this is the first of Richard Rohr’s books which I’ve ever read.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgCltV3FoqPV0QH4ryI7bwJOS7uaMLFye-Dv8v3PKwMGoM12AvW7UsAHrCfKn5UheII7yiL4S65MQw5CADl1uCGZD9iznEBkv_c07YwAWDstGgHnH75a3f842e7qsEP7vx_V1O6jMF02w/s1600/IMG_20190125_101808016_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgCltV3FoqPV0QH4ryI7bwJOS7uaMLFye-Dv8v3PKwMGoM12AvW7UsAHrCfKn5UheII7yiL4S65MQw5CADl1uCGZD9iznEBkv_c07YwAWDstGgHnH75a3f842e7qsEP7vx_V1O6jMF02w/s200/IMG_20190125_101808016_HDR.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A cold January 2019 day on the<br />
campus of the University of Kansas.<br />
I took this pic thinking I'd be<br />
writing the "Back to<br />
School" blog post soon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">
<br />
“That is why I’ve called [the second half of life and this book] ‘falling upward.’ Those who are ready will see that this
message is self-evident: those who have gone ‘down’ are the only ones who
understand ‘up.’ Those who have somehow
fallen and fallen well are the only ones who can go up and not misuse ‘up.’”<br />
<br />
“Sooner or later, if you are on any classic ‘spiritual schedule,’ some event,
person, death, idea or relationship will enter your life that you simply cannot
deal with, using your present skill set,
your acquired knowledge, or your strong willpower. Spiritually speaking, you will be, you must
be, lead to the edge of your own private resources… and you must ‘lose’ at
something… let go of your egocentric preoccupations, and go on the further and
larger journey. <br />
In the end, we do not so much reclaim what we have lost as discover a
significantly new self in and through the process. Until we are lead to the limits of our
present game plan, and find it to be insufficient, we will not search out or
find the real source, the deep well, or the constantly flowing stream.” <br />
<br />
As I enter the second half of life, I’m awe-struck by the positive turn my life
has taken. My marriage is far surpassing
my wildest hopes for a primary relationship
My relationship with my son is the best it’s ever been and is getting better. My relationship with my two step-children has
developed into a place of comfort and familiarity. I’ve made a peace with my past which now
serves as a foundation for the future. Finally,
in a few short months I’ll be starting my “dream job.” I’m giddy with anticipation over the second
half of life. Of course, that’s assuming
COVID19 doesn’t erase humanity from the face of the earth…<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--></span><br /><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">
<!--[endif]--></span>Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-18769465752399839672020-02-10T11:16:00.001-06:002020-02-11T15:31:06.131-06:00We Missed our Train<div class="MsoNormal">
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As we sprinted up the last of several consecutive escalators
moving travelers from the subterranean interchange between the Gare
Montparnasse Train Station and the Paris Metro system to the elevated train platforms
serving all points west of Paris, I quickly scanned the large digital schedule
boards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My rapid glance had the goal of,
at best, discovering at which track our Rennes-bound high-speed train was
waiting or, at a minimum, gaining an update on the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Upon acquiring the bare minimum of knowledge
sought, 7:55, my heart rate slowed a little and we were able to downshift from
a sprint to a run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We are not going to
miss our train,” I confidently announced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<br />
The first time the remote possibility that we might miss our train began
gnawing at the back of my mind was as we were pleasantly strolling along Rue
Mouffetard, vainly trying to take in all that the oldest and most sumptuous
street in Paris was offering up that sun-soaked July morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the search for our metro station become
more prolonged than expected, I realized I wasn’t exactly sure how long the
trip from Place Monge to Montparnasse-Bienvenue, with its corresponding line
changes, would actually take.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started
to wonder whether we might actually begin the first day of our honeymoon in
Paris by missing the train to Mont Saint-Michel, the one part of our trip which
my Bachelor of Science in Marine Biology-holding wife was in the highest anticipation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
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After switching from line 7 to the touristy line 6, my panic
become both visible and urgent enough that I informed my wife I was worried we
might miss our train, a train for which I’d bought non-transferable tickets
months in advance, so as to save a couple hundred euro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bewildering disappointment which
immediately crossed her face was painful to observe, knowing it was my
nonchalant approach to our morning commute which had placed us in this
stressful situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nonchalance
transformed into desperate intensity as we exited the subway and began pushing, spinning and dodging our way
through what felt like a mile’s length of crowded, twisting underground
corridors which would eventually spill out at the above mentioned escalators.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
It’s important to note that I’d never missed a train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not during the year of living in Paris nor
the semester of taking college students all around Europe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d been close, for sure, often too close for
comfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The closest was that day in
Budapest in which our group was scheduled to end the day of sightseeing by
sleeping on an overnight train to Sighisoara, Romania.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For some reason, likely because we’d caught a
different train at a similar time, I’d had it in my mind we were supposed to
board that train at 9 PM.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we were
casually riding on the metro to another site, all of our luggage safely stored
at our hostel, my conscious thought drug from my memory the realization that
our overnight train was actually scheduled to leave not at 9 PM but rather 7
PM..<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately, we still had plenty of
time to board that train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately,
the two of our group members who weren’t with us were still operating under the
9 PM time schedule and were unreachable due to our spotty cell service.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately, we never had to implement the
plan in which the rest of the group went ahead as scheduled while I stayed
behind with remaining two students, taking the next day’s night train, because
they had both randomly checked messages in a wifi-equiped café, prompting them
to return to the hostel with enough time to board the train with the rest of
the group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other than Dawson throwing up
on our luggage in the middle of the night, the rest of our train ride to
Romania was uneventful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now the bedbugs
we picked up while in Romania certainly created some uncomfortable
complications.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s, however, a whole
different story…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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While you could argue I lucked out that day in Budapest, as
we were sprinting up the Gare Montparnasse escalator, I was still the owner of
an unblemished train-catching record.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Upon seeing we still had five minutes before our train left the station,
I breathed a sigh of relief and wondered whether this story would top the
Budapest story in the list of train near-misses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the title of this blog entry foreshadows,
this day would end by topping the short-list of train actual-misses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those five minutes remaining before our train’s scheduled
departure were sufficient for locating and arriving at the correct track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The surprise kick-in-the-gut, however occurred when
the SNCF employee stationed at the track’s entrance explained to us, while
simultaneously closing the gate, that the high-speed TGV trains close their
doors to passengers two minutes before their scheduled departure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She then directed us toward the ticketing
office where we could, at a premium price, purchase tickets for the next TGV
train which would take us to Rennes, where we could hop on a shuttle to Mont
Saint-Michel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3dUbRfawL17puVK9KaKB1YcC-c2kEvGBTCtof0gKLw0B0yJibs_QaE_pVc42kseI1IbXJg_GQtdsqy4hVE9ti4SsblNHffVyzCtGDNQDQfgdRPi-mn-P7pf6Am3T569VF7SA4tebqp0/s1600/64866972_10162592977815455_6498606129566711808_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_3dUbRfawL17puVK9KaKB1YcC-c2kEvGBTCtof0gKLw0B0yJibs_QaE_pVc42kseI1IbXJg_GQtdsqy4hVE9ti4SsblNHffVyzCtGDNQDQfgdRPi-mn-P7pf6Am3T569VF7SA4tebqp0/s200/64866972_10162592977815455_6498606129566711808_o.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzlv8u9AbBbopiDaDENUcnUfnR2F5raEnwdFLuUvF9dqNhMfTVo4rhWscXW8Gy-F0d0DjopE5hxtzOElJDLkoDyL3oeu1AVopDDDSQMpHJP0p7TCpfzE8dFKhqTjqEDQbtWPQQKO4L1U/s1600/66241873_10162592978215455_8433089790873698304_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzlv8u9AbBbopiDaDENUcnUfnR2F5raEnwdFLuUvF9dqNhMfTVo4rhWscXW8Gy-F0d0DjopE5hxtzOElJDLkoDyL3oeu1AVopDDDSQMpHJP0p7TCpfzE8dFKhqTjqEDQbtWPQQKO4L1U/s1600/66241873_10162592978215455_8433089790873698304_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzlv8u9AbBbopiDaDENUcnUfnR2F5raEnwdFLuUvF9dqNhMfTVo4rhWscXW8Gy-F0d0DjopE5hxtzOElJDLkoDyL3oeu1AVopDDDSQMpHJP0p7TCpfzE8dFKhqTjqEDQbtWPQQKO4L1U/s200/66241873_10162592978215455_8433089790873698304_o.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We
bought the tickets. We arrived only an
hour later than the original plan. We
had a great day walking around the beach and the medieval abbey. My wife didn’t hold my lack of thoughtful preparation
against me. Sarah also experienced her
first encounter with the reason one always leaves margin for the unexpected in their
schedule and budget when travelling internationally; the unexpected is guaranteed
to occur in one form or another. Missing
a train scheduled three months in advance, though is something I never thought
would actually happen to me. I had
worked too long to organize our trip and I am too savvy of an international traveler
to make such an obvious mistake.<br />
<br />
I’ve been mulling over this blog entry for months, stuck on how to seamlessly
morph the above story into the larger point of this post. Since I still haven’t been able to land the
transition I’m going to have to make do with [insert choppy transition here].<br />
<br />
As is quite well documented on this blog, several years ago I experienced
something I never thought would happen to me, a divorce resulting from the
death of a marriage. Sarah has
experienced the same thing as well. Though
this likely doesn’t make us unique among those who have gone through a divorce,
neither of us had any thought that our first marriages would end by any means
other than death. That is, after all,
the vow we both made and the commitment which our families have modeled for
us. I’m not completely sure how much of
a role the mindset of “this could never happen to us” actually played in our
respective divorces but I’m confident it was a contributing factor. Similar to how the first tiny and almost
insignificant moment of pre-panic, “we might not make our train” entered my
mind while walking along Rue Mouffetard that first morning of our honeymoon,
there was a similar moment during my previous marriage in which the wildly
fearful thought of “we might not make it” first burrowed into the back of my
mind. I’m not sure whether the eventually
divorce could’ve been avoided by that point but I’m confident I should’ve given
stronger consideration to the fear which was likely trying to prevent shipwreck
of a marriage which had entered some dangerous waters. <br />
<br />
As is also quite well documented on this blog, I’ve survived that unexpected life
event and have come out much stronger on the other side. I’m finally a few months away from fulfilling
a goal I’ve had for the better part of a decade (more on that in a different
post). A little over a year after abruptly
mashing them together into a new blended family, our kids are demonstrating the
comfort, acceptance and significance that comes from the (relatively) healthy
family unit Sarah and I have worked incredibly hard to foster. Last, and possibly the opposite of least,
Sarah and I are experiencing a unity and satisfaction in our marriage that neither
of us dared dream was even a possibility
just a few years ago. It’s in no way an
oversell to share that I’ve never been in as good of a place in my life as I am
right now. Neither is it an
overstatement to claim that I’ve done a LOT of work to get to this place. On the flip side, admitting that I might have
lucked into snagging an incredible life partner who is a tad bit out of my league
could surely be deemed an understatement.<br />
<br />
For this reason, it’s easy to understand why I’m committed to never again
missing the train. The false confidence
of “it could never happen to us” will be thoroughly unwelcome in our marriage. Experience has provided some painful lessons
regarding what’s worth <s>fighting about</s> having fair but passionate debates
about and what needs to be immediately dropped.
Our previous marriages have revealed the heart-wrenching reality of where
a relationship could find itself if foundational aspects of what makes a
marriage work are ignored or taken for granted.
We are currently experiencing the relational ride of our lives but we
are painfully aware of the need to diligently stay on schedule because we’ve
missed the train in the past.<br />
<br />
In order to ride this metaphor to the end of the line, I’ll wrap up this post
by reluctantly detailing how the day-trip to Mont Saint Michel which kicked off
our honeymoon ended. Due to my
misreading of the shuttle schedule, we missed our return train to Paris. So yeah, I was two for two in missing trains
that day. While the second mistake didn’t
cost us as much money as the morning’s mishap, thanks in part to a friendly
family from Minnesota who gave us two unused shuttle tickets, we did end up
returning to Paris a couple hours later than planned, causing us to postpone
the planned boat ride on the Seine to a different evening. Apparently, it’s just as dangerous to assume
it could never happen in the first place as to assume it could never happen a
second time. By now, I think those of
you following along at home can make your own metaphorical connection. I think you can also understand why, for the
rest of the trip, my wife had me double-check and, occasionally triple-check,
our remaining train schedule and flight schedule and cabaret show time and
photo-shoot schedule and…. Fortunately,
we were on time for everything else during the remainder of our honeymoon. Hopefully, the rest of our honeymoon established a life-long trend.</span></div>
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Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-46669168849354376412019-06-21T10:58:00.000-05:002019-06-21T21:42:28.908-05:00The Fairy Tale that didn't get rained out<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I woke up at 3:58 in the morning last Saturday, I knew
there was no way I was getting back to sleep.
I was confident of this unfortunate reality not only because the nervous
energy resulting from the realization that I’d be getting married in just over
12 hours had already started coursing through my body but also because I couldn’t
stop watching the periodic lighting strikes which, though a long way away, were
already lighting up the early morning darkness. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Our ceremony took place in a ravine (aka “the clearing”) at the far end of my parents’ farm. Sarah chose that place not only for the natural beauty but also because it was there, on the back of a four-wheeler, that I first told Sarah I loved her. As we watched the photographer posing Sarah on a bridge over ravine’s creek, my sister turned to me and stated, “she looks like a fairy and I mean that in a good way.” It was at that moment that Sarah’s “vision” (as she kept referring to it) for our wedding ceremony finally made sense in my mind. The arch, decorations, dress and even the wreath crown she was wearing all worked in unison to create a fairy-tale like aura to our ceremony. The vision came together despite the fact that just a few hours earlier, we were quite concerned it was never going to happen.</div>
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In order to get back to “the clearing”, one must drive across a freshly plowed field. After just a bit of rain, this field becomes impassable to anything heavier than a four-wheeler. Eventually, the lightning which I had been watching at four in the morning brought along a downpour lasting almost an hour. At 6:07 AM, my dad declared “the clearing” dead. It appeared we’d be relocating the ceremony to the back-up spot, a shaded area on the bank of our farm pond. While the back-up spot was an idyllic farm setting, it didn’t quite have the ambiance Sarah was going for. By 6:08 AM, it seemed the only question we had left was whether the four-wheeler would be able to get through the mud and back to “the clearing” so we could pick up the arch frame we’d left there the night before. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8SesfiAOKnbG9I3IEY1rSL-lbasMB-HN6fQmW39WVJVWFJZ6ogxm0Y2cBuypl9tfF5lQ5hyp4y86WsblGCH9JkQbsLVaryQhhK3jASMLkolIUtcfpcriLW1qekanvSC7bxHoB1d9ayiI/s1600/64644925_459262174904334_6354738121153708032_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8SesfiAOKnbG9I3IEY1rSL-lbasMB-HN6fQmW39WVJVWFJZ6ogxm0Y2cBuypl9tfF5lQ5hyp4y86WsblGCH9JkQbsLVaryQhhK3jASMLkolIUtcfpcriLW1qekanvSC7bxHoB1d9ayiI/s320/64644925_459262174904334_6354738121153708032_n.jpg" width="180" /></a>As my dad was driving back to “the clearing” to answer that question, he noticed the ground becoming less muddy, even turning to dust, as he drove further from the house and closer to “the clearing”. In a surprising turn of events, “the clearing” had been resuscitated. While we’d received over half an inch of rain at the house, “the clearing” (about a half mile away) had gotten just enough rain to settle the dust, which is the exact amount my dad had been hoping for (despite that “just enough to settle the dust” was usually a derogatory description of a rain shower when used by a famer). As the ceremony began at about 4:45 PM, with the line of cars that had driven through the field parked along the top of the ravine, the weather was a perfect 82 degrees, partly sunny and with a gentle breeze. While that breeze would eventually blow in a near tornado just as we were wrapping up the post-ceremony meal we’d shared back up at the house, at the moment our ceremony began, I was giddy with how we’d managed to pull off the perfect weather for an outdoor wedding. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4kSMhP0X-NOLxfBJwFefjVnqifO9a7H03sM26RQm9yeRTdGy_8sVXSITGSZHlFObOqWDvioDG8lwZy4Qf-CQwNeREVIm5IjD1njWk6wQpjV9w0o_gWSroU4cc85U3zanTReBgDtXqE8/s1600/64409795_433791150779450_6877355608656314368_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4kSMhP0X-NOLxfBJwFefjVnqifO9a7H03sM26RQm9yeRTdGy_8sVXSITGSZHlFObOqWDvioDG8lwZy4Qf-CQwNeREVIm5IjD1njWk6wQpjV9w0o_gWSroU4cc85U3zanTReBgDtXqE8/s320/64409795_433791150779450_6877355608656314368_n.jpg" width="180" /></a>After a processional consisting of our elder niece carrying our younger niece, our daughter as a flower girl and our oldest son picking up and carrying our youngest son after he couldn’t convince him to walk, Sarah hugged her dad just as the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWXoaUndeK8" target="_blank">medley</a> playing in the background changed to “Bless the Broken Road.” At that moment, my giddiness was overcome by tears of joy. The real-time image of this beautiful woman, reddish-brown hair falling down onto a stunning white dress while flashing a smile lighting up everything in its sight, walking down the aisle with the intent of becoming my bride was, in my mind, juxtaposed along with the images of the “broken road” that had brought us to this point. For a few minutes, the emotion was a bit too intense to keep inside, so it found an escape route through my tear ducts. </div>
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Really, that “broken road” has been a large theme of my writing on this blog over the past couple of years. Similarly, the theme of the homily given by my friend who officiated the wedding was “beauty from ashes.” The time I spent in <a href="https://www.heartconnexion.org/" target="_blank">Breakthrough</a>, four years ago this month as well as the therapist sessions before and after that intense month of counseling were, in a large part, focused on helping me acquire what I <s>found</s> formalized on my wedding day, a primary relationship that is healthy, fulfilling and mutually complimentary. When I started that journey toward a healthy relationship, I had no idea what was coming at me. On the other side of that journey, though I’m so thankful for how the pain of the past has contributed to the joy of the present. Of course, now real life with Sarah (kids, bills, careers, annoying each other) <s>begins</s> continues. I know enough about myself and my wife to know that this new journey, while not always easy, is going to be successful and fun and maybe even provide a few more moments which bring tears to my eyes.<br />
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<span style="text-align: start;">In one of those weird twists to a story, two of my best friends who were both supposed to be groomsmen in my first wedding 19 years ago but, for various reasons, were unable to be in attendance, ended up being a part of this wedding celebration.</span><span style="text-align: start;"> </span><span style="text-align: start;"> </span><span style="text-align: start;">Michael, mentioned above, drove from California to Iowa to officiate the ceremony.</span><span style="text-align: start;"> </span><span style="text-align: start;"> </span><span style="text-align: start;">While I can’t state how grateful I am that he made it a priority to be a part of the wedding, I’m not quite convinced that his long drive gave him the right to declare “that’s enough” as I was enjoying kissing my new bride.</span><span style="text-align: start;"> </span><span style="text-align: start;"> </span><span style="text-align: start;">My other friend, Jason, came down from Omaha for the “before they say I do” party Sarah’s parents threw for us back in May.</span><span style="text-align: start;"> </span><span style="text-align: start;"> </span><span style="text-align: start;">Now that I’ve ensured that all my long-time friends have been able to participate in either my first or second wedding, I’m officially retiring from the wedding business… and continuing my life with one of the most beautiful and intelligent women this world has ever seen.</span><span style="text-align: start;"> </span><span style="text-align: start;"> </span></div>
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Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-15414344965969168022018-07-17T20:09:00.000-05:002018-07-20T13:51:44.811-05:00My Therapist Would Approve<br />
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">“But I need all the cracks in my shattered heart, 'cause that’s where her love gets in.”</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> – Dierks Bentley</span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Blog world, meet Sarah Wissmann.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Sarah Wissmann, meet my droves of faithful
readers.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Wait… something about the above doesn’t
seem right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, it’s not what you might
think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, I have droves of
faithful readers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Either way, let’s try this again.<br />
<br />
Blog world, meet Dr. Sarah Wissmann.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr.
