To My Teacher. To My Friend.

My middle school had one hall. A single corridor lined with classrooms on each side. Each year you moved down a little further in the hall until you one day reached the door at the opposite end...and you graduated. I began the journey with the first door on the left--Miss Gotzian’s. Over the course of 4 years, I made it from one end to the next. And each year I grew a little taller and a little deeper, and I saw my perspective change with the subsequent Fall. At that age, so much changes each year, and everything seems so much bigger than it is, which makes it exciting, and dramatic, and sometimes scary. You’re sure a football championship is the greatest accomplishment you will ever have and a break-up is the end of the world. Our guides at these crucial moments provide us with stability and comfort, and we are shaped in these moments by their advice and their presence. Miss Gotzian was one of my rocks through these moments and she would never cease to be that foundation. I moved down that hall each year, which put me farther and farther from her room as the seasons passed. When I graduated, I moved yet farther away from it. High school, college, and beyond saw me move farther and farther away. But in actuality, I was never far from Miss Gotzian’s room.

16 years later, I am still not far from that room.

The truth is, each year that I grow older and move farther away, the lessons I learned there make a little more sense, the place becomes a bit more sacred, and my respect and love for the teacher whose presence made it what it was, grows thicker.

Something happens within those four walls that never leaves those who were shaped within them. We never saw the world the same way after we left. This was her intention.

Years before I ever set foot in that classroom, two of my cousins had been taught by Miss Gotzian. She also knew my dad for years. She was considered a family friend. When I finally reached that room, she told me something that I still remember very clearly. She said, ‘I have heard so much about you from your cousins, and I have watched you come up through this school. I have been waiting for you.” That was the beginning of our bond. She became my teacher that year, and in the years that followed, she would become one of the best friends I will ever have.

When I got to high school, Miss Gotzian insisted that I no longer call her by her formal name. I cannot tell you how difficult this was. I simply couldn’t do it for years. Eventually, I was able to address her with the name she preferred, but it was only after many loud scoldings (from her) and many apologies (from me). So from this point on, I will refer to my friend, as Jill.

I have always found it difficult to define our relationship. When I said I was going to see Jill, people would ask me who that is. I never quite figured out how to answer that question. I would usually begin by saying that she was my 5th grade teacher. But that always felt far too surface, so I would say that she was a family friend. But again, that didn’t do it justice, so after a long explanation full of comparisons and analogies, I would just say, “She is one of my best friends.”

I understand that people don’t normally have such close friends with 26 years between their ages, but that is just one of the many reasons why our friendship was so special, so unique, and so powerful.

Through my middle school years, I probably spent an equal amount of time in her classroom as I did in the actual room I was supposed to be in. My best friend, Paul, and I would spend most of our time devising methods/schemes to get out of class in those years, and when we got out of class, we always went to the same place. It’s not like Jill stopped teaching when we came by and interrupted her class; we would just become part of it. We would talk with her as she was teaching. We would help her teach. We would find anything to do to try and justify being there. As I said earlier, there was something special about that room. We were drawn there.

In high school, I would make regular trips to her classroom after school. Always unannounced. I would just walk in and take a seat on top of the desk that faced hers, and she would always stop whatever grading or planning she was working on to listen to whatever I needed to say. From dating advice to coming to terms with death, with Jill, there was nothing that you couldn’t talk about. She would listen no matter how silly, serious, or personal. As anyone who has ever truly talked with her would testify to, she had little to no filter on what she would say, and that rubbed off on you. And this leads to one of the things I came to love about her most. When you come to someone with a problem or complex situation that doesn’t have a clear-cut answer, people are often hesitant to offer an opinion. Jill was not one of these people. Jill always gave her opinion. And it was a strong opinion. Her voice convinced you that her words were wise. You never left her company without knowing how she felt. That may be the single greatest quality I will miss about her. She was always friend enough to tell it to you straight. And there were many times that she told me opinions that I did not want to hear...but I heard them. I heard them and trusted. Jill had all my trust.

I craved her honesty.

Everyone remembers her booming voice that you could hear from the hall well before you stepped foot in her classroom. She spoke so loudly, almost yelling, like she was making sure that each word was heard and valued, but she didn’t need to; we were listening. We were always listening.

In college, when life moments happened, or critical decisions had to be made, or if I just needed centering, I would once again find myself in her classroom, sitting on the that same desk that I had been pouring my heart out from for 10 years. One day I stopped by and she was getting ready to teach a grammar lesson. We were talking before her class started and she said, “Why don’t you teach this one?” I was hesitant for a moment, but in true Jill form, she insisted, and I taught it. That was the first lesson I ever taught. As I think about it now, what a fitting place.