Sarah Wissmann, meet my droves of faithful readers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
While “droves” may or not be an accurate adjective, “Dr.” is most definitely an
accurate title for the Subject of this blog post. I’ll admit to not being the
least bit embarrassed by the fact that someone as smart as Dr. Wissmann finds
our conversations mentally stimulating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At least, most of our conversations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or maybe a few of our conversations?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
Nah, she thinks I’m smart, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Here’s the skinny on Dr. Sarah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is educated,
accomplished, published, emotionally self-aware, relationally intuitive, well traveled, a lover of Jesus, of a Methodist upbringing,
progressive, thoughtful, a committed mom, a graduate of Iowa State College of Veterinary Medicine while simultaneously NOT a fan of Cyclone athletics, a great kisser, a
skilled dancer and adorable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stunningly,
gorgeously, adorable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the saying “like attracts like” is true,
Sarah’s choice to be with me is a compliment stretching the limits of plausibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s not think about it too much,
though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, isn’t there some
other saying about the mouth of a gift horse or something?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Either way, the compliment of her choice is an
honor I plan to live up to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">There’s another quality of Sarah’s that I find quite
attractive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, this quality stands
out among an arm’s length long list of attractive qualities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sarah is the exactly the type of woman for
whom my therapist told me to hold out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
this earlier <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2018/03/a-necessary-season.html" target="_blank">blog post</a>, I passed along what said therapist shared with me
regarding the two different places from which someone can begin a romantic
relationship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br />
“1) Coming from a place of strength in which they’re okay with themselves and
okay with being alone yet they choose to be with the other person or 2) Coming
from a place of need, in which they have no choice but to be with the other
person because they can’t bear the idea of being alone and they need the validation
that comes from being in a relationship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She explained that starting a relationship from the second reason is
like building a house out of 2x4’s that are rotten on the inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first, things look fine but eventually the
house will collapse in on itself because no other person can meet nor fill that
role.”<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Sarah comes to me from the first option, from a place of
strength.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the time of her divorce (the
story of which is hers to tell) until our first date, she dated minimally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, “minimally” might be an understatement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of going on dates, Sarah spent a lot
of time in her therapists’ office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather
than sacrificing time with her kids by dating guys she in whom she was only
somewhat interested, she decided to wait until she finally found someone who possessed the
characteristics for which she was looking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She has slowly shared with me, in the form of handwritten notes, the character
traits which she sees in me that prompted her to “come out of retirement.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In addition to learning from the mistakes of
her first marriage, Sarah possessed the patience, self-confidence and discernment
necessary for pursuing a second chance at love from a place of strength.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Full disclosure – my own “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZp6pmgbZyU" target="_blank">broken road</a>” was different than Sarah’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While she hardly dated at all, I spent a season
as a professional dater of sorts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though
that season resulted in clarity and growth it eventually had to give way to a
Lenten season of <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2018/03/grief-round-ii.html" target="_blank">grief and aloneness</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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With Easter came a shot at a new dating app, “<a href="https://coffeemeetsbagel.com/" target="_blank">Coffee Meets Bagel</a>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A match with a pretty redhead resulted in an
invitation for her to accompany me to <a href="http://ruinspubkc.com/menu/" target="_blank">Ruins Pub</a> followed by a concert being put
on by a <a href="https://johndavidwrites.com/" target="_blank">friend</a> of mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pictures on
her profile, while nice to look at, failed to prepare me for the misplaced
heartbeat that occurred the moment her front door swung open and I laid eyes on the
beautiful smile located just below those smiling eyes.</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-JNXK3AdWobESxmhJSfkS2s8_KiexCVN5DuvBS1dFnwVL7eJJSlXih5ZMhf8LteFQrKjcXo6XuDWX_wI0IqgMm7rzdQbVQ7Ziku9Ag6s-lqLvK_8J-yRTQ-3yLEiyl4GLLlWR2S8Rc_I/s1600/Screenshot_2018-04-05-22-18-05.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-JNXK3AdWobESxmhJSfkS2s8_KiexCVN5DuvBS1dFnwVL7eJJSlXih5ZMhf8LteFQrKjcXo6XuDWX_wI0IqgMm7rzdQbVQ7Ziku9Ag6s-lqLvK_8J-yRTQ-3yLEiyl4GLLlWR2S8Rc_I/s200/Screenshot_2018-04-05-22-18-05.png" width="112" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I mean, who wouldn't be interested in a profile like that one</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFZ0tG30KQiD9f2Xga-uOdu5O83QrVL6SReq6Y3cIcYsymxJ9fHZQXbqWtK__dr09n3elbxbuaFD9P0Y5IXvDItJT2ARofok9zhkmufIVZhE3MIxnvDDz16moP3dtX-gWrQFqRWk6yCV4/s1600/Screenshot_2018-04-05-22-19-03.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFZ0tG30KQiD9f2Xga-uOdu5O83QrVL6SReq6Y3cIcYsymxJ9fHZQXbqWtK__dr09n3elbxbuaFD9P0Y5IXvDItJT2ARofok9zhkmufIVZhE3MIxnvDDz16moP3dtX-gWrQFqRWk6yCV4/s200/Screenshot_2018-04-05-22-19-03.png" width="112" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I guess, if you resisted the first profile pic, you'd fail to do so with this one</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJM-En1Z5IAsIt7qnjVicnBVEGFhH9rKimF45I3AP84VOXKQnz2p5bcvrRyLwNRJV8nuflVEZLCbZuI_jLtaWPFvF8IwXh7739LSRDQ2UM7RRrOOaEDK11qT6cR2gEPZVrZbDanUvq8AY/s1600/Screenshot_2018-04-06-15-13-04.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJM-En1Z5IAsIt7qnjVicnBVEGFhH9rKimF45I3AP84VOXKQnz2p5bcvrRyLwNRJV8nuflVEZLCbZuI_jLtaWPFvF8IwXh7739LSRDQ2UM7RRrOOaEDK11qT6cR2gEPZVrZbDanUvq8AY/s200/Screenshot_2018-04-06-15-13-04.png" width="112" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our very first message</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLncaHJ25KRzY4_1jhA2mqjDp7YXyxXjMkYvLipvfga3pLOA_mrhjbHQiC6QGVs83Re8M2SOE6vCIoUVaBBp2-1likNGqGj-EZnf7gkKhTwmNQXFbLXSi7bmdMm33ZMOKyoaxKsOZJEXE/s1600/2018-04-28+12.43.00.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1150" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLncaHJ25KRzY4_1jhA2mqjDp7YXyxXjMkYvLipvfga3pLOA_mrhjbHQiC6QGVs83Re8M2SOE6vCIoUVaBBp2-1likNGqGj-EZnf7gkKhTwmNQXFbLXSi7bmdMm33ZMOKyoaxKsOZJEXE/s200/2018-04-28+12.43.00.png" width="143" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching that girl dance is a<br />
thing of beauty</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzIKwUSm_vZXWAAisZ-wDNABMH7lg3aLvGS0BOq0UszZCYTBUn4WcAh7QX8VKRs3zZjNewP1JxuwLIlMMmYu4ai_vJ7TIxFMdPJSC-aHJCBh2acR7VDDJHTJIuvHb1Slie0GKCTxAq0RA/s1600/33720342_10156323690117645_4056393776946479104_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1194" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzIKwUSm_vZXWAAisZ-wDNABMH7lg3aLvGS0BOq0UszZCYTBUn4WcAh7QX8VKRs3zZjNewP1JxuwLIlMMmYu4ai_vJ7TIxFMdPJSC-aHJCBh2acR7VDDJHTJIuvHb1Slie0GKCTxAq0RA/s200/33720342_10156323690117645_4056393776946479104_n.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Repping the other alma mater</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-Kyf6C8PtizvEMqTnedfsVOb-qxiR5gC9bWYau4QJ2szSaWpeXlzs5AHiETo5HPKYtH4nEmjno7Y5AThhTfIv3ku7rKfj3oIxTNNRkcUgN0rqO6s_6Y_tENWLbDxC-xMg2XQyJLb-j4/s1600/33737332_10100183564188287_7179094881019625472_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1415" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-Kyf6C8PtizvEMqTnedfsVOb-qxiR5gC9bWYau4QJ2szSaWpeXlzs5AHiETo5HPKYtH4nEmjno7Y5AThhTfIv3ku7rKfj3oIxTNNRkcUgN0rqO6s_6Y_tENWLbDxC-xMg2XQyJLb-j4/s200/33737332_10100183564188287_7179094881019625472_n.jpg" width="176" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't let the smile fool you, she was <br />
sore after emptying that corn bin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">That fateful evening ended with a kiss. Not to toot our own horn, but our fist kiss just might be good enough to misplace a different kiss on this </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7zr-agqhXB8" style="font-size: 10pt;" target="_blank">list</a><span style="font-size: 10pt;">. At the least, it was good enough to draw protests from a young Fred Savage. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br />"The rest", as they say, "is history" as we now progress toward a shared future.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKhxu0ac6yiCUD578Sl27mpNaGyEnBUjThGPg70rMiImANqocGfNHrf3FXh0ojfO3JtMnSKNrsfiMbTV6g1djO4cS2skMr93HwaarQQ9zK-ZEjSqR8tv-YdXqhgybHWetraFdbUzIIHEk/s1600/33803759_10100183564213237_1504102932948189184_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKhxu0ac6yiCUD578Sl27mpNaGyEnBUjThGPg70rMiImANqocGfNHrf3FXh0ojfO3JtMnSKNrsfiMbTV6g1djO4cS2skMr93HwaarQQ9zK-ZEjSqR8tv-YdXqhgybHWetraFdbUzIIHEk/s200/33803759_10100183564213237_1504102932948189184_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just cause she has a degree from there<br />
doesn't mean she cheers for those losers</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoONP2dR4eXt4_gdPkc013NFhKKxEisr0iF7jIxLhYBMMeplA9uznmxUa9Y8x5lEEUdRDfgQzdi5fqYppW7cPu1Us27lHiHitijnGH8Ihcp_8HMA9kdB4qTe5n2owCsXTuxFcrafae5oI/s1600/36374527_10100190775900957_4488347223544823808_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="740" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoONP2dR4eXt4_gdPkc013NFhKKxEisr0iF7jIxLhYBMMeplA9uznmxUa9Y8x5lEEUdRDfgQzdi5fqYppW7cPu1Us27lHiHitijnGH8Ihcp_8HMA9kdB4qTe5n2owCsXTuxFcrafae5oI/s200/36374527_10100190775900957_4488347223544823808_n.jpg" width="92" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's gonna be a few years till we celebrate her 40th</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Finally, let’s just verbalize what everyone thinks the first time they meet Sarah. Sarah is a perfect doppelganger to Amy Adams. The resemblance is uncannily hilarious. I can't think of anyone else I know, significant other or not, who resembles a celebrity to the degree Sarah resembles Amy Adams. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Lucky girl. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Amy Adams, that is. </span></div>
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Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-43999177617217801442018-07-05T12:47:00.000-05:002018-07-05T12:49:17.389-05:00Fear, Reality and the Triathlon<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Donnie, you are so filled with fear. I hurt for you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />That’s a summary of what my therapist said to me during a session back in August of 2015. I’ve already written a lot about what I was processing during that season of my life, so no need to rehash all of that. As I shared in a post back in March, that same therapist challenged me to let go of some new and different, yet equally false, fears that had recently crept into my heart.<br /><br />In the spirit of open-confession on this blog, I can admit that I’m now facing some new fears. These fears are financial. While it seems that the worst of these fears won’t come true, some lesser fears are, in fact, becoming a reality. This is causing me to make some serious changes in my life. Though the changes are painful, I think the long-term results are going to be a net-positive.<br /><br />As my therapist could attest, fear is a constant battle I face; the battle to separate wild, outlandish fears from possible scenarios that could happen should circumstances not improve. As fear is a constant struggle, a sermon I heard a few months ago hit home in a perspective-altering way.<br /><br />Here’s a <a href="http://redemptionchurchkc.com/news/2018/4/23/easter-04-becoming-unstuck-isaac-anderson" target="_blank">link</a> to the message.<br /><br />This is a paraphrase, but the following is a basic summary of Isaac’s message.<br /><br />“Fear is a terrible predictor of the future. We make an initial assumption that ‘A’ is true. And if ‘A’ is true, then clearly ‘B’ must be true. Following that line of logic, then, we proceed from ‘B’ to ‘C’ and down the line of events which, inevitably, ends with death. We go from fearing that ‘A’ is actually true to predicting our own demise. What fear fails to consider, though is the possibility of God intervening somewhere in that chain of possible scenarios. Fear is a horrible predictor of future events.”<br /><br />Later in the sermon, he’s discussing Jesus walking with the disciples on the Road to Emmaus, which is post-suffering and post-resurrection. Jesus tells his disciples (and therefore us), “if you’re looking for a Jesus to help you circumvent all pain, loss and suffering, that’s not me. If you’re looking for a Jesus, however who has been through it all and can promise that there’s new life and joy on the other side, that’s me, because I’ve already walked that path.”<br /><br />A couple of months ago, I accomplished one of my New Year’s Resolutions for 2018, I finished a short triathlon. This triathlon turned out to be an interesting case study in my struggle with fear.<br /><br />The afternoon before the race, I went out to the lake to organize my transition area and to check out the course. As this was about to be my first ever triathlon, I had no idea what to expect nor any previous experience upon which I could draw for navigating all the different variables of an open water swim, followed by a bike ride, capped off by a run.<br /><br />Here's a list of all the fears I had about that race, starting Saturday afternoon and continuing until I received the “KC Triathlon Finisher” medal<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’d drown<br />My goggles would get kicked off my face while out in the open water<br />I’d be embarrassed by my old-school bike<br />My bike would have mechanical issues and my non-mechanical self wouldn’t know what to do<br />I wouldn’t make it up the hill at mile 9<br />My cotton shirt would fill with sweat<br />I wouldn’t be able to get my wetsuit off during the transition from swimming to biking<br />My bag would take up too much space in the transition area<br />I wouldn’t get my transition area set up properly or by 7:00 AM<br />I wouldn’t get a good picture in my wetsuit<br />Between swimming warm-ups and the start of the race (1.5 hours later), I’d be too hot in my wetsuit<br />I’d leave stuff in transition area, which closed at 7, that I’d need before the race<br />My car would be so far from the beach that I’d sweat like crazy walking there and back in my wetsuit<br />I’d put my wetsuit on backwards<br />If I took off my wetsuit, to avoid getting too hot, I wouldn’t be able to get it back on<br />My legs would be too weak to run after the bike portion<br />I’d look like an imposter among all the seasoned tri-athletes<br />I’d have to poop during the race<br />I’d oversleep<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Yeah, that’s a pretty long list…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br />When the starting buzzer sounded for my “wave” (men 40 and older), my legs felt like jelly and the movement down the sandy beach and toward the lake water felt surreal. Until I plunged face first into the ice cold water, I wasn’t convinced I’d have the courage to actually start the race. At the other end of the race, while painfully jogging the last portion under a hot sun, I was never fully convinced I’d finish the race without walking until I actually crossed the finish line.<br /><br />As I savored the post-race wheat beer, I realize that not a single one of the fears on the above list manifested themselves. Not a single one. Though I’m sure it might be riveting writing, I’m going to pass on sharing the details of how I worked through every single one of those challenges. It will suffice to say though, that I both figured them all out and regretted having wasted so much emotional energy worrying about them.<br /><br />Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some other things to go worry about. Like whether there’s a good spot in my house to display my medal.<br /></span></span></div>
Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-40692146719416309302018-05-18T11:42:00.002-05:002018-05-18T11:50:45.054-05:00Abiding > Calling<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">I currently have two houses listed, each of whom are
being sold by friends of mine who are going through, or have recently gone through,
a divorce. They came to me because they
can trust me, having confidence in our shared experience. If I want to live a life in which I’m serving
other people, these are the best moments for me, professionally speaking. In fact, last year, I sold a house for a
ministry colleague with whom I’d shared a similar ministry path. When I met with him and his ex-wife-to-be, explaining
how we could get the house sold and split the proceeds, he thanked me while blinking
away tears. He was grateful for my being
able to help him what needed to be done and, most importantly, for being able to
stand with him in all the hurt and shame of his divorce.<br />
<br />
The flip side looks like the time I was leading a buyer couple into the
basement of a nice home in a nice neighborhood and suddenly being hit by a wave
of self-pity, “this isn’t what I signed up for, this isn’t why I went to
college and seminary.” It’s not, but it’s
where I currently find myself.<br />
<br />
As I asked in an earlier <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2018/04/ive-changed-name-of-this-blog.html" target="_blank">post,</a> what happens to the “calling” I believe I had? <br />
Maybe that question needs to be turned inside-out. What if I was never “called” into full-time
ministry at all? What if no one is “called”
in that way? I’ll admit, this is a new
way of thinking for me, possibly a new way of sorting through the past 25 years. The idea came from a <a href="http://www.jacobswellchurch.org/sermon/20180429timkeel/" target="_blank">sermon</a> I recently heard,
when I just so happened to be worshiping with my former church because the daughter
of the above-mentioned friend was being baptized. In the midst of a sermon on John 15:1-8, the “I
am the vine, you are the branches. Remain
in me and you will produce much fruit” passage, Tim Keel had the following to say.<br />
<br />
“How does God’s grace get worked out among us?
By abiding. I read something from
Oswald Chambers this week, who said the following, ‘A Christian worker is
someone who perpetually looks in the face of God and then goes forth to talk to
people.’ It’s not complex. We get to know the one we love and it
overflows into our lives…. Trees aren’t trying to produce fruit. Fruit is the natural overflow, the byproduct
of an organism in right relationship to its environment. A tree’s not trying to make fruit happen, a
tree can’t stop fruit from happening.
Fruit is the natural overflow of what a tree is created to do. When we abide in Jesus, fruitfulness is the
result of his life getting lived through us.<br />
<br />
[In talking often to church leaders, I tell them] the most acceptable form of
idolatry in the church is ministry. People
think you’re called to ministry. You’re
not. You’re called to Jesus. And to abide in Jesus. And to help create communities of people who
are abiding in Jesus. Ministry is the
overflow of a community that is learning together how to abide and remain in
Jesus and to allow God to prune them, together, in their life in Jesus.”<br />
<br />
Mind blown. <br />
Past and future possibly re-interpreted and re-imagined. <br />
<br />
It wasn’t just me, either. Right after
the benediction, I talked with several other members of the “former pastors
club” who said that line also took them for a loop. <br />
<i><br />
</i>It clearly happened. I certainly served
God in the capacity of a pastor for a season in my life. It was good, rewarding and positive. While there are certainly things I’d do
differently, including some decisions and approaches that now make me cringe, I
don’t regret having served in that capacity.<br />
<br />
Back then, I had a much more narrowly defined way of doing ministry. Things are more wide-open now. As I now, as then, stay connected to Jesus I'm making an intentional effort to be open to whatever
opportunities come my way, opportunities that are almost certainly going to exist outside
of any formal structure. <br />
<br />
For example, I was talking on the phone with the twice mentioned seller
client and friend when I had the sense that I needed to pray with him. After I’d finished, he informed me I’d made
him cry (I guess I do that to people?) and that he’d needed the encouragement. The next day, he thanked me yet again for praying
for him. <br />
<br />
A similar thing happened just the other day, while helping with<a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/441616559601148/" target="_blank"> Free Hot Soup Johnson County. </a> After a friend of mine,
who has dedicated so much of her life to serving the poor, homeless and addicted
shared some struggles she was facing, I sent her a note to say I was praying for
her and to remind her that her actions convey to others the love of Jesus. <br />
<br />
While there are some who need to do so, at this stage in my life, I don’t sense
the need to hold any type of official church position. I simply need to stay connected to Jesus and responsive
to the opportunities that come my way.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span>Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-37947629297102942682018-04-20T21:12:00.002-05:002018-04-20T21:12:45.877-05:00I've Changed the Name of this BlogAs a follow-up to this <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2017/11/identity.html" target="_blank">post</a>, I've now decided to change the title of this blog. I simply don't think I can refer to myself as a pastor anymore. Truth be told, I'm completely fine with that. I try to be sensitive to God's leadership in my life and, as of this moment, I sense that I'm okay where I'm at.<br />
<br />
As any reader of this blog would be fully aware, my life took a serious left turn a few years ago. But even before that, I was curving away from the mainstream in regards to how I lived out my (then) life purpose of pastoral ministry. As any long-time reader of this blog would be aware, my ministry path continued to take one step after another away from traditional approaches to ministry and toward bolder and less secure approaches. As I kept reaching for more innovative and risky ways to serve, the ability to actually early a living at ministry gradually faded away. Eventually, in regards to pastoral ministry as a career, I found myself on the outside-looking-in. Again, I'm totally cool with that. In fact, I'd likely make the same choices again, were I given a second chance. In the spring of 2016, when I realized my connection to the inner-city church by our home wasn't going to work out and that I wasn't willing to drive out of the city to be a part of a healthy church within my denomination, I turned in my ordination credentials due to inactivity. Of course, I was also pretty sure a divorce was approaching over the horizon, so I preferred to face that life change without the pressures of denominational expectations.<br />
<br />
My peace with where I currently find myself, however doesn't nullify the sense of bewilderment and disillusionment that comes with experiencing such a dramatic shift in purpose and identity. I started preparing for pastoral ministry at the age of 16. I went to college for it. Then seminary. I chose a wife based, partly, upon our compatibility as ministry partners. All of that has changed, however and I'm now in the process of forging a new identity and purpose. Hopefully, it's an identity shaped less around what I do and more around who I am, as <i>His kid.</i><br />
<br />
It's pointless to lament the past. It's worthwhile to be faithful in the present. To fully embrace where I am at this moment. I'm learning the benefit of taking a long view of things; a long obedience over a lifetime. Hence the new name of my blog, which is actually a play upon the title of a <a href="https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_1_14?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=a+long+obedience+in+the+same+direction+by+eugene+h.+peterson&sprefix=a+long+obedien%2Caps%2C168&crid=2OKQOYCPOZ6L5" target="_blank">book </a>by Eugene Peterson.<br />
<br />
I've found an amazing <a href="http://redemptionchurchkc.com/">church.</a> I'm not too involved yet, but I'll slowly wiggle myself into the community and shared mission. The church is pastored by a friend from seminary and, even better, two families that both Dawson and I count as some of our closest friends are a part of this church.<br />
<br />
I've recently connected with <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/441616559601148/">Free Hot Soup Johnson County</a>, which serves food to homeless people on Monday nights at a park a few blocks from my place.<br />
<br />
In just about every way other than finances, as I'm still digging out of a bit of a hole while trying to expand my client base, I've almost completely recovered from the trauma of the divorce. I was having a beer with a close friend the other night when he came to the exact same conclusion. If anyone would be able to recognize whether or not I've recovered, it's this friend, whom I've known for decades and with whom I went on a significant roadtrip several years ago; a trip in which my dark cloud of despair and hopelessness was the third passenger in his SUV. He turned to me and said, "It's good to see you laugh. You seem to be back to your old self again."<br />
<br />
In some ways he's right. In other ways, a new self has emerged. I assume that's normal for anyone as they progress through life (have I mentioned I turn 40 in just over two months?) but even more so for someone who experiences a dramatic life change. <br />
<br />
Even as something new emerges, a constant to which I still turn is words; my ability to express myself in ways that often helps other people. Just the other day, I was at a happy hour with a 23 year old guy who played football and performed in show choir at a rival high school, though we just missed being competitors by a mere two decades... Anyway, this single <strike>kid</strike> young man told me he'd recently read my blog and really appreciated what I'd shared, both the content and the vulnerability. I'd assume that if my words can help him, someone in a completely different stage of life than am I, then surely they can help others facing similar struggles. <br /><br />In fact, that's why I started blogging about this post-divorce journey in the first place, so my words could bring healing to others while simultaneously bringing healing to myself. I'm writing what I wish I could've read three years ago, while struggling to breathe from all the pain and loss and shame. I would've loved to have heard from someone whose marriage had died but whose relationship with God and with <i>most of</i> his friends survived. <br /><br />So maybe this amateur blogger turns into an amateur writer, as in a book about my divorce and recovery. To the delight of my sister, who's been encouraging me to do this, I've put together a preliminary chapter outline. Maybe it becomes the major project of my first year in a new decade of life. Stay tuned...<br /><br />Finally, I'll admit that ministry (as in a staff position at a church or other ministry) isn't totally out of the question. I'm positive, though that I could never again assume the role of a traditional pastor, that's simply not going to happen, for various reasons. I also know it would be in a different denomination than in which I grew up. A few years ago, at the prompting of the pastor, I interviewed for a position with a Methodist church. During the interview, I thought it wise to be honest with the pastor interviewing me about my marriage existing in a rocky and unsure place. In response to my honesty, the pastor offered some reassurance by stating that while he'd never been involved with a Church of the Nazarene (having spent all of his post-conversion years in the Methodist Church) he spoke from his experience with Nazarene friends in stating, "Methodists seem to be more accepting of their pastor's humanity, as a rule, than are Nazarenes." <br /><br />
Imperfection. Humanity. Yep, that's me all right. Here's to my spending this human life living out a long obedience in (mostly) the same direction.Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-48592409347962262792018-03-30T23:16:00.004-05:002018-03-30T23:27:21.946-05:00So I Try to Play the PianoI took piano lessons from first grade up till it just fizzled out sometime during my junior year of high school. My late piano teacher was also my Bible Quizzing coach (and pastor's wife) and she said I could be forgiven for letting piano slide since I was memorizing so many Bible verses.<br />
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So I had a rather prolonged break from piano, lasting from around 1994 till the summer of 2016, when I bought Dawson a keyboard so he could start his own lessons. The first song of which I downloaded the sheet music was "Sur le fil" from the "<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0211915/?ref_=nv_sr_1" target="_blank">Amelie</a>" soundtrack, which might be the most amazing soundtrack in the known world. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wCLK9iOPDw" target="_blank">Enjoy</a>. As a side note, one of my favorite things to do on this planet is to wander through the Northern arrondissements of Paris where "Amelie" was filmed while listening to the soundtrack, highlighted by a walk through the energetic and colorful Gare du nord. <i>Paris, tu me manque</i>, but I digress...<br />
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In case you're wondering... sitting down at a keyboard again, after 22 years, is a bit more complicated than remembering how to ride a bike. I had to <i>Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge</i> and<i> FACE</i> for awhile, but it did eventually come back to me. Now, it's one of the great pleasures in my life, challenging yet rewarding, difficult yet therapeutic. Here are a few of the songs I've managed to record, along with some explanations and apologies. It took me a couple of months to become even partly proficient at that "you've gotta be kidding me, that's fast" section toward the end.<br />
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<iframe allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_d-OKIWSQ5U" width="560"></iframe>
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The videos aren't quite embedding correctly, so I'll share the actual links, too.<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_d-OKIWSQ5U" target="_blank">Video</a><br />
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This next video really shows the top end, as well as the limits, of my piano playing ability. I've never been one who can play a piece perfectly. I guess I just lack the finger dexterity. 90% proficiency is usually the best I can manage. While I simply can't avoid mistakes, I'm at least creative in finding new ones to make each time I play a song, the exact same song, mind you. I also get a bit nervous playing for a camera, which is evident in this video. I'm copying in some advice from a good friend who is both a concert pianist and a <a href="http://travelingninjanotes.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">travelling ninja.</a> I've had moments in which I've played with the joyful abandon Denise describes below, but certainly never in front of a camera.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"> "...Another thing I'd say is to just play, worry less about making mistakes :) Hard to do I know. But sometimes if you just go with it, amazing things will happen. Remember, Robert Schumann said "When you play, never mind who listens to you." Beethoven said "to play a wrong note is insignificant. To play without passion is inexcusable." Of course, another interpretation is that "to play a wrong timidly is a mistake. To play a wrong note with authority is an interpretation." :) Don't remember who said that but I like it."</span><br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLiI39FHNy0" target="_blank">Video</a><br />
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"<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FGK8IC-bGnU" target="_blank">And now for something completely different</a>." Pop music<br />
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It's amazing how much more difficult it is to play pop music than classical music.<br />
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I'm slightly hesitant to share this one for several reasons. First of all, it's not great, not at all. I was able to get a few parts down but I could never get the timing right in certain sections, particularly on the bridge. I eventually got tired of working on it, though and wanted to get it recorded so I could move on, which I did, actually throwing the sheet music in the recycling and washing my hands of the song.<br />
Which leads to the other reason this song isn't great to share, it was meant to be a birthday present but it never got delivered to the intended recipient. Just as an interaction with that Intended Recipient prompted me to do some writing on this blog, another brief interaction with said Intended Recipient prompted me to work on this song. It's as if some emotions were working themselves from my heart, through my arms, out my fingers and eventually into the previously mentioned recycling bin.<br />
I made the video, though, so I might as well share it.<br />
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<iframe allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/PaDxPXHyDH4" width="560"></iframe>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PaDxPXHyDH4" target="_blank">Video</a><br />
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The good thing about the above video is that the little bit of singing I actually do in the video resides much more in my vocal sweet spot than the next video I'm going to share. I'm going to share it anyway, though as it's one of my all-time favorite songs, even if it pushes (let's be honest, it exceeds) my vocal range.<br />
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The particular arrangement I'm going to play comes from the musical <i>Moulin Rouge</i> but the actual song predates that musical by several decades. I don't know of any other song that captures the aching beauty one experiences while wandering Montmartre late at night. Or maybe in a broader sense, it captures the maddening pleasure of a city that (to paraphrase another old French songwriter) is like a lover who tantalizes you while you're in her presence but forgets your face as soon as you leave. <i>But there I go again, missing Paris...</i><br />
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Maybe it's my voice cracking or the lack of an accordion but my playing of this song won't illicit anything near to the depth of feeling brought out by the original. Nonetheless, I still greatly enjoyed learning this song as it's the first song I've been able to both play and sing. <br />
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Also, I apologize if my introducing the song in French comes off as pretentious (is it ever possible to speak French and not come off as pretentious?), but I couldn't resist.<br />
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<iframe allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Gzsft57r4II" width="560"></iframe><br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gzsft57r4II" target="_blank">Video</a><br />
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Finally, please allow me to be a braggy dad for a minute. My son is quite the piano player, when I can actually get him to practice. He has a musical ear that I simply don't have. Not only can he play a song by ear after just a few tries, he even composes his own short songs. Of course, that's no surprise, as his biological uncle is a <a href="https://www.ericgordonmusic.com/" target="_blank">recording artist</a> and his biological grandma is herself a piano teacher. Dawson fights me on piano but he's too talented for me to let him quit when he's this young. As the parents of my above mentioned concert pianist friend would tell her as a child, "no adult regrets being made to learn piano as a child."<br />
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<iframe allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8z0T_I7CPIU" width="560"></iframe>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8z0T_I7CPIU" target="_blank">Video</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fUSxkvOr_yk&t=11s" target="_blank">Video</a>Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-90734338233392045122018-03-30T00:15:00.000-05:002018-03-30T00:19:11.948-05:00Opening Day 2018<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
There's a buzz in the air, the fountains are flowing blue, the Truman Sports Complex parking is full of tailgaters and hardly anyone in the city is working this afternoon because we're all celebrating the return of our Boys in Blue.</div>
<i>Sad, minor side note: The season couldn't have started much worse, with a 44 degree day bringing a 14-7 loss and news of Salvy going on the 6 week DL.</i><br />
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There are two things to get excited about for this upcoming season:<br />
1) I will still get chills when I see the World Championship banner flying in the outfield<br />
2) The team will be so bad this year that I'll be able to find $5 tickets by July<br />
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Today is the perfect day to remind everyone of Terence's line in <i>Field of Dreams</i>:<br />
"The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It's been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and that could be again. Oh people will come, Ray. People will most definitely come."<br />
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And if you would rather hear the actual voice of James Earl Jones, rather than just hear it in your head (as I do), then you can click <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QOOLX9R8Ncc" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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I've heard it said that as men get older, their interest in football wanes and their interest in baseball grows. I don't know whether that's true of all male sports fans, but that's definitely been true of me. I didn't even follow baseball till my first summer in KC, the summer after my sophomore year, when I finally began to understand the everyday enjoyment of the sport which includes the pleasure of having the play-by-play in the background on a beautiful summer evening and how the pop of the ball hitting the catcher's glove on an AM radio is the perfect soundtrack to summer. By the pennant race of 2003, I was being sucked in but I wasn't fully hooked, however till I began to understand the numbers of baseball. I owe my fairly recent appreciation of the nerdy side of baseball to <a href="https://twitter.com/jazayerli?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor" target="_blank">Rany Jazayerli </a>and his no longer active blog, <a href="http://www.ranyontheroyals.com/" target="_blank">Rany on the Royals</a>. With the exception of the postseason, baseball is a game of consistency and patience while football is a game of short and intense bursts of emotion.<br />
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My last year of playing baseball was the summer before the first fall in which I was old enough to play middle school tackle football. I was never coordinated enough to be good at baseball but I was just strong enough to earn a small football scholarship to a small university. I think that I needed to put my horrible little league career behind me before I could fully embrace the sport as an adult fan. To put it another way, I had to make peace with being a sucky baseball player as a kid before I could become a serious baseball fan as an adult.<br />
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To reference another idea I've heard but whose source I can't recall, sports exist to create a natural and easy bonding between father and son. <i>Of course, the most likely reason sports exist is for gambling on the outcomes, but I digress...</i> I can certainly attest to that in my own life. I've been able to bond with both my dad and my son over Hawkeye and Royals games. Though more over Hawk games with my dad and more over Royals games with my son, who once told me, "Dad, I was born in KC, you were born in Iowa, so I'm a Royals fan, not a Hawkeye fan." I believe that idea could be expanded however, to include bonding between friends. Some of my best memories and most profound conversations have occurred during game watch parties, pre-game tailgates and (most importantly) road trips to sporting venues across the country. In fact, several years ago, a high school friend sent me a note thanking me for sharing Christ with him during our sophomore year. That conversation happened, naturally, on the drive home from an Iowa basketball game (a miserable loss to Northwestern, if I remember correctly, which I likely do). <br />
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Of course, that's the main theme of <i>Field of Dreams, </i>the relationship (or lack thereof) between a father and son. I'm glad that my relationship with my dad and my son doesn't revolve completely around sports, but I'm glad a shared love of sports has enhanced our respective relationships. I can honestly say, though that without a shared love of sports, I'm not as close to some of my closest friends as I actually am.<br />
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With that in mind, I'm going to share some of my favorite Opening Day memories along with my favorite baseball pictures.<br />
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2004: Despite having standing room only tickets, the day started and ended perfectly. A group of close friends used my portable grill for tailgating before the game and convinced me to not leave in the 8th inning, when the Royals were down 8-1 to the Sox. A miracle rally, which was capped off by a walk-off homerun, resulted in us jumping around hysterically in the concourse behind the 1st base line. I jumped so hysterically, in fact, that I gave myself a deep bone bruise on my knee, making it hard to bend said knee for about two months. I'd never been so glad to be a Fed Ex driver, rather than a UPS driver, as UPS trucks are sticks and FedEx trucks are automatic.<br />
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2009: I was offered an Opening Day ticket by a dear man in the church I was pastoring at the time, for whom I had recently preached his wife's funeral. The day was cold and the Royals were spanked by the Yankees, but it was a wonderful time of helping a dear friend through his grief while not actually mentioning his unmentionably sudden loss. I believe there was a lot of grace passing between us that day.<br />
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2014: This Opening Day I decided to embrace what most Parisians could tell just by glancing at me, no matter how hard I tried to mask it by sporting a man purse and scarves, that I'm an unfashionable American who feels most comfortable wearing jeans and a sports t-shirt. This was actually the first day of the two weeks my parents came to visit us and as I was leading them into Saint Chapelle, a fellow KC native saw my shirt and called out, "Go Royals." I'll never forget that one, how the buzz of Opening Day can extend even to another country, at least among American tourists.</div>