All teachers are influenced by those who taught them. Jill was always proud of the fact that so many of her students became teachers, and she always pointed out that they were good teachers. On more than more occasion, she said to me, “You know Zack, I could put one heck of a school together with my students who are teaching now.” And she was right. While I can’t speak for the others, I feel confident that because they are a product of JIll, they must teach with the same values she infused in us. Jill taught me how to use the curriculum and the position to also teach what we felt was truly important: Life. Within her daily courses, the undertones were rich. They were what shaped us. She taught us what true strength is. True Strength. The kind that kept her fighting a merciless disease for years that that would confine her to a scooter and severely limit the usage of her arms. True Strength. The kind that you would have to possess to listen to other people complain about their problems while you battle this...and not just listen, but truly care. Those of you reading this that knew her know exactly what I am talking about. She taught us to serve, to treat people they way they deserved to be treated, to be honest, to live with integrity, to guide, to listen, to have faith, and how to yell with love.

She also taught us how to be humble and to do two of the most difficult things a human can do: ask for help and accept the help that others offer.

She taught us that it is ok for a teacher to tell her students that she cares about them, and if they won’t listen, or can’t understand it yet, to show them.

She had such a message. Some of us became teachers to continue the message. She delivered it to us, and just to make sure we understood it, she lived it out right in front of us each and every day. We all saw it, for some of us it hit home harder than others, but we all received her grace.

And some of us understood that we had a responsibility to ensure that the message and lessons not only made it outside of her classroom--we had the honor of making sure that they found their way into new classrooms. We had the desire to inspire our students and hope that some would hear the message as clearly as we did, and that we would be able to take on the greatest responsibility--inspiring the next generation of teachers to carry on her legacy.

At her funeral, hundreds of students made a pilgrimage back to Miss Gotzian to pay their respects, to say thank you. We were asked to stand up and identify ourselves. So we stood for everyone to see. We stood for her values. We stood for her hours of service. We stood for her voice. We stood for her opinions. We stood for her steadfast belief in God. We stood to acknowledge that we were there, that we had heard, that we are walking in her likeness as a result of her belief in us. We stood because we knew she would do the same for us. We stood for Miss Gotzian.

And some of us also had the privilege of standing for “Jill”.


I found out Jill was in the hospital late at night last week. The next morning I had planned to teach chapter 5 of The Outsiders, a novel taught to me by JIll 16 years ago, and one we have deeply discussed together in the years since. The theme of my lesson was being a ‘real’ person. With a heavy heart, I taught it, and I taught about my teacher, my mentor, my friend, and one of the most ‘real’ people of my life. I told my class about JIll and the influence she had on me and the immense part she played in the fact that I was standing before them. I told them one of my favorite stories about her. I cried in front of them. And just as JIll did for all those years, I showed them that it is ok to feel. It is ok to be real.

I dismissed my class and thought about JIll and all that I had gained from her. And as is natural, I thought about all that I had lost: One of my first calls in triumphs and tribulations, a rock, a voice, an ear, an opinion, a mentor, someone to put me in my place, the constant reminder of the impact one person can have on so many, and the reminder that a teacher’s bond with his or her students does not stop at the door and does not end in June.

I sat at my desk in an empty classroom for some time, unable to move, frozen by nostalgia. That’s when a student walked in and handed me a folded, handmade card. I opened it, and at the top it said, “Mr. Cunningham, I am so sorry for the loss of your teacher and friend.”

And at the bottom of the page, in the most simple of sentences, I received the greatest compliment and challenge of my life.

“You are my Miss Gotzian.”

Your lessons will continue to be taught Jill. We will deliver them for you. We don’t have your voice, but we have your words.




Please feel free to send this to anyone you know who knew Jill Gotzian. Her message needs to continue to be shared.

The Last Generation

I was nostalgically referring to the old days with my class recently. No doubt using what has become one of my signature lines, “Back in the day...” (My students recognize the irony of their 27 year old teacher saying this on such a regular basis, which leads to a chuckle each time I utter it.) And during one of these rants, I was asked,

“What was so great about the era that you grew up in?”

It was a solid question, and this is one of the reasons I love teaching so much; you never know when you are going to get asked a question that will invade your thoughts for days. You are constantly caused to challenge everything you say in order to present accurate information. More simply put, you have to be able to back up your words and your opinions.

So what did make my generation so great? The more I thought about it, the more pride and appreciation I felt toward the the era in which I grew up.

It’s hard to argue that “The Greatest Generation” wasn’t the greatest generation. And from my perspective, it’s hard to beat “The Baby Boomer Generation” as the most interesting time to be alive, but there is something special about my era.

Every generation has its unique identity. This identity is influenced by so many factors. Some are as obvious as a war and some are as subtle as a song on the radio. A culture is created through these happenings. Eventually each generation has its trademark moment, it’s historical references, it’s music, prominent figures, etc.

And each has its own childhood.

During the days I was pondering this question, I found myself discussing the issues facing today’s students with a colleague. We were talking about and how much more serious these issues are when compared to those common in our own eras.

Today’s youth are some of the most interesting people you will ever meet. I am fascinated by them each and every day. There are so many levels to them. They are an incredibly complicated generation. They are deep thinkers who are given so much to think about, perhaps too much. They have information everywhere they look. Material is being presented to them at an astonishing rate.