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<i>The formatting on this blog site is so complicated that I'm not even gonna try to put this in chronological order.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwLumUGsFf8Sm4z76FHGm5vMy9mTWfP6Z0KUyA_kkrhg2M8irTPbEJbHr4LFSG_yzr-tuMM4pr7eUtNrvHcB-ci25n9WZy6C8waun0hjv3OZx1gA4GhuOcrj8sNK5AGNYBwcm4ax74eVY/s1600/20151101_233517.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwLumUGsFf8Sm4z76FHGm5vMy9mTWfP6Z0KUyA_kkrhg2M8irTPbEJbHr4LFSG_yzr-tuMM4pr7eUtNrvHcB-ci25n9WZy6C8waun0hjv3OZx1gA4GhuOcrj8sNK5AGNYBwcm4ax74eVY/s320/20151101_233517.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Celebrating" the extra inning, WS clinching win against the Mets in November, 2015</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinls1TVk6ao5tsTWynpyt-6ZB2fqVXP1vijjJsYSOy3Cm_4MuigUc-J5-yKZzAKUU9F1PpTN3rvuMWfOeCsff-3krFuKSawW3cR7cFc8ywxlcUEtWQejKOqG6HKPpBFD_v4-1HC1i8qWs/s1600/20151103_105652.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinls1TVk6ao5tsTWynpyt-6ZB2fqVXP1vijjJsYSOy3Cm_4MuigUc-J5-yKZzAKUU9F1PpTN3rvuMWfOeCsff-3krFuKSawW3cR7cFc8ywxlcUEtWQejKOqG6HKPpBFD_v4-1HC1i8qWs/s320/20151103_105652.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Celebrating the World Title with hundreds of thousands of other Kansas Citians</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QIF5x1wYuaAj9JpgUEwM_z87vZEorcpCatq_HLVxKP-6RnNj6xY-mEo4M-_H_RuUL8ZQKubsx4_xDpFLGxszqZPzggcrmCYc4lPvIuLsGTdHNVYWMstVwnEuUNRY7zm72F4OfPGRxHM/s1600/20160504_132658.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QIF5x1wYuaAj9JpgUEwM_z87vZEorcpCatq_HLVxKP-6RnNj6xY-mEo4M-_H_RuUL8ZQKubsx4_xDpFLGxszqZPzggcrmCYc4lPvIuLsGTdHNVYWMstVwnEuUNRY7zm72F4OfPGRxHM/s320/20160504_132658.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Godbrothers at The K</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghLzUsloQlukmBCnftoVwjQnRERVRANXbdwXA14Mb-EfNx7mgvN5TVAOM0CorM_ZoYoOwFsrpsroSvXx1uXfdZ1C77FDrbvA48qffIqrYgALnigqSKqUgvuCpAWYoh94W0ILkLwBcgbWU/s1600/20160504_140054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghLzUsloQlukmBCnftoVwjQnRERVRANXbdwXA14Mb-EfNx7mgvN5TVAOM0CorM_ZoYoOwFsrpsroSvXx1uXfdZ1C77FDrbvA48qffIqrYgALnigqSKqUgvuCpAWYoh94W0ILkLwBcgbWU/s320/20160504_140054.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kids Day at The K, May 2015</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Nih3y-JTTTuoJsKB_GOY0xiE42dTwcakdwXKiP_38wZJ9SVWmrLQB8ZCQfo9vgAQ26cCxTG9cNU0Yd0jWR2v-Cx3js-WYIZS65llNUX8yFAX4eJLUKmV-IsuF14ajW-gZtqldfhCltM/s1600/20160529_142441.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Nih3y-JTTTuoJsKB_GOY0xiE42dTwcakdwXKiP_38wZJ9SVWmrLQB8ZCQfo9vgAQ26cCxTG9cNU0Yd0jWR2v-Cx3js-WYIZS65llNUX8yFAX4eJLUKmV-IsuF14ajW-gZtqldfhCltM/s320/20160529_142441.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and enjoying a game on Father's Day, 2016</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo-7Hz4PMD9Ar56D9scsuD844aPfLuwxNg71T3MlkpD_7lQDVC2oOrcTas8LC6M4ozTCKh60dWu9Yap7dVA0oxmpHObNZiD8hpFcS2pBq4NZQ5pwK1RsZ-4ou38Kn1SKGF4kqlWmOg3AI/s1600/20160610_203405.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo-7Hz4PMD9Ar56D9scsuD844aPfLuwxNg71T3MlkpD_7lQDVC2oOrcTas8LC6M4ozTCKh60dWu9Yap7dVA0oxmpHObNZiD8hpFcS2pBq4NZQ5pwK1RsZ-4ou38Kn1SKGF4kqlWmOg3AI/s320/20160610_203405.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A great night in the Southside of Chicago<br />
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Dawson's first trip to The K, June 2011. I felt kinda guilty trying to teach him to like a team as bad as the Royals, circa 2011</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIaJmu-c0kj3KRlqaRV6z2YhEIXBWlyQXLHxY7P5xWPGevu8IUyjO9Yrp8b9L_yXp0oimrbBbHvV2uixeAJ4HmyXjnTCoufK_6EeTq3Lpe-2jCuYTVISiSHkZIR0pMkpPzRdh5hJyUEtk/s1600/20160610_183300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIaJmu-c0kj3KRlqaRV6z2YhEIXBWlyQXLHxY7P5xWPGevu8IUyjO9Yrp8b9L_yXp0oimrbBbHvV2uixeAJ4HmyXjnTCoufK_6EeTq3Lpe-2jCuYTVISiSHkZIR0pMkpPzRdh5hJyUEtk/s320/20160610_183300.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Royals at White Sox, June 2016</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCj4tDsqQ0oIy9W7gTTsgUyDyS2SrCDRFBRTln-Xpjz_zaYR6-DNgpreqZYrLipIJa-LdioTG0PbrpBRVvYDicA6ZFbuMAcpcMqSFah3Tm1oOYiMxmx3SQuqkLyeluPhzkb0aqVU8foeI/s1600/20160924_190947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCj4tDsqQ0oIy9W7gTTsgUyDyS2SrCDRFBRTln-Xpjz_zaYR6-DNgpreqZYrLipIJa-LdioTG0PbrpBRVvYDicA6ZFbuMAcpcMqSFah3Tm1oOYiMxmx3SQuqkLyeluPhzkb0aqVU8foeI/s320/20160924_190947.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Catching a game where the Royals had clinched the WS the previous year. Notice Dawson has on the WS Champs shirt while I decided to stick with the much safer, Hawkeye shirt, as we'd attended a Hawkeye game at Rutgers earlier in the day.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiskrJS-MBWMzYh89APxW48Qj476c3PZMZInfUVbjaBo0ARAB2aUSzeoOavK2Ya1VTC__nMKJ8VUkPcr6UiwRXZTlffC_63RpsqxUd4vqXApTYvaZMtFareJDXFzSrlwnAp3n7myFDAbCQ/s1600/20170619_191923.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiskrJS-MBWMzYh89APxW48Qj476c3PZMZInfUVbjaBo0ARAB2aUSzeoOavK2Ya1VTC__nMKJ8VUkPcr6UiwRXZTlffC_63RpsqxUd4vqXApTYvaZMtFareJDXFzSrlwnAp3n7myFDAbCQ/s320/20170619_191923.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enjoying the divisional race, June 2017</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0_F1K2IZyBr-BN2b5vbM2y59TfcRK2XDR20cO9qjHOEmXg37u5qy1M8EPjXNmfk2LCKJ8ewb8wKkQvfkVG8UJpSmDTphBtD-ZKZZRPhN_gTgkVWhsqdVDCpCX0tO2TCkNRznkSLIIn4/s1600/20170715_120448.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0_F1K2IZyBr-BN2b5vbM2y59TfcRK2XDR20cO9qjHOEmXg37u5qy1M8EPjXNmfk2LCKJ8ewb8wKkQvfkVG8UJpSmDTphBtD-ZKZZRPhN_gTgkVWhsqdVDCpCX0tO2TCkNRznkSLIIn4/s320/20170715_120448.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A baseball camp with Royals HOFer, Frank White</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_DTB_uYF772cF5nK1DMK61KJ3ZYUKOV3gE-Ipl-hMhjmMuxxnapFH_yyR78S73oOdDfdKC23RQjWbI4kCHZZKYur_jZDYNEDC6V3SSUSeZNQ2Gt9Vo7jGDrz_cGJUAFhwpiYrdRqbbM/s1600/20170810_172248.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_DTB_uYF772cF5nK1DMK61KJ3ZYUKOV3gE-Ipl-hMhjmMuxxnapFH_yyR78S73oOdDfdKC23RQjWbI4kCHZZKYur_jZDYNEDC6V3SSUSeZNQ2Gt9Vo7jGDrz_cGJUAFhwpiYrdRqbbM/s320/20170810_172248.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging with my childhood hero, The Wizard of Oz</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqgwEBaXJG90Fg_Yk67SovQ9psGo8-_xcTG96_QgG8iZV4LiQH4L5ES0ymvQxpD85I6uKFBcFYRrzQ9pFU1F87Iy81DtDOcId4RRXmdE_dLFdMTTqPXbM0fgdHMzyNJI14cW19sNsY2s4/s1600/20170810_175158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqgwEBaXJG90Fg_Yk67SovQ9psGo8-_xcTG96_QgG8iZV4LiQH4L5ES0ymvQxpD85I6uKFBcFYRrzQ9pFU1F87Iy81DtDOcId4RRXmdE_dLFdMTTqPXbM0fgdHMzyNJI14cW19sNsY2s4/s320/20170810_175158.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Royals at Cardinals, August 2017</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimkwC3qoTB6n_P-qYYdzhyit-KjFkSPzOSZQWM0u3JQjxWalse3uzd45MWGRZakBxXeWAClqzcQkxIw5a3zJbzqZijV7lT7VfnGfLwq4Smb-LF8AOQ0WJsOxm2102VESuaKZEN0p3CPIQ/s1600/IMG_1398.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimkwC3qoTB6n_P-qYYdzhyit-KjFkSPzOSZQWM0u3JQjxWalse3uzd45MWGRZakBxXeWAClqzcQkxIw5a3zJbzqZijV7lT7VfnGfLwq4Smb-LF8AOQ0WJsOxm2102VESuaKZEN0p3CPIQ/s320/IMG_1398.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quite possibly the best weekend ever, June 2012</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJRNXNVfI7d97UWJWZlkTeYcECI6qS9sDt8kX3wjtpX_JQNbx1ua11rp3bmkXrMQhgjdDTXl8aJyZtstBiH1dZzro47OuoBmPWT1x8OR_mrIoiZ7jjquxd8wGQGfp9pahWLXcPFyK2JAo/s1600/IMG_1618.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJRNXNVfI7d97UWJWZlkTeYcECI6qS9sDt8kX3wjtpX_JQNbx1ua11rp3bmkXrMQhgjdDTXl8aJyZtstBiH1dZzro47OuoBmPWT1x8OR_mrIoiZ7jjquxd8wGQGfp9pahWLXcPFyK2JAo/s320/IMG_1618.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching the MLB internet stream of the hearbreak that was game 7 of the 14 WS the morning after it actually happened, Busingen, Germany. My yells when Gordon tied it up scared Dawson and I might've cried two tears when Perez fouled out to end the game.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyanv4Cv7VEctLuVB5pIBfF0zVcSTctq2HfFWrIWq7aXa120sybt09e3jjsTBhbcquoU0152u1z0xUFAFvpEgsCNcEARgPJHK0E5Btn2EZtv-AHLaLngEr0tDdAiyBBYzRR4LD0Q9tquo/s1600/IMG_1693.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyanv4Cv7VEctLuVB5pIBfF0zVcSTctq2HfFWrIWq7aXa120sybt09e3jjsTBhbcquoU0152u1z0xUFAFvpEgsCNcEARgPJHK0E5Btn2EZtv-AHLaLngEr0tDdAiyBBYzRR4LD0Q9tquo/s320/IMG_1693.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">San Francisco, May 2013 with the biggest baseball nerds and one of the best people I know</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ZBxuH_D-9GMrBEyUnnFwt46Uiy-Q7yddfLak9FQVwx8cTqat4AVhA7104zF_JtWrtcICeMw8zd5yQ3W7PPxw0BCV6-FotEr-2xXr-lRWbmPc5IH8hXhNh7HncHqCdyIX5eyiixghDdg/s1600/IMG_4647.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ZBxuH_D-9GMrBEyUnnFwt46Uiy-Q7yddfLak9FQVwx8cTqat4AVhA7104zF_JtWrtcICeMw8zd5yQ3W7PPxw0BCV6-FotEr-2xXr-lRWbmPc5IH8hXhNh7HncHqCdyIX5eyiixghDdg/s320/IMG_4647.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Royals at Twins, June 2015</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiccoQhQtg8_T9ivbjnx1ZJ6YI_HbjMxZvlp59SoGP9gRneK6CxAmlZfkx156PqQpwjZXZyb6u9fPe-gUwOs_k4pANYSGXc2Sl-GaCEAJnJT0CbindJCH45XyezwvnJj9Us5HDnkyiCM34/s1600/IMG_6096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiccoQhQtg8_T9ivbjnx1ZJ6YI_HbjMxZvlp59SoGP9gRneK6CxAmlZfkx156PqQpwjZXZyb6u9fPe-gUwOs_k4pANYSGXc2Sl-GaCEAJnJT0CbindJCH45XyezwvnJj9Us5HDnkyiCM34/s320/IMG_6096.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">June 2017</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCWwRFCAuzygQk-pjja5vnuq8K-f-GO9AcXpX4Zi8rQa1Mw-XPUm7Ud3qZtCIEphK3fMtnftk9OxDlL0d1kISKnsDJg2xs5A7N6cnUhD0Xpl0O5atV5jg7FwUUgg31f1JObFMfH5TK_E/s1600/IMG_8776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCWwRFCAuzygQk-pjja5vnuq8K-f-GO9AcXpX4Zi8rQa1Mw-XPUm7Ud3qZtCIEphK3fMtnftk9OxDlL0d1kISKnsDJg2xs5A7N6cnUhD0Xpl0O5atV5jg7FwUUgg31f1JObFMfH5TK_E/s320/IMG_8776.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July 14, catching a game during our time between France and Germany</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdI9Mw8CWhwVR6puwzxZE7VjfXuEGbu9Y4bdXJ-44OPqT8pQY6qBJNjzraaj5x0sx7d9bATT4NRq3sfA5g-eNkmOEoFH1jL588mtF57fTQT9a-_JajkVXiB7PZyKKZo9ujmgyelnKkhDg/s1600/IMG_8847.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdI9Mw8CWhwVR6puwzxZE7VjfXuEGbu9Y4bdXJ-44OPqT8pQY6qBJNjzraaj5x0sx7d9bATT4NRq3sfA5g-eNkmOEoFH1jL588mtF57fTQT9a-_JajkVXiB7PZyKKZo9ujmgyelnKkhDg/s320/IMG_8847.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my all-time favorite pics</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6PPi6yQFwzdLkdgMzTAQ8zAH_LCDWZSvK2Ke-7TvaIESabO0h1-1q3ygtdi_BjZosghU6YQeYuAvHzc1i0fbpk4S5cgrRkp08w4fbzdY8nfCNlzCELw82hqpnQ0fA9DEE_v1ML_Xe0Jw/s1600/47384.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6PPi6yQFwzdLkdgMzTAQ8zAH_LCDWZSvK2Ke-7TvaIESabO0h1-1q3ygtdi_BjZosghU6YQeYuAvHzc1i0fbpk4S5cgrRkp08w4fbzdY8nfCNlzCELw82hqpnQ0fA9DEE_v1ML_Xe0Jw/s320/47384.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When your close friend of several decades visits from CA, you have to go to The K with him and his boys<br />
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<br />Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-58862408291238356702018-03-23T14:43:00.000-05:002018-03-29T22:36:57.114-05:00Grief: Round IIOther than occasionally noticing the life-long scar that I assume accompanies the failing of any marriage, I've pretty much <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2017/11/grief.html" target="_blank">grieved </a>my divorce. In fact, I think I did 95% of my grieving while still married as we slowly, agonizingly and reluctantly worked our way through (per my therapist) the "five stages of divorce." While I feel like I've finished my grieving of our 19 years together and the loss of the ideal of "till death do us part," I haven't yet grieved the side-effect of a divorce, being alone. A divorce usually means you'll be spending some time alone, at least from a romantic perspective.<br />
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The above statement is not as obvious as you might assume because one doesn't really have to be alone after a divorce. I mean, you could leave your wife for another woman (I didn't) or you could immediately throw yourself into a new relationship (I did that, for awhile, but backed out before it became permanent). It would seem to me, though that a <i>healthy</i> process of healing after a divorce would necessitate a time of aloneness.<br />
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I didn't take that route, at least not immediately. A different counselor supported me in that decision, believing that I'd spent the last few years of my marriage basically alone. I can certainly understand that perspective, as I've seen a difference in recovery time between those who, like me, were staring down the barrel of divorce for years and those who had it immediately thrust upon them. That line of reasoning was why I dove straight into the dating pool immediately after <i>The Move Out</i>.<br />
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I'm not sure whether to slap a "good" or "bad" label on that decision. Truly, I don't think it's that simple. I gave and received a lot of joy, dished out and was served some heartache and created good memories which now stand alongside some regrets.<br />
<br />
As my last dating relationship was ending, I felt an emotion I hadn't felt during the ending of the others, relief. The relief wasn't due to something being wrong with her, but due to my heart's longing for, and my spirit's realization that I'm in need of, aloneness.<br />
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This isn't to minimize, however, the other emotion that accompanies aloneness, which is <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2018/03/alone-ness-isnt-necessarily-same-thing.html" target="_blank">fear. </a> Maybe the season of dating I just came out of was partly motivated by that fear; a fear of being alone can prompt one to continue swiping through Bumble and updating your Match profile. I guess it's time to stop kicking the can down the road and to finally embrace aloneness.<br />
<br />
Of course, that brings grief. Massive amounts of grief. Grief I'm no longer trying to cover up with the fun of sharing laughter and drinks with someone new or the emotional rush accompanying an evening that ends with breakfast.<br />
<br />
A few months ago, I stumbled across one of the more heart-wrenchingly honest and vulnerably self-disclosing blog posts I've ever read. I almost feel voyeuristic in sharing the blog post, but if it's helped me, I'm sure it's helping others, so here it is - <a href="http://hootenannie.com/2017/08/grief-forgiveness-and-love/" target="_blank">Grief, Forgiveness and Love.</a><br />
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There's a paragraph in this post which I've printed out and have been reading during my evening reflection.<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana, arial, tahoma, serif; font-size: 14.4px; margin-bottom: 20px; margin-top: 20px; padding: 0px;">
<strong>GRIEF</strong><br />
To experience grief in all of its awful fullness is human and healthy. To sidestep it, whether through alcohol, travel, social media, shopping, sex, or tattoos, is to cauterize our humanity. It’s best to lean straight into the pain; if we don’t, it will seep like oil through a bed of dead leaves, poisoning life from the ground up. Numbed-out grief leads to anger, anger leads to depression, depression leads to a critical spirit and a lack of peace.</div>
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But grief? We are promised that grief leads to <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew+5%3A4&version=CSB" target="_blank">comfort</a>. <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=isaiah+61%3A3&version=CSB" target="_blank">Beauty</a>. <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=psalm+30%3A11&version=CSB" target="_blank">Dancing</a>. I want to be a person who looks my pain in the eye, regardless of what it costs me, and then rest in knowing that there is still goodness ahead — eventually.</div>
I've lived the grief that comes from an unfulfilled desire wrapped in uncertainty. As a matter of fact, it was exactly ten years ago. As I approached my 30th birthday, having recently received a diagnosis of infertility, I was acutely aware of an unfulfilled longing that had all but overtaken my heart, the deep ache to be a dad. I celebrated my 30th birthday in the backyard of our suburban home, surrounded by a large group of friends. What was conspicuously absent, however was the answer to the question of whether that longing would ever be fulfilled. I was only turning 30, but I felt the injustice that eight years of marriage, 30 years of living and a newly discovered bald spot hadn't yet been enough to produce an heir. To put it bluntly, I felt fine physically, but emotionally, I felt too old to not yet be a dad.<br />
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My 40th birthday is exactly three months away. If I do, in fact, have a party, I'll have to face another conspicuous absence, the absence of <i>her.</i> I'm not sure what I'll be doing that evening (it will be a rare <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2018/03/10-years-ago.html" target="_blank">rehearsal</a>-free evening) but I'm fairly certain I'll be feeling fine physically, but emotionally, I'll likely feel too old to be single.<br />
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As I grieved, during that 30th birthday party, the pain of infertility, the loss of failed adoptions and unsuccessful IVF treatments, while simultaneously observing my friends interacting with their kids, I had zero idea that my soon-to-be-adopted son had been conceived just a few weeks earlier. No idea whatsoever. I also had no idea how a heart which seemed to be missing a part of itself would, (to borrow a phrase from Dr. Seuss) <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2009/02/his-heart-grew-three-sizes-that-day.html" target="_blank">grow three sizes </a>at the sight of his newborn baby boy.<br />
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The time for grieving my way through a season of aloneness is long overdue, that I know. I don't know, however how long this season will last. Will it be a month or years? I know I won't be<i> </i>searching for <i>her</i> for awhile; no swiping, profile creating or flirting (okay, maybe some flirting as my natural charm has to find an outlet somehow...). If something happens organically, though, I'm not going to shy away from it.<br />
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Neither do I know how or when the "comfort, beauty and dancing" referenced in the above quote will become a reality in my life. I do know, though that the grief will likely gut-punch me anytime I'm reminded of how this <strike>yet</strike> unfulfilled longing brings not a lovely forehead to kiss but rather an empty uncertainty. That's the grief which must be faced.<br />
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To quote the same friend who signed off my last post:<br />
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<span style="background-color: #f1f0f0; color: #4b4f56; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It does have to be faced. Grief that is. And there is no rule that says it has to be faced perfectly, presently, or passively. There is no timeline or stopwatch. You face it over and over again until it no longer has any power over you. I’m not even sure it ever stops existing. You just learn to live with it and decide it doesn’t define you, or the decisions you make. You are spot on in what you need to do for yourself. Face it. You got this. </span><img alt="😊" class="_1ift _2560 img" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/z7f/1/16/1f60a.png" style="background-color: #f1f0f0; border: 0px; color: #4b4f56; display: inline-block; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; height: 16px; margin: 0px 1px; pointer-events: none; vertical-align: middle; white-space: pre-wrap; width: 16px;" /><br />
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I agree. I got this.Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-53258209974555050722018-03-21T20:23:00.001-05:002018-03-30T08:57:44.840-05:00A Necessary SeasonI lost my composure the other day. At Applebees. Embarrassed to be crying in public but never-the-less unable to stop the tears.<br />
It was about two months ago, I was having lunch with a pastor friend and sharing some of the struggles my son was having. The reality that my failed marriage brings pain to the most important person in my life was more than I could handle at that particular moment.<br />
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My friend went on to share some of the wounds he's had to deal with as a result of his relationship with his own father. My friend then shared something a counselor shared with him as he and his own son were working through some struggles of their own, "Your son doesn't need a perfect father, just the opportunity to understand you."<br />
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Dawson and I have been working on some things; I've been working to build my parenting skills and Dawson has been seeing a play therapist. Our relationship won't be perfect, but neither is it going anywhere. He's my boy, will always be my boy and I'm committed to improving our relationship.<br />
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Yet... fear still occasionally sneaks in. Fear that I've done irreparable damage to my son and that our relationship will eventually devolve into something much less than the love-filled ideal I have for the two of us. Fear that he'll feel abandoned by me. Or even worse, that he'll feel compelled to abandon me.<br />
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It happened today, while jogging along to a 90's playlist, when the song "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkcbxjWG9Mc" target="_blank">Father of Mine</a>" came on my ipod. Fear stabbed me in the heart and I had to fight back a few tears. It was in realizing that I was creating a false scenario in my head that I was able to calm down and not give into the <i>false</i> fear. That's what it was, a <i>false</i> fear manipulating me into a <i>false</i> future scenario in which I don't have a relationship with my son.<br />
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Which begged the question; if I can name and overcome the <i>false</i> fear induced by that song, what is there preventing me from naming and overcoming the <i>false</i> fear induced by certain romantic or break-up songs? The <i>false</i> fear that often whispers, and occasionally shouts (like when certain songs come on) that my life isn't really complete if I'm not sharing it with that romantic partner. Or the <i>false</i> fear that every good moment spent without <i>her</i> (whomever she may turn out to be) is a partially wasted moment. Or, in the darker moments, that <i>she</i> and I won't ever actually connect, if <i>she</i> does, in fact, actually exist.<br />
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That fear pushed me to start dating immediately, at least I think that was my underlying motivation. Or maybe it was just a desire to feel something good after years of pain and frustration. Probably a combination of both. That rather frantic season of dating certainly had some positives for me, though also some heartache. The most important benefit to come from the string of dates (and there were a lot of them, let's be honest here) was the rebuilding of a confidence nearly strangled to death during the long, painful demise of my marriage. Turns out that voice which continually told me, while the marriage was dying,"You're doomed to be alone. No one will want a divorced man who claims to be Christian. No one will want damaged goods" was completely false. I've been overwhelmed by just how wrong that voice was.<br />
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Yet I am actually alone right now. It doesn't feel great, let's be honest again, but it seems to be a necessary season.<br />
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Part of this alone time is about realizing that I'm enough as a stand-alone person, by myself, as a single guy. I won't really be able to have a healthy, long-term relationship with a high quality person if I don't, deep down, see myself as "worthy" of being with them. I've seen this doom dating relationships from both sides, in my relatively short dating experience.<br />
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While I did write extensively about my <i>rebound</i> <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2017/11/the-woman-currently-known-as-n.html" target="_blank">relationship </a>(I believe I had to name it for what it really was, in order to peacefully move on from that relationship), I eventually took that post down because it was just too vulnerable. <i>Or maybe the post is still up - kinda depends upon how vulnerable I'm feeling at the moment. </i>I am still rather haunted by one line I wrote in that post, though,<br />
I wrote that she "helped heal my broken heart. N helped me believe again in the possibility of love between two people, even when those people felt betrayed by their first loves."<br />
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So I think the last sentence has a lot of validity, to be able to live into an attitude of abundance, that there are various wonderful people out there with whom you could (mostly) happily share your life. The first line, though, doesn't sit well with me six months later. While another person, particularly a romantic partner, can help numb the pain for awhile, no single person can heal your heart. Once the emotions fade, the un-dealt with hurt will resurface and not only will you be back where you started, you might even be in a worse place than before, upon receiving the brutal realization that the other person isn't really going to heal you.<br />
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I recently went again to see the therapist who had helped me through a lot of the divorce process, the therapist who stated that our last few difficult years would be eventually understood as "years spent, not years wasted." During our last session, she asked me to consider that just as my pre-divorce fears of God and those I love turning away from me due to divorcing my wife, my current post-divorce fear of always being alone will likely also not be true, <i>though I realize there's no guarantee...</i><br />
She also shared the two ways someone can enter into a relationship:<br />
1) Coming from a place of strength in which they're okay with themselves and okay with being alone yet they choose to be with the other person or 2) Coming from a place of need, in which they have no choice but to be with the other person because they can't bear the idea of being alone and they need the validation that comes from being in a relationship. She explained that starting a relationship from the second reason is like building a house out of 2x4's that are rotten on the inside. At first, things look fine but eventually the house will collapse in on itself because no other person can really meet that need nor fill that role.<br />
<i><br /></i>My "unpaid life coach" as I refer to a friend who talks me through every single dating experience and is himself a divorced and remarried Nazarene pastor, actually offering life-coaching services as a second job, has been encouraging me to go with the flow of the opportunities that present themselves because, if nothing else, I'll continue to learn more about myself and what I'm looking for. Per the usual, his advice was solid as I've learned something from every single interaction, even from some of the stand alone dates. The different types of relationships I've had over the past year have acted as another form of counseling, a giant mirror that has reflected back to me both positive and negative aspects of my character. As I continued dating, a switch was eventually flipped in my mind, a breakthrough of sorts, when a new relationship I'd been excited about quickly fizzled out. Thinking I had something, only to painfully realize I didn't have anything, actually caused me to see that I'm okay without it and that I'll be okay until when (or if?) I ever do find that next long term and healthy relationship.<br />
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<i>That's not to say, however, that being alone isn't difficult at times.</i><br />
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I'm not quite sure how to balance these two following ideas: the reality that our true identity is found only in Christ (as opposed to a myriad of other ways in which we value our worth) while also coming to realize that some masculine relationship qualities that I feared were lacking in myself are actually fully present. While I'm thankful for the positive things I've discovered about myself, I also want to be able to bring into a relationship the strength that comes from the ability to be alone while still choosing to be with someone.<br />
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So in response to my pastor's challenge to consider our Lenten fast; the giving up of one activity so as to better focus upon our relationship with God, I made some commitments for the Lenten season.<br />
<i><br />Who else found it slightly humorous and almost uncomfortable that Ash Wednesday and Valentine's Day fell on the same day this year?</i><br />
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1) I deleted the two dating apps I'd been using so as to avoid creating any future romantic possibilities, nor even the escapist fantasy of doing so. As with any activity that creates a dopamine hit, it took a while to detox, but some peace eventually filled the space vacated by the constant questions of "what about this person" or "who else might be out there, just waiting for the two of us to connect?"<br />
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2) I ordered <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0718094050/ref=oh_aui_detailpage_o00_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1" target="_blank">this book</a> to read.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJwOMlfoUKP4MNIg1b1cPid8GwZg6DnKx3A6yUOgTIq59mQthm5UsC_I2zBNoYFamQlKYnGbPrxmP8890Y6SXcffZm2HFBBd9FM7-6qc0Rh3yOU5JicDYcF4a4NanEyFiKtU7QEP6F83Q/s1600/Party+of+One.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="327" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJwOMlfoUKP4MNIg1b1cPid8GwZg6DnKx3A6yUOgTIq59mQthm5UsC_I2zBNoYFamQlKYnGbPrxmP8890Y6SXcffZm2HFBBd9FM7-6qc0Rh3yOU5JicDYcF4a4NanEyFiKtU7QEP6F83Q/s320/Party+of+One.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>
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I will say, though that I find it slightly ironic that this book was recommended by someone I met on a dating app... Again, every relationship or interaction is a chance for more growth.<br />
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<i>Update: The dress-replacing-the-letter-A gimmick should've tipped me off to the fact that this book was written for single women... oh well, it's still been worth the read so far.</i><br />
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Whenever dating does happen again, (I have no idea how long this current season will last) I'm thinking I need to take less of an <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lp-EO5I60KA" target="_blank">Ed Sheeran</a> approach and more of a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDo0H8Fm7d0" target="_blank">Florid-Georgia Line</a> attitude, at least in the beginning. There needs to be some time before we progress toward some <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZ34LlaIk88" target="_blank">Taylor Swift.</a><br />
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Finally, here are some wonderful thoughts on dating that a close female friend of mine, whom herself has experience the ups and downs of post-divorce/mid life dating, recently shared with me.<br />
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<br />Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-38220956603081649172018-03-21T20:10:00.001-05:002018-03-25T20:11:37.363-05:0010 Years AgoMarch, 2008. I'd been praying for a way to get involved in the community and for direction regarding the fertility struggles we were having. Both prayers were eventually answered by an audition flyer I found crumpled up on on the pavement of the entrance to the Gardner Walmart. I believe that fateful half-sheet of paper said something like, "Tryouts for Gardner Community Theatre's summer production of 'The Music Man', this Saturday from 12-4 at Gardner-Edgerton High School. Come with a prepared selection or simply sing 'Happy Birthday.'"<br />
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Growing up in a river city in Iowa, I'd always liked "The Music Man."<br />
<i>Fun Fact: In addition to "The Music Man," </i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meredith_Willson" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">Meredith Wilson</a><i> also wrote my all-time favorite </i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luwYByHRtvU" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">song</a><i>.</i><br />
I thought to myself, "I might have a shot at making the chorus, maybe even an outside shot at being in the quartet." But I wasn't convinced I wanted to do it, so I decided that if I got the lawn mowed in time the next day, I'd drive over to the High School and sing "Happy Birthday" to the directors. Which I ended up doing. Which lead to me being cast as the lead, Harold Hill. Which was a huge surprise to me and likely even to the director.<br />
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It's really amazing how your life can be dramatically altered due to simple decisions or seemingly random events. My life, as well as the lives of many other people, were changed for the better thanks to that crumpled-up audition flyer in the Walmart parking lot. Here are a few of the things that came out of that summer of helping Gardner Community Theatre put on a pretty dang good rendition of "The Music Man."<br />
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1) Life Long Friends<br />
You can't spend several summers together putting on shows and not become close friends with fellow cast members.<br />
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2) The answer to the question that would run through my mind anytime I'd watch a musical, "what would it be like to be the last person out for the curtain call?"
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I'll likely never be cast as the lead again, but man was it a thrill to experience it at least once in my life.<br />
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3) A marriage and three children<br />
Kinda a long story, but we met two nice young ladies and decided to set them up with two nice young men from our church. All four are married now and two are actually married to each other. I had the privilege of performing their wedding ceremony, complete with tears and a serious foot-in-mouth incident.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSOXHMwAzaldQ6IKEt58iF3EZRMbtk3Irw77jD6jpuR3yrLuJskpD0sxhsz1DyRE2FURuwG-sLVUoOZZC0GEQnz64t7V_Ks0mzI_P8TUZfq9hDUpDnUuzi719YMtaHOkMWGAZstzy6tQ/s1600/IMG_6078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="252" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSOXHMwAzaldQ6IKEt58iF3EZRMbtk3Irw77jD6jpuR3yrLuJskpD0sxhsz1DyRE2FURuwG-sLVUoOZZC0GEQnz64t7V_Ks0mzI_P8TUZfq9hDUpDnUuzi719YMtaHOkMWGAZstzy6tQ/s320/IMG_6078.JPG" width="224" /></a>4) A Godson<br />
I became (and still am) close friends with the lady who directed "The Music Man." In fact, we just auditioned together for a show this summer. After knowing her for about a year, she asked me to be the Godfather for her son, which included baptizing him.<br />
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5) The adoption of my son<br />
The first time I announced the adoption was <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2008/12/thats-my-boy.html" target="_blank">here</a>, but I've told many other <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/search/label/adoption?updated-max=2009-02-13T20:12:00-06:00&max-results=20&start=20&by-date=false" target="_blank">stories</a> about his adoption as well. It was a cast member who called us up in October to announce her niece was pregnant and looking to place the baby in a Christian home. It was the director who convinced us to at least talk with the birth mom. It was a member of the quartet (now a professional singer) who's role as Horton in Spring Hill High School's production of "Seussical the Musical" convinced us that "a person's a person, no matter how small"; which we interpreted as a directive to adopt that yet-to-be-born little boy. Finally, it was another connection through Gardner Community Theatre that linked us to the charity that helped us pay for the adoption.<br />
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"All Because of a Flyer in a Walmart Parking Lot"<br />
I believe that might make a great wooden wall plaque like the ones sold in those crafty stores.<br />
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I've done a few shows since that magical summer of 2008, some minor roles in larger productions and larger roles in smaller productions. I've never, however been cast in (or even auditioned for) a role in a production as large as <a href="https://www.theatreinthepark.org/" target="_blank">Theatre in the Park.</a> To quote my friend Franci (also the mother of my godson, pictured above), "there's something magical about the stage at TITP; something special about performing in the outdoor amphitheater, in front of thousands of people, while the sun is setting behind the hill."<br />
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I've experienced that magic many times while sitting on the hill. I can't wait to experience it onstage. Which leads to the pronouncement that I'll be doing exactly that the last two weekends of June, as a cast member of "South Pacific." The role is perfect for me; minimal acting, no dancing and a lot of singing. In fact, I won't even have to change my hairstyle to play the role of a sailor (though I'll have to shave off my very short beard).<br />
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We start rehearsals mid-May and it's gonna be an intense five weeks. I'm pumped, though. Who knows what life-changing relationship could form among this particular cast.<br />
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<br />Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-91564395014358248532018-02-13T21:12:00.000-06:002018-02-13T21:39:55.944-06:00Disciplines for 2018This post first began writing itself in the far corners of my mind back on Friday, Dec 29th. A pastoral couple, clients of mine, got me into a smaller group meeting with Francis Chan. If you're familiar with Francis Chan's speaking and writing, what I'm about to share won't be surprising, but in the middle of his talk, something lit up inside of me. I became fully aware of just how long I'd been coasting, how atrophied I'd become in allowing our present relationship to be based upon a trust in God's unconditional love (not to downplay that realization, mind you) and a somewhat distant memory of intimacy. It was like a pilot light being lit again in a cold and dark basement; the subtle rush of that <i>woosh</i> and the flicker of the small flame betraying the intensity of the heat about to start emanating from a newly renewed source of power.<br />
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Although, to be chronologically accurate, it might be better to describe that afternoon as the final adrenaline kick to a season of renewal that had gotten off to a half-hearted start a few months earlier. Sometime back in November, I started spending about 30 minutes each morning practicing a version of the disciplines laid out in the book, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Miracle-Morning-Writers-Writing-Increases-ebook/dp/B01FWGH4GO/ref=sr_1_1_sspa?ie=UTF8&qid=1518574604&sr=8-1-spons&keywords=Miracle+Morning&psc=1" target="_blank">Miracle Morning.</a></i> Here's a brief overview of that morning routine:<br />
1) 5-15 minutes in silent prayer and meditation. Sitting in meditative pose while repeating breathe prayers; "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me, a sinner" or "I breath in Your love, I breath out Your peace." A focus on God's living presence, a release of tension and worries or as the author described the practice of mediation, "a vacation from your problems."<br />
2) Five minutes of journaling what I'm thankful for and how God has recently used me to serve the Kingdom. In one of those "coincidences" that seem to happen when I'm actively pursuing God, I heard this <a href="https://whchurch.org/sermon/the-secret/" target="_blank">sermon </a>on how thankfulness rewires your brain just as I started this new discipline.<br />
3) Five minutes of positive visualization. I have to say, I still struggle with this. Again, maybe a coincidence, but it helped me work through some really tough and volatile sales transactions. Did the visualization bring the positive outcomes into reality? Likely not. I'm certain, though that the visualization allowed me to stay positive during some highly stressful situations.<br />
4) Affirmations. This is the rather cliche-ish, sales-man-y discipline but, again, the positivity is helping rewire the often-prone-to-negativity brain of mine. I've found myself, when wanting to do the opposite of my affirmations, unconsciously reciting them in my mind, which allowed me to do the kind or difficult thing, despite not feeling like doing so, i.e. turning in that final French paper or apologizing to the mother of my son for a snide remark.<br />
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The "I'm-no-longer-coasting" and "turn-your-face-toward-the-Father" discipline that was catalyzed by the talk from Francis Chan is the discipline I've been practicing in the evening, about an hour or so before going to bed. Again - <i>stop me if you've heard this before</i> - while feeling that renewed passion inside of me but not yet sure how to direct that passion, I heard another sermon from Greg Boyd about the discipline of the <a href="https://whchurch.org/sermon/the-discipline-of-reviewing/" target="_blank">daily review</a>.<br />
I spend 15 minutes each evening reviewing my day, listing out the major events of the day and then writing out my own reaction to those events and my perception of how the Spirit was active in each of them. I'll finish by reading a lectionary passage or two for the upcoming Sunday.<br />
As I write this, it's dawning on me that I'm simply describing a practice of prayer, journaling and Bible reading. Real innovative and profound, I know. Maybe I can make it sound a bit more high-minded by describing it as a version of a daily St. Ignatius Examen. Maybe.<br />
What has me most excited about this, though is how Greg Boyd stated in that sermon that the journaling will provide a historical record of how God's presence has been with me through this current journey. As I wrote about in the <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2017/11/shame.html" target="_blank">shame post</a>, it's been awhile since I've been aware of, or even wanted to be aware of, that Presence.<br />
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There's another discipline I've added at the start of the year, too and it's not really something I enjoy - swimming. A buddy in the office, another agent, convinced me to do the sprint portion of the <a href="http://ultramaxsports.com/races/kctri/" target="_blank">KC Triathlon</a> in May. Running a 5K after 12 miles on a bike shouldn't be too bad and will likely only take about a month's worth of training (or that's what I'm telling myself right now, as I haven't yet started training for that portion of the race) but the swimming might damn near kill me. I've heard drowning is one of the most painful ways to die. While I haven't yet drowned, I have swallowed about half the water in the YMCA lap pool. Thankfully, a lifeguard took pity on me and taught me how to float on my side for a bit, with one arm extended forward, while regaining my breath. I don't care if I finish last but I will make that swim. It's only 500 freakin' meters. In my current state of swimming capacity, however it might as well be 10 miles.<br />
<br />While waiting to find out whether or not I drown, you can get motivated by reading the daily affirmations I tell myself each morning. Or just roll your eyes at the over-the-top positivity, as I'd do were the roles reversed...<br />
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<u>Relationships</u><br />
- I enjoy spending time with God each day, through scripture reading and
mediation/prayer<br />
- I enjoy being present, patient and emotionally available for Dawson;
parenting through choices and not control <br />
- I enjoy being in a stable, healthy, long-term relationship but for now, I’m
okay with being single<br />
- I enjoy being kind to and getting along with my ex-wife<br />
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<u>Service</u><br />
- I enjoy spending time each week serving others by helping at church and spending
time with and helping feed the hungry and homeless<br />
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<u>Enrichment</u><br />
- I enjoy playing the piano consistently<br />
- I enjoy reading consistently<br />
- I enjoy improving my French/working on a degree<br />
- I enjoy writing consistently<br />
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<u>Fitness</u><br />
- I enjoy lifting weights twice a week<br />
- I enjoy weighing 193lbs<br />
- I enjoy making good food choices<br />
- I will swim 500 meters<br />
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<u>Career/Money</u><br />
- I enjoy earning enough money for a comfortable living<br />
- I will sell six listings this year<br />
- I will sell 4 million in 2018<br />
- I will develop a rental property base as a source of income<br />
- I enjoy making my daily contacts<o:p></o:p></div>
Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-50176029717832142662018-01-08T22:28:00.001-06:002018-01-08T22:28:36.813-06:00Two Christmases The holidays have a way of bringing up emotions we thought were buried, or to be even more hopeful, completely gone. <br /><br /> I moved out last December 16th but I had a plan for dealing with Christmas in the new relational state; I hopped a plane and flew to Los Angeles to spend a week with one of my best friends, Michael, who pastors a church in Visalia. If you've never traveled on Christmas, you should know that you can get cheap flights on that day.<br />
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Michael and I have been friends since high school. In fact, we were "called" into ministry at the same Iowa District church camp. After attending both college and seminary together, we moved into our respective ministry positions; Michael a staff position that eventually lead to a couple of different lead pastor roles and (well known if you've read this blog) I moved to Gardner to start a new congregation. The answer to the question, "who do I go visit when my life falls apart"? was obvious; it's my good friend, Michael.<br /><br />It was a great week. Exactly what I needed. We watched bowl games, went to see <i>Rogue One </i>and had some late night conversations. He was okay with me crying a bit as we talked. I also ate so many fresh oranges from a parishioner's orchard that I got a freakin' infection.<br /><br />The best part, though was spending a couple of days hiking through the Sierra Nevada mountains. <br /><br />It was a good week of healing and reconnecting.<br />
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This year, I stayed home, giving me a perfect view of the light snow that fell over KC on Christmas Eve morning. Dawson was with me the evening of the 23rd till the evening of the 24th. We opened presents Christmas Eve morning and then worshiped in the incredible candle light service that <a href="https://cor.org/downtown/sermon-series/joy-rediscover-the-joy-of-christmas#d/sermon/15582/cor_d" target="_blank">Rez Downtown</a> does each year. </div>
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All those emotions of the holidays, they came up during that Christmas Eve service. I just kept running my fingers through Dawson's hair as we sang Christmas carols, letting some happy tears roll down my face. I wrote <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2017/12/redeeming-your-story.html" target="_blank">here</a> about the Christmas Eve service I experienced at Jacob's Well, after dropping off Dawson, which helped me reflect upon all the healing that had happened during the past year. I spent that evening doing my regular Christmas Eve tradition of watching the 1954 version of Dickens' <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0044008/" target="_blank">A Christmas Carol.</a> </i></div>
<br />Christmas Day itself, though was a new tradition for me, I (mostly) spent the day alone. With Dawson with his mom and my family five hours away, I spent the day packing my apartment in preparation for the move I made two days later. I was, though able to make Charles Dickens somewhat proud, by spending a few hours with a group from <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/FreeHotSoupKC/" target="_blank">Free Hot Soup KC</a> bringing food to people living in homeless camps around the city. I found myself wondering the same thing while spending a few hours out in the freezing cold as when watching the scenes in <i>A Christmas Carol</i>, "how do people live outside in this weather?" I really don't understand how they survive. It's also hard to explain how an entire homeless population hides in plain sight, in the middle of the city.<br /><br />I guess I experienced some new realities these past two Christmases. <br /><br /><br />Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-75553101646914440932017-12-25T22:00:00.000-06:002017-12-26T06:57:47.770-06:00Redeeming Your StoryWe all tell ourselves stories; narratives about why the future is going to look a certain way and reasons for why the past turned out the way it did.<br />
<br />
Sometimes our stories take unexpected left turns. Which is why I found myself first fighting back tears, before eventually just letting them flow, while listening to this <a href="http://www.jacobswellchurch.org/sermon/20161224timkeel/" target="_blank">sermon</a> during last year's Christmas Eve service.<br />
<i>Funny, I re-listened to that sermon later and it felt much less direct than it did that night.</i><br />
Pastor Tim talked about Jesus stepping into the story-gone-wrong for the people of Israel and how that act of Incarnation 2,000 years ago is still allowing Jesus to step into, and redeem, our broken stories. I found myself in some serious need of redemption last Christmas Eve.<br />
<br />
The following will be a brief summary of how I've found some of that redemption.<br />
<br />
One way is in reshaping the narrative I tell about myself. For years, I saw myself as <b>The</b> <b>Good Kid. </b> The one who could perform and follow the rules, even when no one else could. If I wanted to keep my scholarship, keep my ordination, keep my social standing, keep my.... I had to follow the rules. And I was good at it. Mostly...<br />
<br />
During the above mentioned Christmas Eve service, I sat next to someone I'd been friends with since high school, attended seminary with her husband and served with in starting a "New Married" Sunday School class way back in the day.<br />
During a college reunion in 2005, she joked to the rest of the group that, back during our church camp days, Donnie (i.e. <b>The Good Kid</b>) was always the only one who, unlike everyone else, didn't have a bunch of sins to confess. Yep, that was me, <b>The Good Kid</b>.<br />
<i>Just as in the other example I'm about to share, she and I talked through that recently because I had to go back and revisit that conversation, over a decade later. While she graciously apologized for making that off-hand comment, the simultaneous pride and shame that her statement birthed in me was all on me, not her.</i><br />
<br />
Ten years previous to that college reunion, exactly ten years to the month, I was sitting in the back of the school bus with a close friend as we were returning home from being the sacrificial lamb to Washington High School's homecoming sacrifice to the football gods (I'll forever be sans a big toenail thanks to the 300 pound lineman I unsuccessfully tried to block during that game). Just like me, this friend grew up in a strong, Christian family. He spent his high school years, however living by a slightly different moral code than did I.<br />
"Donnie, I respect you, man. You're always the one who can be counted on to make the right decision, even when everyone else is going the opposite way."<br />
<br />
Yep, that was me, <b>The Good Kid. </b><br />
<br />
Not surprisingly, he and I revisited that conversation. It happened 21 years later, when coming back from a Royals game. I had to be honest about how that conversation had shaped the identity as <b>The Good Kid</b> but how I'd fairly recently arrived at a different identity, how I'd been able to change that narrative.<br />
The new identity (what was actually true all along) and the narrative I'm trying to live by is that I'm just <b>A Kid</b>. No qualifier or adjective, I'm just <b>A Kid</b>.<br />
<br />
So much freedom to be found in living into a role rather than living by rules.<br />
<br />
<br />
Another part of this story, a recent development that I in no way saw coming, is this new role of helping others who are finding themselves in the midst of their own hard left turn (also known as a divorce).<br />
Within an hour of sharing my first blog post via Facebook, I was overwhelmed by people reaching out to me, sharing their own stories and even asking for advice (as if I really have much good advice to give, other than to share my own experience).<br />
The power to help others redeem their own story isn't found in my amazing advice-giving skills, though but in the simple fact that I'm publicly discussing such a difficult topic. Facebook messages, phone conversations, prayers and counselor recommendations are just some of the activities I've recently found myself engaging in.<br />
<br />
To quote the friend who sat next to me during the Christmas Eve service, "Donnie, it sounds a lot like ministry."<br />
Or a good friend who pastors in Central California, "Don't waste your pain, Donnie."<br />
Or a good friend who pastors up the coast in Northern California, "Donnie, in speaking with a pastoral voice but with a freedom no practicing pastor actually has, you are living into your calling."<br />
<br />
Well, that was a little unexpected, especially when all I wanted to do was write. But I believe that's how God's Incarnation-into-Redemption usually works, it comes as a surprise. A baby? A blog post? Okay... that might be a stretch...<br />
<br />
<br />
I think though, that it could be understood how I felt like this theme of our story being redeemed came, at least somewhat, full-circle when Pastor Tim preached this <a href="http://www.jacobswellchurch.org/sermon/20171203timkeel/" target="_blank">sermon</a> on the first Sunday of Advent about our good and generous God who is writing a good and generous story.<br />
<br />
And it was no stretch at all to feel like things had come full circle last night, when sitting in the same balcony, next to the same friend and preparing to once again light the Christmas Eve candles. Even though it was just less than 24 hours ago, I can't remember anything about Pastor Tim's sermon. I can, however remember the presence of peace in my heart, the acknowledgement of newly earned wisdom in my brain and the new sense in my spirit of how God truly is redeeming my story.<br />
<br />
I gave my friend a hug before leaving and told her it was nice to sit next to her and <i>not</i> cry this Christmas Eve. She agreed.<br />
<br />Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-16486398022359889202017-12-02T09:01:00.000-06:002018-02-01T10:11:02.819-06:00A RewriteSo... I rewrote some stuff. Here's the stupidly naive, ignorant or self-centered thing about it all... I didn't expect to have to do so. I'm not quite sure what all was going on in my brain, but I think that maybe those narratives I shared were so ingrained in my memory that I didn't think about how they'd feel to those closest to Erin. It was stuff that happened. That's it. It was, however, my view on the things that happened. I'm fully aware that other viewpoints exist.<br />
<br />
Another crazy thing is that I shared these posts with quite a few friends before sharing on Facebook. Each friend I shared them with would be someone I'd describe as insightful and honest, most of whom love and care for Erin. Yet none of them challenged me on anything. In fact, some of them thanked me for the attitude with which I wrote the posts. Maybe they were just avoiding conflict . Quite possibly the intention with which I thought I was writing the posts actually came through. Maybe they saw the bigger picture of what I was trying to do and thus didn't think much of the parts that would be labeled as "hurtful." Whatever the reason, we all clearly missed something. For what it's worth, I take some solace (i.e. feel less like an insensitive idiot) that those people missed it.<br />
<br />
Then those closest to Erin read the posts.... that's when the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan. I guess it would suffice to say that they believed me to be forming a narrative that made myself look good by demeaning Erin. Which, surprise, surprise, they believed to be slightly below board (or just downright inexcusable).<br />
<br />
My initial reaction was to be defensive, "of course you have to say that, you're family." Upon further reflection, I decided I needed to listen to their perspective, which means I do two things: 1) apologize and 2) rewrite the parts perceived to be out-of-line.<br />
<br />
Later on, also upon further reflection, a lot of those friends who first didn't see much hurtfulness came back to me and said, "Donnie, I can certainly see how some of what you said could be perceived as hurtful."<br />
<br />
I for sure need to listen to those voices, so I am.<br />
<br />
Years ago, when I was leading a church, I had some difficult conflict. All pastors go through it, but this was my first time handling something of that magnitude. As is often the case, I had no idea it was going to cause such a shit storm, but it sure did.<br />
I had some voices from outside the situation, people for whom I have great respect, telling me, "it's okay, Donnie, you did nothing wrong, stand your ground." So I adopted that siege mentality and stood firm.<br />
Needless to say, that didn't work so well.<br />
<br />
So now I find myself in a similar situation. This time, I'm going to listen much more readily to the voices of dissent, those telling me that what I did was wrong. They can obviously see something in my actions that I was either blind to or intentionally ignoring.<br />
<br />
I can be "right" and alone or gracious and apologetic and stay in relationship with people.<br />
<br />
Two things convinced me, last night, that I needed to make some changes and apologize.<br />
1) I read this quote:<br />
"Behavior which is superficially correct, but is intrinsically corrupt always irritates those who see beneath the surface."<br />
- James Bryant Conant<br />
I think it's quite possible that the former in-laws who are off-the-charts mad at me are able to see some motives in my writing that I'm not consciously aware of (at best) or justifying away (at worst). I'm not able to figure out the answer to that now, but I have listened to them, which means I'm rewriting some stuff and apologizing to them. I took the parts of my story that I shared that they construed as hurtful and unnecessary and rewrote them with a much more neutral narrative.<br />
<br />
2) My mom asked me, on the phone last night, "didn't it occur to you that what you wrote would be hurtful to Erin"?<br />
"No," was my honest answer.<br />
"Had she written similar things about me, it wouldn't have hurt me."<br />
"Well, Donnie, she's a woman, so she feels things differently than you."<br />
"Good point, mom.."<br />
<br />
My mom used to always tell me, as a kid, "if you hurt someone, even if you don't mean to, you have a responsibility to apologize."<br />
<br />
So I'll deal with personal apologies, but take this as my public apology.<br />
<br />
I think that re-writing those hurtful parts allows me to focus upon what the whole point of what my blogging was in the first place, to talk publicly about the taboo topic of Christians and divorce, allowing myself and others to battle the shame that grows in the hiding places.<br />
<br />
A mentor of mine, who prayed for us at our wedding, asked that we'd always remember the nine most important words of a marriage, "I was wrong. I am sorry. Please forgive me." Well, that didn't work out so well for the marriage but I think those words also apply to navigating life after a marriage.<br />
<br />
Causing pain truly wasn't my intent, but it happened, so I've gotta own that. And I've gotta apologize for it.<br />
<br />
So I adopt those words of my mentor as my own, again.Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-10879193841555454092017-12-01T14:16:00.001-06:002018-02-01T10:10:42.890-06:00Public GriefThe ministry partnership that was "Donnie and Erin" touched a lot of people. I sometimes forget, or lose perspective of, just how many people.<br />
Just like how often I forget just how many FB friends I really have.<br />
<br />
So I'm going to process some of the response I received... out loud... publicly... again.<br />
<br />
Here's what I'd like to start by stating, I'm sharing my story, as I experienced it.<br />
Erin has her own story and perspective. If she doesn't publicly write about it, I'd encourage you to ask her share it with you.<br />
I'd think that most people who know both of us would realize the truth likely lies between our two perspectives.<br />
<br />
My former sister-in-laws believe I'm totally in the wrong. My own sister thinks I'm totally in the right. Once again, I'm sure the truth lies in the middle. Of course, all of them experienced the breakdown of the marriage from their own perspective and have processed the grief in their own way, particularly how the divorce impacted their sibling.<br />
<br />
So in a statistical analysis, you throw out the extremes and work for the mean (or something like that).<br />
<br />
I received some polar opposite responses from people for whom I have the utmost respect, people with whom we've ministered in the past. Some thought I was kind and gracious, some were upset that I went too far.<br />
<br />
The vast majority thanked me for sharing honesty and respectfully, including the way I talked about Erin. Though I'll readily admit that majority does not equate to rightness, maybe a lot of them didn't even read everything I wrote. Not all were in agreement, however, some people took particular exception with my sharing what that counselor told me, after the fact, based upon what he'd observed in some pretty intense, open and honest circumstances.<br />
That was an important part of my story and healing. Even so, sharing it did make me nervous and I wasn't sure whether it was right.<br />
<br />
I still don't know whether sharing that was the right thing to do, actually. When I asked the friends who thought I was kind and gracious to re-read it, some of them suggested I take it down, while also affirming they could I understand why I wanted to share it. They all, however agreed they could understand why it upset some people.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLrs4eImWjtIMsVdSOOW4pem3htKfBJNU_oGZT_XxzHm0vk63An170Q6RevsfOsyMdQNdQxx5Q5FW6y9xkeGNGpT6GUPeaBXGEP_0HFJ11zko44ma5TRIL1c7kghlpaIde5qAdx4A9ePA/s1600/2017-12-01+14.09.19.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1139" data-original-width="798" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLrs4eImWjtIMsVdSOOW4pem3htKfBJNU_oGZT_XxzHm0vk63An170Q6RevsfOsyMdQNdQxx5Q5FW6y9xkeGNGpT6GUPeaBXGEP_0HFJ11zko44ma5TRIL1c7kghlpaIde5qAdx4A9ePA/s320/2017-12-01+14.09.19.png" width="224" /></a></div>
That statement was life-giving to me. Sharing it however, was not life-giving to Erin or others. For the meantime, I've taken it down off my blog.<br />
<br />
Is that an apology or admission or guilt? Not sure either are warranted, but I'm open to the possibility that they are.<br />
<br />
I went into that meeting asking the counselor how I could love my ex-wife in a Christ-like way, which, believe it or not, I try to. I try to be forgiving, understanding and let go of some things that are (in my perspective) unjust and hurtful. I believe Erin tries to do the same. We both fail quite regularly.<br />
<br />
Some people were upset that I'd talk about the divorce openly at all. I can also understand that perspective, though I don't agree with it. I don't think it's wrong to process this publicly. I can however, be more careful about sharing certain details and be more self-aware of my motives.<br />
<br />
Erin and I served in a lot of different capacities and touched a lot of lives. Even if we fall out of contact with them, there still exists an emotional connection. Maybe this whole FB drama is allowing our "long-lost friends" to truly grieve the loss of Donnie and Erin's marriage. Or maybe I'm being too sentimental.<br />
<br />
With that said, I never actually meant for it to be an attack on Erin, or working-out-of-our-issues on FB, though many see it that way. Some of the reasons for people coming to that conclusion, I think, are due to a different interpretation than what I was trying to communicate. Another possibility is people seeing something in my words that I'm not able to see for myself.<br />
<br />
Or maybe it's simply some people who care about us pointing out that I'm being a douche-nozzle. Maybe those who thanked me for the content and manner of my writing are wrong. Maybe those upset are correct and I'm just deluding myself...<br />
<br />
<br />Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-14281899896829391632017-12-01T11:01:00.000-06:002018-03-04T21:37:58.485-06:00Why Do We Hide our Shit?Within hours of sharing my first blog entry on FB, I was overwhelmed with the number of people messaging me, in private, thanking me for having the courage to talk openly about divorce and then opening up about their own marital struggles. What struck me, and hurt me, was not only the sheer volume of messages I received, but also the fact that every single person asked me to keep their story confidential.<br />
<br />
Here's something I immediately learned upon receiving all of those messages, We need to trust the grace of other Christians. Not everyone will be safe, but it's worth being hurt by a few to receive the grace that will be offered by the majority.<br />
<br />
Why don't we trust that majority? Maybe it's our own pride keeping us from being vulnerable.<br />
We say "I'm scared of how others will respond" but the deeper reason (the reason which we hide behind) is that we're too proud to share our failures, or too worried about how other people perceive us that we don't want to reveal our struggles. At least, I certainly believe that to be true of myself.<br />
<br />
I'm gonna share a story that I've processed through with several friends and therapists. As the whole point of my public blogging is to overcome the shame I faced and to possibly help others do the same, I'll process publicly something I've already shared with various people.<br />
<div>
<br />
We both had crutches. We all, to be honest, have crutches. Some are more consequential than others. I've talked with quite a few people about a couple of crutches I'm going to describe and I've been given various opinions in regards to how to interpret them. </div>
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<br /></div>
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My first crutch, as I referenced in an earlier blog, was to check out. And I did, check out, about 75% of the time from The Declaration till The Move Out.<br />
When I was checked out, I noticed how many nice looking women my age at church weren't wearing wedding rings and I began to wonder what it would be like to start over.<br />
That wasn't great. Not at all. It certainly didn't help. No, it was a strong contributing factor to le divorce. As I've processed it with some people, they've suggested it was self-defense. Maybe, but self defense isn't always justified.<br />
<br />
The other crutch was an emotional entanglement. It was basically a professional relationship, met on professional terms and with a somewhat professional goal. Maybe the best way to describe it is that we both had a shared interest in linguistic and cultural betterment (is that clinical enough?) I could sense where the line was and felt I only approached it once, in regards to sharing too personal of info.<br />
<br />
But where I truly crossed the line was in using that friendship to cope with what was happening in my marriage. Where I crossed the line was hiding that from my wife (at the time, though I eventually told her). Even though it never became romantic, I used the fact that a smart and attractive lady was interested in my life as a crutch to deal with my pain. Even with no romance being involved, it still felt great to get that attention.<br />
<br />
Here's the ironic part; she never saw it that way as a result of both my subtlety and her being in a different place, relationally, than I was. Which just goes to show how messed up my thinking was at the time, how I was desperately grabbing for anything. Any type of attention feels like cold water when you're emotionally dying of thirst.<br />
<br />
Those were two unhealthy crutches.<br />
<br /></div>
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Worse than any of those crutches, though and what I believe to be the most significant contribution to the end of my marriage was that my heart became calloused. I wrote earlier that from <i>The Declaration</i> till <i>The Move Out</i>, I was only fully engaged for about two full months. Those were the months I felt like the engagement was being reciprocated. Sure, there were many days in which I woke up determined that "today I'm going to love her like I should..." only to give into the emotional resistance that immediately came up between us as soon as we were in the same room. That emotional wall felt stronger than any physical wall. </div>
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<br />
There's so much other shit I could share, but I think this is a good start. Shame loses its power when brought out into the open.<br />
<br />
To quote that insightful prophet, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQ9_TKayu9s" target="_blank">Marshal Mathers</a>, "... cause tonight, I'm cleaning out my closet." Though I think the similarities between my story and that video stop with that quote...<br />
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<br /></div>
Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-23145174362295820012017-11-28T22:40:00.001-06:002017-12-25T21:46:05.706-06:00Paris, encore et encore<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I once spent a year in Paris. It was awesome. It was also hell-on-earth.<br />
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I often summarize the year by stating, "it was simultaneously the best year of my life and the worst year of my life." I wrote all about that year on this <a href="https://millermissioncorps.wordpress.com/">blog</a>, so I won't go into detail about that year. Other than to tell this story.<br />
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It was a beautiful spring day. The day before, Erin and I made plans to take Dawson to school together and then take the train into the city, spending the day together in Paris. In what was a common refrain that year, well intentioned plans fell apart. Neither of us handled this change of plans very well, leading to yet another intense fight. This fight was different than the others, though.<br />
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Somehow we moved from the Hotel de Ville till we were standing in the middle of one of the city's medieval bridges spanning the Seine River. What happened next will forever be seared in my memory. In the middle of a raging argument, time seemed to slow down and I became intensely aware of my surroundings; the feel on my skin of the warm sun combined with the chill in the air, the tourists passing us by and the cold, grey stone which composed the bridge. What struck me most, though was the beauty of the sun's rays dancing on the waves of the Seine. The bridges over the Seine, linking the two sides of Paris, quite possibly one of the most romantic sites in the entire world.<br />
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I don't remember the words but I can feel the intense anger. I can also still hear my own voice inside my head, "well, this is it. Our marriage is going to die right here, standing on a bridge over the Seine in the 'City of Love.'" Maybe it didn't end right then but it was a serious nail in the coffin.<br />
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As I wrote in the first entry in this series, the death of our marriage (an inevitable event?) was sped up during our year in Paris. And yet, as you would notice were you to read a few entries from the blog I linked to above, I thoroughly enjoyed the year in Paris. As someone in our church remarked, "Every street in Paris is an outdoor museum." And I explored as many of those museum-streets as possible. I also tried to take Dawson to every park in the city. We often spent weekends exploring parks in every arrondisement of the city.<br />
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I lead so many groups and individuals around the city, both during that year and later with a collegiate study-abroad program that I finally tried to follow the advice of all those people who told me I should be a Paris tour-guide. Last year, I tried to put together a guided tour of Paris. A lot of people expressed interest and in the midst of receiving all that interest, N decided to join me on the trip. Well, none of those people who said they wanted to go ended up joining the trip, so it ended up being just the two of us; N had her own private tour guide.<br />
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It was an amazing week. We visited the touristy stuff sure but I was also able to show her some of the more hidden gems of that city. To her credit, N convinced me to try some places I hadn't visited during that entire year in the city. We even got to share a meal with some of the people from the church where I'd served as a volunteer pastor.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some Parisian "joi de vivre"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Versailles Church building</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQRpMIJUv-nNUF5y4F5sNRGN04Qh40gRVSd_SwzlYCuXghVO5s74nsxPdvwCAKcwLZX6lEWdSqj3AfRkRhtgBKdklWH4yfTyIcAQfRQG9LolENL1tL9bO_zTT7sxrXJPLNh4MkrAP3s2A/s1600/20170609_084830.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQRpMIJUv-nNUF5y4F5sNRGN04Qh40gRVSd_SwzlYCuXghVO5s74nsxPdvwCAKcwLZX6lEWdSqj3AfRkRhtgBKdklWH4yfTyIcAQfRQG9LolENL1tL9bO_zTT7sxrXJPLNh4MkrAP3s2A/s200/20170609_084830.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Thursday afternoon in June meal</td></tr>
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I was able to share the many aspects I loved about that city with an amazing travel companion. Our last night was spent walking along the Seine, observing the various ways Parisians experienced their joi de vivre in a city full of sensual delights. N turned to me and said, "I wasn't completely sold on Paris the first few days, but now I understand why you love this city so much."<br />
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That statement made my trip. It was wonderful to experience the joys of that city with her.<br />
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As I wrote <a href="https://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2017/11/the-woman-currently-known-as-n.html" target="_blank">earlier,</a> I broke up with her a few weeks later.<br />
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In response to that emotional decision, I decided to take another trip to Paris. I did so in late September/early October. While my trip with N was about exploring the light and beautiful parts of Paris, the solo trip ended up being about exploring the emotional darkness of the city where my marriage fell apart and about facing and reuniting with the congregation we tried to serve while we were there.<br />
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Back in October of 14, when leading the group of college students around Paris, we had the chance to spend a Sunday afternoon in the Versailles Gardens with some close friends. While walking around the basin, feeding ducks and swans, the husband made an off-hand comment about how he can't understand why people can get a divorce.<br />
That was a comment that I shamefully carried with me for years.<br />
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What I'm about to share, though won't be a surprise if you've been reading this blog...<br />
When that couple found out about the divorce, they made a point to tell me that I'm still loved and a part of the church family. I got to spend a wonderful afternoon with that family, an afternoon filled with quiche, wine, good conversation, laughs and grace.<br />
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The church even had a post-worship meal together, welcoming me back. It's hard to put into words how wonderful that felt.<br />
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I also had the chance to spend hours talking with the missionary whom I worked with/for while there. We talked about so much yet I can hardly remember the details. I do know, however that the conversation will likely be remembered as one of the more significant post-divorce healing moments.<br />
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Making the conversation more significant was where Brian met me. He met me at the park outside the apartment where we'd lived. I told him I'd be spending some time there that morning, sitting on a bench, looking at the apartment where Erin first said she wanted a divorce and I eventually came to agree with that decision.<br />
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I had to feel that pain. I had to retrace my steps, immerse myself back into the dark pain caused by the death of my marriage. I had to face that apartment on Rue Parc d'Ardenay. I had to face the congregation I was trying to serve while simultaneously knowing Erin and I weren't going to make it. I had to have an honest conversation with the missionary I'd tried to help for a year while also trying to hide from him just how miserable my life was.<br />
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And I did. I faced it all. The apartment lost its power over me. The church welcomed me with open arms. The missionary helped set me free from some false guilt and unwarranted regrets.<br />
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I did sit on my seat on the plane for the flight home, but I think I might've been able to fly back across the Atlantic with my own wings. The absence of that emotional weight was physically noticeable.<br />
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I still love Paris. I can't wait to go back. Again and again...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXSQ3LMiO1X2ydcpS6RZJwYh5wW2lpuvowXqXFxKBoQQYtu9E_xZOlBF9i0NsK4vL4Xzxq7QA0nkfg1Dvli0V8ling_a68zonFqkJ1E2SzCa9nD6trIY90S62SVcv5-jD_QOEyA49354/s1600/20170930_142144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXSQ3LMiO1X2ydcpS6RZJwYh5wW2lpuvowXqXFxKBoQQYtu9E_xZOlBF9i0NsK4vL4Xzxq7QA0nkfg1Dvli0V8ling_a68zonFqkJ1E2SzCa9nD6trIY90S62SVcv5-jD_QOEyA49354/s200/20170930_142144.jpg" width="112" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV4QvcauFBNkZjouvDtyy3GsmWrlWH81MYiIPO3QGx1g69iBbjQ091aiWSsM-efHZDwAleL44BUVk2P6Sp6o3qFECeRrKJb6DYL8wx6JtrDWD0JZQtU1xujPsr5ycvsgjM46imK-cbYUk/s1600/20170930_182146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV4QvcauFBNkZjouvDtyy3GsmWrlWH81MYiIPO3QGx1g69iBbjQ091aiWSsM-efHZDwAleL44BUVk2P6Sp6o3qFECeRrKJb6DYL8wx6JtrDWD0JZQtU1xujPsr5ycvsgjM46imK-cbYUk/s200/20170930_182146.jpg" width="112" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I just love wandering the streets of Paris</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD7-xhEHkw4TET_sUnNpSGdYwGCbbIpRuFgw63nMhXyUDi9cPiFpjjItM9X1QVcIi4d0_JAooMheVV_99mh_R7VDui5HR9PH6Z4m5dfMMMWPkwN_ilVmPJxDjZkV8CtD-ErXhEkeL6-1M/s1600/20171001_030014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD7-xhEHkw4TET_sUnNpSGdYwGCbbIpRuFgw63nMhXyUDi9cPiFpjjItM9X1QVcIi4d0_JAooMheVV_99mh_R7VDui5HR9PH6Z4m5dfMMMWPkwN_ilVmPJxDjZkV8CtD-ErXhEkeL6-1M/s200/20171001_030014.jpg" width="112" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paris at night, in the rain - a beautiful sight</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAICjo3_VOEdwf81FAbI9YdhQombP4Ry_kTDGmSCfphDR5TAdE464qFhkwLx-kCWKYp_AaTILSvd6seoQv9EXLwEiXWSETjCkp2rVFlHXHtxy0IB-WuaECoaL_9CwGtjQBSEmE_2Mw-lw/s1600/20171001_135849.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAICjo3_VOEdwf81FAbI9YdhQombP4Ry_kTDGmSCfphDR5TAdE464qFhkwLx-kCWKYp_AaTILSvd6seoQv9EXLwEiXWSETjCkp2rVFlHXHtxy0IB-WuaECoaL_9CwGtjQBSEmE_2Mw-lw/s200/20171001_135849.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After our Sunday meal</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPlQRzypqxM2NDvvYkw0dGBJq1fVNKQM7y7cEVCWjPNzHKXS4vmn_EHCVo6aVCm1gwGCjx1DKFbMhp0xjiOJy5_erTawOfNz1qZCHFFEJQatap7B4biEbjVkCwwSPQrYZejxx3BUxwlA0/s1600/20171002_063126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPlQRzypqxM2NDvvYkw0dGBJq1fVNKQM7y7cEVCWjPNzHKXS4vmn_EHCVo6aVCm1gwGCjx1DKFbMhp0xjiOJy5_erTawOfNz1qZCHFFEJQatap7B4biEbjVkCwwSPQrYZejxx3BUxwlA0/s200/20171002_063126.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Les esclaliers de la butte..."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNOf1lKNjSdysNb74aZRKDY-2dJ0b0lnWBSXDN3Ra4ZwV2RgGWmlcZDjqBMFtNNUZAaNoHS7Z2wIrCyLvC84Rtwxdm2soZAKT7gme4r8hC0nyJCGHcuWUhB36gmianLfIiuegHxJ4KY10/s1600/20171002_144709.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNOf1lKNjSdysNb74aZRKDY-2dJ0b0lnWBSXDN3Ra4ZwV2RgGWmlcZDjqBMFtNNUZAaNoHS7Z2wIrCyLvC84Rtwxdm2soZAKT7gme4r8hC0nyJCGHcuWUhB36gmianLfIiuegHxJ4KY10/s200/20171002_144709.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brian Ketchum, AKA "The Missionary"</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIl9mQVs0ZGCkTFPIYbO6f26JM5RKvde-3H5qy_4oCZ1U5OacQyp8apf2WOITt_4baJHDzXN-UJiJiO2AtN2H8Ua7CYeyg1BdYVrfmMoAtkX3PfHQ2hTnrlxaTXuxKdvAnw_IGwyhpjpA/s1600/20171002_065842.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIl9mQVs0ZGCkTFPIYbO6f26JM5RKvde-3H5qy_4oCZ1U5OacQyp8apf2WOITt_4baJHDzXN-UJiJiO2AtN2H8Ua7CYeyg1BdYVrfmMoAtkX3PfHQ2hTnrlxaTXuxKdvAnw_IGwyhpjpA/s200/20171002_065842.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-23792044797457029402017-11-28T14:28:00.003-06:002018-01-19T13:31:13.653-06:00GriefHow do I write this without once again giving into grief?<br />
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Or maybe that's not the right question because I haven't had many moments of grief over the past year.<br />
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But that's not to say I didn't grieve. I grieved. Deeply. Most of that, though happened during the 2.5 years between The Declaration and The Move Out. I already wrote about all the crying I did when <i> The Declaration </i>first happened. I wrote about sobbing in a therapists office, though that happened in other therapists offices, too.<br />
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One Sunday afternoon in October of 15, I was standing at the kitchen sink doing the dishes and listening to one of my favorite musicals, <i>Once. </i>Keep in mind, this was 14 months before <i>The Move Out</i><br />
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Part of me/ Has Died/ And won't return/ And part of me/ Wants to hide/ The part that's burned</div>
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Once, once/ Knew how to talk to you/ Once, once/ But not anymore</div>
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Hear the sirens call me home</div>
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Part of me/ Has vied/ To watch it burn</div>
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And the heart of me/ Has tried/ But look what it's become</div>
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Once, once/ I knew how to look for you</div>
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Once, once/ But that was before</div>
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Once, once/ I would have laid down and died for you</div>
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Once, once/ But not anymore.</div>
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Hear the sirens call me home</div>
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I moved out on a Friday afternoon. I went to Ikea that evening to get some furniture for my new place. The ride home was snowy and as a result of the guy ahead of me losing control of his vehicle, I got into a minor accident. The frustration of that was tempered, though by the fact that I narrowly missed getting t-boned by another out-of-control vehicle.<br />
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The accident could've happened earlier, though as a few minutes before my car slid out of control, it was taking all my effort to simply keep my eyes on the road. It was <i>surprisingly</i> hard to concentrate on the road as I was sobbing, pounding the steering wheel, yelling out F-bombs - all while listening to this song.<br />
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I've only cried a few times since that day, though.<br />
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The most significant was the actual divorce hearing. It took every ounce of strength I had to continue to agree to the things the judge was asking of me and not break down and double over with sobs. In looking at the judge and feeling the people around me, I kept having flashbacks to the face of the pastor who married us and the 300+ people who surrounded us that day. The act of "undoing" my vows was one of the more difficult things I'd ever done. During the walk from the courthouse back to my apartment, though I felt a wave of relief.<br />
I did, though cry myself to sleep that night.<br />
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I still get blindsided by the occasional moment of grief. While it's always unexpected, I can always pinpoint the reason. A movie, a song, something that stirs some sort of emotional memory.<br />
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While we are both still breathing, we experienced a significant and painful death. Not only the death of our marriage but the death of our ideals, our dreams, our expectations of what life would be like and the future we'd always assumed we'd experience.<br />
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Back in 2002, when we first set up our IRA accounts, we put everything in my name because it would be easier. I remember telling stating, "it does't matter whose name the account is in, it's not like we're ever getting a divorce."<br />
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For the record, a divorce decree allows you to transfer money from an IRA tax and penalty free. It's cheaper than a death tax but possibly more painful. Either way, it will leave a scar.<br />
<br />Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-61833842853928419582017-11-28T14:08:00.000-06:002017-12-26T06:58:22.803-06:00IdentityI've seriously considered changing the title of this blog. I already did so once, years ago, when I changed the title from "One Church Planter's Journey" to "One Pastor's Journey."<br />
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Can I still call myself a pastor? What happens to the calling I believe I received as a high school kid when; a) I'm divorced and b) I'm disillusioned with church.<br />
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I don't really know, honestly. I still have a lot of work to do to figure it out.<br />
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I know what I need to <i>stop</i> doing, though and that's referring to myself as a "divorced pastor."<br />
I'm not sure where or if the pastoral label/identity means anything but I for sure need to stop referring to myself as a "divorced dude." Well, except for on dating sites, so the potential matches don't think I'm hiding that I'm married, as I've heard happens...<br />
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I've had two people get up in my face and challenge my use of the label "divorced pastor." One time was from the pastoral couple I mentioned in the <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2017/11/shame.html" target="_blank">"Shame"</a> post, whom have both gone through a divorce themselves, though it was before they became Christ-followers and went into pastoral ministry. I was sitting at an inspection with them, a couple of weeks ago, sharing more about my own journey. Somewhere in that conversation, I referred to myself as a "divorced pastor" in a rather sheepish or even shameful way. The husband got in my face a bit (in a gentle way, of course) and stated, "Stop referring to yourself as a 'divorced pastor.' That's not the summation of who you are. God has so much more for you than that." I believe him, though I don't know what that is yet.<br />
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The other time was during a conversation with an intuitive, wise, direct and smart lady I dated for a short time. Again, somewhere in the conversation, I referred to myself as a "divorced pastor." <i>The fact that I was called out for that twice makes me think I've done it a lot of other times but the other person simply let it slide</i>. She also got in my face, "Donnie, that's not your story. Maybe you'll never stand behind a pulpit again (which I don't believe I ever will, at least not as a permanent role) but God still speaks through you. I can still see 'the anointing' on you (did I mention she's Pentecostal?).<br />
She challenged me to add to my morning list of things for which I'm thankful a list of ways I've served the Kingdom. No act is too small to write down; helping a homeless guy get connected to some housing, helping with kids church on Sunday morning, the "sermon" my boss asked me to re-tell in a training meeting (a little discourse on how "perfect love casts out fear"). I've been doing that. It's a great reminder each day, both of what God has allowed me to do and when I'm starting to slack off a bit.<br />
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Coincidentally, or maybe not, both of these people who got up in my face are a part of the same church.<br />
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A lot of my identity as a "preacher" or "pastor" came from my upbringing. My dad was, admittedly, a bit disappointed that I didn't share his passion for farming. As a self-centered kid, I didn't think about how my lack of interest in farming would hurt my dad. As a dad myself, now I realize I was hurtful to him. In the middle of High School, though I sensed a call into full-time ministry. For a Miller, the next best thing to being a farmer is to be a pastor. My identity or self-esteem began to be built up around the pride my dad (and even my Grandma Miller or Grandpa Tyler) beamed on their faces every time they were in the congregation while I was preaching.<br />
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Obviously, I didn't make it in pastoral ministry. I failed at the two things the most important to my dad; church and marriage. Ironically, I think my dad and I have never been closer. I think the breaking down of these false identities has helped us to connect on a simple, yet profound, father-son level.<br />
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That pastoral identity however, was also pumped up by my home church. Whenever I was visiting, I usually did something up front, whether that was leading in prayer or actually preaching a sermon. Of course, this has stopped as I've worked myself out of a ministry position. <i>I tried different non-traditional ministries until I eventually just turned in my credentials due to inactivity.</i> It took me about 9 months from the divorce until I had the guts to attend my home church while visiting my family.<br />
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I shouldn't have been surprised by the response I received; grace, acceptance and a lot of hugs.<br />
I talked with my parents' pastor after worship and told him how embarrassed I was to show my face and how hard it was to visit. He simply hugged me and said I'd always be a kid of that church and I was always welcome.<br />
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Why did I believe those lies?<br />
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When dating <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2017/11/the-woman-currently-known-as-n.html" target="_blank">N</a>, I talked with her a lot about how hard it was for me to face former congregation members after the divorce. Being Catholic herself, she didn't really understand this Protestant expectation that the pastoral family be a model of everything godly, including having a strong marriage. She kept telling me, "you don't have anything to be sorry for. You didn't owe anyone an apology or anything else."<br />
That was hard for me to accept, though. So I've been slowly going on what I jokingly call my "apology tour." Or maybe "forgiveness tour" is a better label. Whenever I meet with former congregation members, I talk through the divorce and apologize for the pain that it likely caused them. Well, not "likely" caused them because the news of Erin and my divorce hurt a lot of people. <br />
What I've found though, is that the hurt former congregation members or ministry partners were felling was hurt <i>for </i>us and not <i>from </i>us.<br />
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Which just goes to show that my identity is so much more than any type of ministry position. Ultimately, I'm just a kid. That's all I'll ever be. My dad's kid, yes but more importantly, a loved child of my Heavenly Father.<br />
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As I learned from <a href="https://heartconnexion.org/" target="_blank">Breakthrough </a>almost three years ago, "I'm okay. I'm just a kid and that's okay."<br />
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<br />Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-55114601964133596162017-11-27T19:25:00.001-06:002017-12-23T22:36:03.958-06:00Shame"Miller's don't get a divorce."<br />
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We were driving home from an Iowa basketball game on a late December evening. Dawson was sleeping in the back seat. Our family had just returned home after spending a semester working all across Europe. To put it mildly, our marriage was a wreck. On a high-speed train from Paris back to Busingen, Germany, we'd had a fight and there was another declaration of the need to separate. That was the last weekend of October. We'd hardly talked since. The tension between us was palpable. So the topic of my failing marriage was impossible to avoid on that cold and snowy trip back from Iowa City that night.<br />
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Dad was right, of course. Out of the 24 of us Miller cousins, I'm only the second one to get a divorce. I think most family members chalk up that first divorce as a mistake of youth, as she was only married for two years and things seem to be going just fine with her current husband. While delivering the eulogy at my Grandma's funeral back in 2011, I shared the cumulative years of all the Miller cousins' marriages as a shining example of my Grandma's legacy.<br />
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Among the many beliefs I held during the demise of my marriage that I've now found to be completely false, one of them was that I'd be the black sheep of my family; a family full of doctors, pastors, missionaries and all-around wonderful people. The debunking of false beliefs is going to be a common theme of this blog post as is the mind-blowing amount of unexpected grace and acceptance I've received. That's been true of my cousins, too. In fact, while talking through it all with one of my cousins last February, she assured me that we're all broken. Sure, Millers look good on the outside (and generally are really good people) they are also simply much better at hiding their sin than other people.<br />
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The shame of living with a dying marriage, along with the reality of wanting it to die so I could move on, strangled the life out of every single relationship. All the relationships of my life; my friends, my family, my son and, of course, God, were withering on the vine. The shame was all-encompassing and utterly debilitating.<br />
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The shame was earned honestly, though. In addition to the reality that "Millers don't get a divorce," my church upbringing taught me that real Christians never get divorced. "Marriage is hard" is something I heard all too often. While the statement, at face value, is accurate. What's implied is "if you'd simply work a bit harder, the marriage would improve." That's simply not true if both people aren't willing to work at it. "Marriage is hard" means that if you'd just try harder and believe God more, the marriage would improve. And if it doesn't improve, then the mark of true discipleship is to stay in the sick marriage, no matter how much it hurts.<br />
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Is that true? Maybe, I'm not sure. I continually hear Paul's admonition that husbands "love their wives as Christ loved the church." The therapist, however helped me see that there were things happening in our relationship that precluded me from using that verse to beat myself over the head. I had to let go of the shame that my particular interpretation of that Bible verse induced in me.<br />
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For my parents and, I believe, many other people in my church, divorced Christians were viewed as "second-rate Christians". That attitude was tangible in my house. And my parents' 40th wedding anniversary, which was a beautiful celebration, the renewal of vows ceremony being officiated by me, was held up as the pen-ultimate example of both God's blessing in their lives and their commitment to God.<br />
That's a lot of weight to carry with you as you're living in a sick marriage.<br />
To their credit, my parents have since apologize for and repented of that "second rate Christian" attitude they held toward divorced people.<br />
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If marriage is the most significant sign of your love for God, how could I pray to that God when everything inside of me wanted out of the marriage, at least the state into which the marriage had devolved.<br />
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I couldn't pray.<br />
I couldn't read the Bible.<br />
I couldn't sing in church.<br />
It was all I could do to just listen to some Christian podcasts.<br />
The shame was all-encompassing.<br />
Stop me if you've heard this before... the shame was utterly debilitating.<br />
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It was all a lie, too.<br />
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Before learning it was a lie, however, I decided I didn't care if I lost, or significantly damaged, every significant relationship in my life. I was so incredibly miserable I had to make a change. So I found an apartment a block from Dawson's school and moved out of our house on Spruce and into that apartment on Friday, Dec 16th, 2016.<br />
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About a week after I moved out, Dawson and I were showing a house for a buyer-client couple. This couple, who will reappear later in this series of blog posts, are pastors and some of the kindest, most faith-filled people I've ever known. I was, of course, embarrassed to tell them that I was divorcing my wife. I knew I'd be working with them for awhile and wouldn't be able to hide the fact that I was divorcing, so I confessed my situation to them. What happened next was another one of those moments I'll never forget.<br />
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The wife responded with a bit of tears and a sudden sense of serendipity. "I knew it," she gasped. "I was having my prayer time this morning and God brought your face to my mind. I knew something was going on with you."<br />
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Remember that, at this time, I was completely unable to pray. I was separated from God by the wall of shame I'd allowed to build up around me. In that empty house (which took me almost another year to sell), God, through the compassionate faith of that pastor, reached around my wall of shame to gather me in his embrace.<br />
I almost hear an audible voice.<br />
"You're not a fuck-up. You're my son. I love you. You're my boy. And nothing you ever do could change that fact."<br />
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That wall of shame started to crumble that day.<br />
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"Sin separates us from God." A simple statement of Christian belief.<br />
I believe it's the shame of the sinful act, however and not some legal status of the sinful act, that separates us from God. We can't approach God because the voice of shame tells us that a shit-bag such as ourselves has no right to be in God's presence. <br />
Thanks be to God, Jesus dealt with our shame on the cross. He hung naked as he died the type of death given to the terrorists of the day. He took shame upon himself, bore our shame, so that we could be reconciled to the God from whom we were separated as a result of that shame.<br />
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Guilt says, "what I did was wrong." Truthfully, I have plenty of guilt from the sin of divorce. Shame says, "I am wrong." I have no need for shame.<br />
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I've intentionally saved the final part of what my dad told me that night till the end of this post. Immediately after making one of the most shaming statements I'd ever heard, my dad followed that up with quite possibly the most freeing, grace-filled and loving statements I've ever heard. "But whatever you do, son, you'll always be my boy and I'll always love you."<br />
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Months later, hunched over with sobs in a therapists office, the therapist told me to listen to that voice. To ignore the first part but take in the second statement uttered by my dad. "That second part," she declared, "was the voice of your Heavenly Father."<br />
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And so it was.<br />
<br />Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-14871824588164239592017-11-27T17:40:00.003-06:002018-03-24T12:57:53.693-05:00The Woman Currently Known as N<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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A few months after my divorce went final, I was hanging out with some close friends (a part of my "apology tour") when the wife told me that the dad had said, right after I moved out, "give Donnie a month and he'll be dating someone." Well, he wasn't quite accurate. He was off by a day.<br />
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31 days after I moved out of the house I'd shared with my ex-wife, N and I had our first date Like several other first dates, we met under the clock at Union Station and took the KC Streetcar to a coffee shop. The short walk from the front doors of Union Station to the street car platform was enough time for me to realize that this date was going to be different. I think we both fell pretty quickly for the other person's smile.<br />
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In his book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Blink-Power-Thinking-Without/dp/0316010669/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1511751369&sr=8-1&keywords=Blink" target="_blank">"Blink",</a> Malcolm Gladwell asserts that we need to trust our initial, gut instinct. I don't know whether that applies to all areas of life but it certainly applies to dating.<br />
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In one of those unknown contingencies and twists of timing that life throws our way, the date almost didn't happen. N admitted later that she had become quite jaded from dating and wasn't sure she wanted to get her hopes up again only to get disappointed - again. I showed up that early afternoon not sure I wanted to be there either. Just the night before I'd just had a great second date with A, whom I was thinking might be the perfect person for what I thought I needed at the time; a short-term, but enjoyable, post-divorce relationship. Yes, I realize the technical term is a "rebound" but that term feels so derogatory, particularly when used in reference to N. If this was a rebound, and I think it was so much more than that, than it was a rebound due to timing and not the result of character or compatibility.<br />
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<i>Spoiler Alert: another twist of timing precludes this story from having a happy ending, at least as far as the two of us are concerned.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>N and I met on Tinder. When I tell most married people, they seem shocked and think of Tinder as only a hook-up site. Us middle-aged single people know, though that while they are creeps to be found and hook-ups being searched for on Tinder, there are also a lot of normal and even wonderful people looking for a second shot at love. I am kinda surprised N agreed to go out with me, though, considering I'd made fun of her choice in beer and admitted (only half-jokingly) that I was looking for a rebound relationship before we'd even talked on the phone, let alone met in person. Her profile stated she's too tender of a soul for Tinder. And since she lives almost an hour away, had I not super-liked her profile, we might've never met. Oh... those twists of fate.<br />
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It was one of those first dates where your mouth hurts from smiling and your throat is sore from talking (though maybe I was more hoarse, as I'm always the blabber...). When we finally left the coffee shop and took our seats on the street car again (admittedly, sitting much closer together on the ride back than the ride there) we'd both all but verbally acknowledged the obvious chemistry. I eventually gathered the courage to put my arm around her shoulder and made a bold prediction for the newly developing romance, "I'm not totally sure what is going to happen between us but I'm willing to bet it's going to be somewhere between buying matching grave plots and never going out again."<br />
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That's exactly what happened. But so much more than that, too. N helped heal my broken heart. N helped me believe again in the possibility of love between two people, even when those people felt betrayed by their first loves. N is, in fact, the type of person with whom I could purchase matching grave plots. Well, almost that type of person. With the obvious disclaimer that every relationship has challenges, the one which we couldn't overcome was that of timing; we simply met at the wrong time. I just wasn't ready yet for a commitment, even a commitment to someone as wonderful as N. I know now, though that the next time a wonderful woman is standing before me, asking to be in a relationship, I'll be ready to make the commitment (rather than crapping the bed, as I did with N). Maybe I had to mess up my first good thing to be ready for, and more appreciative of, my next good thing.<br />
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Approximately 10 months after our first date, N has once again taken the risk to be vulnerable and is happily dating someone with whom she believes she truly does have a permanent future. As you might've guessed, though that person isn't me.<br />
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Yes, that does hurt. But it's my own fault. And despite the regret, I believe it's for the best. You can't marry your rebound, right? At least, that's what a lot of voices were telling me, voices of people who care about me. Not all the voices speaking into my life, though. In particular, my parents and sister were encouraging me to stay with N because they loved her. In retrospect, though I probably would've driven myself crazy wondering whether I'd committed too soon. Now I just drive myself crazy wondering when I'll find someone else as great as N. I know I will, though, there are other great people out there. It's just a matter of searching till you find them.<br />
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The more I fell for N, the more worried I became that I'd end up hurting her. While I was able to talk with some other friends about that fear, I lacked the guts to talk with her about it (one of the many things I learned from dating her and that I plan to improve upon in my next relationship). One of my friends, another pastor who has gone through a divorce, told me that the worst-case scenario was that I'd raise the bar for her, dating-wise. N told me that she'd never been in a relationship with a nice guy, one who was honest and treated her well. After we broke up, N thanked me for, indeed, raising the bar.<br />
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I broke up with her about three weeks after we got back from Paris. Planning a trip together was a way to make a short-term but solid commitment. The week in Paris was an incredibly fun and deeply significant week for me (though getting the full effect required a second trip on my own, which I'll write about later) When we got home, though, I started staring down the rest of my life. So I broke up with her. I panicked. She didn't see it coming and it hurt her. It hurt me, too. I cried for a week and lost my appetite for awhile (which was a convenient jump-start to the training program I went on last summer).<br />
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You know what? That's understandable. I can forgive myself for that one. What I have trouble forgiving myself for is that, about two months later, I hurt her again. I don't have the energy to share all the details of the emotional ups-and-downs over those two months, but in yet another twist of timing (where her timeline of making a decision and my timeline didn't align), I basically broke up with her a second time. Man, was that a shitty thing to do.<br />
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So shitty, in fact, I realized I needed to go talk through it with a professional, which I did. I came to some realizations, but it was too little too late. N eventually decided, rightfully so, that whatever on-again/off-again thing was happening between us needed to stop. <br />
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The irony of it all is that the things I believed would happen to her, happened to me as well. My heart was broken (though it was ultimately my own doing) and my own relational bar was raised. In response to a podcast I've listened to several times as well as my time dating N, I've developed a list of "non-negotiables" and the "would-really-like-to-haves" I'll be looking for in my next long-term dating relationship.<br />
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I mentioned in my first blog entry, <a href="https://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2017/11/le-divorce.html" target="_blank">Le divorce</a>, that a recent event had finally given me the motivation and inspiration to start writing again. That event was simple yet profound, it was N texting me to wish me a "Happy Thanksgiving." Our short catch-up conversation, while nice and friendly, brought up some emotions I needed to deal with. When dealing with the emotions surrounding N, I realized I should go ahead and face some other emotions, too.<br />
<br />
N shared two wonderful gifts with me, things I hadn't experienced for years.<br />
1) Hope that I'll find love <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cMPEd8m79Hw" target="_blank">again</a>. Or maybe even better than hope, a confidence that a second chance at love is a high probability. I'm not throwing my hands up in resignation nor resigning to cynicism. I'm actually going to keep trying. Even if it means risking more broken hearts. I have too much to offer to someone and there are too many other wonderful people out there for me to give up on the hope of finding love again. Or, better yet the confidence that it will, in fact, happen.<br />
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2) Forgiveness. I didn't deserve her forgiveness, considering how I hurt her, but she offered it to me anyway. She didn't just say the words, though she actually released me as the recipient of her justified anger and resentment. I think it was our short exchange over Thanksgiving that helped me realize she's truly forgiven me.<br />
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And truly moved on.<br />
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As I also move on, I'll take with me the gifts she shared with me.<br />
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<br />Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7757580695372258593.post-3981106995354824262017-11-26T19:24:00.002-06:002018-05-18T11:32:31.442-05:00Le divorce<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">This another
rewrite, another edited version of the story I’ve felt compelled to share,
another attempt to respectfully, yet honestly.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">19
Parc d'Ardeny, Palaiseau, FR 91120</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Our apartment living
room</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">May of 2014</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"I want a
divorce."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">That statement rocked my
world but it wasn't really a surprise. Things had been bad for
years. In fact, there is family a picture (which I’ve since taken down) at
our son’s first birthday party in February of 2010, which I believe to be beginning
of the end. We had happy moments after
that point and some moments of hope, but that’s when things started their inevitable
descent toward divorce. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">During that spring of
2010, things started to change and by the time some formal family pictures was
taken in June of 2010, I knew things weren't right, though I had no idea just
how bad things would get. My mom told me years later that she sensed the
change in 2010 also, prompting her to start praying fervently for us.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">In July of 2013, we
packed up our belongings (or sold a lot of them) and moved to France to spend a
year as <a href="http://donniemiller.blogspot.com/2012/12/with-year-of-waiting-in-past-next-up-is.html"><span style="color: blue;">Mission Corps Volunteers. </span></a> I had high
hopes that this year in Paris, helping with a church, living in the "City
of Love" and being removed from the pressures of every-day life at home
would be the exact remedy our struggling relationship needed. The
opposite is what actually happened, though. Being removed from the
relational support of family and friends (and, to be honest, the distractions
as well) actually served to speed-up the disintegration process. With
both hindsight and the knowledge of how much better life is now, that
speeding-up process was actually beneficial.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I’ve received some many opinions regarding the different levels of
disclosure I’ve made on this blog but I still believe this paragraph below,
which I wrote at the very first, to be true. </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">This is probably the
time to state that out of respect for my ex-wife, whom I believe to be a
good-hearted person and for whom I wish only the best (boy, that sounds trite,
but it's true), I'm not going to share the details or causes of why our
marriage died. I do however, want to share the agony I experienced over the
last few horrible years of a sick and dying marriage. I'm going to share
the shame, grace and personal growth that I've experienced thee past few years
via a series of blog posts.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Though I didn't actually
move out until December of 16, the fate of our marriage was all but sealed that
night back in May of 14. We spent the rest of that week not talking
(which was to become a common occurrence as we tried to co-parent and live
separate lives while legally still married and occupying the same residence)
and I went into Dawson's room every night that week, praying over him and
crying tears of shame and guilt that my son was going to have divorced parents.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">By the end of the week,
however two realizations dawned on me:</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">1) A lot of people whom
I know and respect, people who truly love God, have gone through
divorces. Even this guy...</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNoKha7mMalNVnmvFh-LYXNhZRJSFp4YPLITKhvjkDe0AVD0xQcsiLh25H1AyIwwCm-JcnMBqrQxOcBodj5i4T8qJK6VJIw_wFd1tkO5wy30C-K4eDFP480tVSit32RV-oan0E7KWXKZ8/s1600/John_Wesley_by_William_Hamilton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNoKha7mMalNVnmvFh-LYXNhZRJSFp4YPLITKhvjkDe0AVD0xQcsiLh25H1AyIwwCm-JcnMBqrQxOcBodj5i4T8qJK6VJIw_wFd1tkO5wy30C-K4eDFP480tVSit32RV-oan0E7KWXKZ8/s1600/John_Wesley_by_William_Hamilton.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Wesley sucked as a huband</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">2) A divorce and a fresh
start might not be all bad.</span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">From the time my ex
asked for a divorce (and I mentally assented to it, so it really was a two-way decision)
till the time I actually moved out, we had two good months. Those good
months didn't last though, because the destructive habits reared their ugly
heads and strangled the remaining life out of our marriage. Those two good
months I mentioned were September of 14 (right when we moved back to <a href="https://millermissioncorps.wordpress.com/2014/09/18/europe-again/"><span style="color: blue;">Europe</span></a>), a couple of weeks in February of 16 and
about a week in May of 15.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Why did it take so long
until we finally called it quits? While I can't speak for both of us, I'd
say it was two major factors; shame and hope. The hope was stubborn;
"maybe things will turn around?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The shame was
debilitating; "God, family, friends, when they know, they're all going to
hate me and disown me." I'm going to do an entire post on shame
later on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">About 75% of the 2.5
years from The Declaration till The Move Out were spent just existing,
clinging to some vague hope that things would turn around. There were a
few seasons of mildly sustained effort, though, like the few weeks in the
spring of 16 that we spent going through <a href="https://heartconnexion.org/"><span style="color: blue;">Breakthrough. </span></a>
Going into that, I stated that I felt like it was a last attempt to save our
marriage. For a couple of weeks, the save appeared to have taken
place. A couple weeks later, however the emotional high wore off and I
realized the patterns hadn't really changed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I had the sense, in June
of 15 when I could tell Breakthrough hadn't changed anything for us, that
weren't going to make it, but we stayed in the marriage another 18 months.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I'll admit, it was
incredibly easy to escape into a fantasy of what the next relationship might be
like. The counselor whom I visited often on my own and sometimes together,
warned me that real life could never compete with a fantasy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">That fantasy was fueled
however, by the fact that I'd noticed Christians who had gone through a divorce
and came out stronger with healthier second marriages. So at one of our
last sessions, in August of 16, I asked the counselor (a Christian who has
herself gone through a divorce) why she and I were wasting our time when we
could on and find someone else whom we'd get along with better. The
counselor responded with something I'll never forget, "You're not wasting
time. You're spending time. If your marriage doesn't survive, you
won't look back at these difficult years with regret and label them wasted time
but rather with satisfaction and peace, labeling them years
well-spent." Was she ever right. The several years of the
downward cycle that lead up to The </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 18px;">Declaration</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> were difficult. The years
spent between The Declaration and The Move Out were relational hell-on-earth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">While it's impossible to
know all future contingencies, when I moved out last December, I did so with a
broken heart but also a heart full of peace and relief. She actually
thanked me later for having the courage to do what we'd both been wanting.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">It did, however, take me
five days to have the courage to call my dad on the phone. As I was
sitting on the floor of my apartment, finally having a phone conversation with
my dad, I was surrounded by piles of things I still needed to put away and was
bawling my eyes out. My dad hurt with me. My dad, whom I was almost too
ashamed to talk to, offered his own love and acceptance. He even offered
the acknowledgment that he didn't understand why this happened to us nor that
he really knew what to say. He simply offered his assurance of his love
for me, along with his knowledge of God’ unwavering love for me as well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">It's hard to understate
the significance of a statement like that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">That reassurance came
from a man who views marriage as the ultimate expression of our love for and
commitment to God. That reassurance came from a man who loved Erin like a
daughter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">They were years spent,
not years wasted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I finally have the
courage and motivation to start writing about all of this. I think I know
what prompted this desire to write but I'm not actually comfortable sharing
that yet.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I've been needing to
write for a long time, though.</span><br />
<h4>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt; font-weight: normal;">I have a pastor friend
who walked through the difficult, death-of-the-marriage years with me. At
a Bible study about two weeks after I moved out, I was explaining to him how
much better I felt and how my fears of everyone abandoning me (God included)
were simply not true. He then told, me, " "You need to write
this out so you can share with other people going through similar
struggles." I wasn't ready back them to start writing but about a
year later, I'm ready to do so. This is the first of several blog entries
in which I'm publicly going to bear my soul, think through some past events and
try to find some healing.</span></h4>
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Donnie Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03437566838246911098noreply@blogger.com2