They may not always know a lot about something, but they know something about a lot. They are easily the most informed generation with the answer to any question literally at their fingertips.

They are also the first generation to be robbed of their innocence by the internet.

They are the first generation to have the answers before the questions. What I mean by this is that we grew up ‘living’ and experiencing until a catalyst of some sort piqued our interest. Eventually, we came across something we didn’t understand. We had a question that couldn’t be answered, and then we asked. And if the question wasn’t organically provoked by circumstance, we didn’t ask the question. It was as simple as that. We acquired information as we needed it and at a natural, manageable rate. Today’s children are presented information rather than seeking it out, and they can stumble upon it by a simple click of a blue word.

Technology has made them an intriguing, exceptional, and contradictory group of people.

They are the greatest masters of communication in history. They are also the greatest failures of communication. In many ways, they are more mature at their age than anyone else in history while also being the least mature in just as many ways.

During this conversation with my colleague, we tried to pinpoint the difference between this generation and the previous ones. We also compared our own. Though a significant age gap existed between our generations, we had a great deal of similarities. We eventually came to the conclusion that my generation’s childhood was the end of an era, and like many generations, it is one of lasts. We were the last kids to grow up in a world where you could play football and hockey in the streets until the sun set, and then when it became too dark, could turn on flashlights and play tag into the night (‘Scorch’, as we called it). We were the last generation to knock on doors in the neighborhood to round up enough people to play games. We were the last to have entire neighborhoods as playgrounds. We still built forts in abandoned lots. We heard our parents call for dinner from the front porch.

We were the last generation to have all walked into schools without metal detectors. We still looked forward to a line-up of four good natured T.V. shows on Friday nights as the signature event of the week. We were the last to answer phone calls without knowing who was calling, to not be able to get a hold of someone directly, and to call a girl’s house and have to ask if so-and-so is available. We were the last to grow up and not be able to check where everyone is at any given time. We were the last to memorize phone numbers. We were the last to have to make detailed plans to meet up with a group and not be able to just call someone when you couldn’t find the meeting point or were running late.

We wrote notes the night before school and folded them perfectly and then had to wait until the morning to deliver them. And we even did it face to face (most of the time). We were the last to have blank cassette tapes ready to record music off the radio. We were the last to make mixed tapes. We were the last to go to drive-in movie theatres and theatres that weren’t in malls.

We were the last to have to ask another person questions about puberty and sex. We were the last to have to call friends or wait until school the next day if we forgot what our homework assignment was. We were the last to write papers longhand. We were the last to assume our parents would give the final word to the teacher. We were the last to depend on our parents and older siblings’ CD collection for music. We were the last to buy CD’s at a store, and for that matter, the last to have to own a song to listen to it. We were the last to have cords attached to controllers and computers that weren’t portable. We were the last to live in houses that didn’t have a computer at all. We were the last to use VCR’s and not be able to watch a T.V. show on our time schedule. We were the last to have to wait to tell someone something. We were the last to see a paperboy. We were the last to depend on our parents and trusted friends for answers. And we were the last to take someone’s word for it.

Kids today have so many advantages brought about by advancements in technology. I can no longer imagine living in a world without the internet. It is such a vital part of my daily life, but I feel lucky to have lived in a world before it, if for no other reason than to be able to compare the two worlds. But it is much more than that. I feel lucky because of all the things I didn’t have to do. I didn’t have to express and interpret emotions in emoticons. I didn’t have to wade through, or surf, through the internet at such a vulnerable age. I didn’t have to worry about being bullied even when no one was in sight. I didn’t have to learn at such a young age how few people can really be trusted fully. And I didn’t have to ask questions after getting answers.

And I could just play without having to feel like I was missing out on something--like the world was going on without me online.

People will always be owned by possessions, but now we are owned by a need to know and be in the know. We are owned by our fear of missing something.

Furthermore, technology has taken a complicated world and made it sophisticatedly complicated. It also made it possible to inflict harm in crueller and more sinister ways. Schoolyard fights were largely on the way out by the time I hit school, and I am not an advocate for physical violence by any means. However, which is worse: a fight on the playground or a public slandering on the web?

So many of the issues today have ties to technology, and specifically the internet. We give kids all the information and technology to be independent and mature, and we give them all the tools to communicate in such a manner, but we often fail to teach them how to communicate. Technology progressed and progressed and it all happened faster than parenting, teaching, and even the law could keep up with. We made a world that allows kids to talk incredibly easily and preferably without seeing each other. We put to rest the hallmarks of our own childhood for the sake of progress. Somewhere along the way it was forgotten that you can’t rush youth, and you shouldn’t try.


I grew up in the last generation before the internet-- a time when you had to talk to people landline to landline, paper note to paper note, face to face.

I grew up in the era before the world changed forever. Every generation remembers their own childhood to be a simpler, not easier, but simpler time than the one that follows, but that may never be truer than in this case.


I grew up in the last generation without all the answers.

…and that just may be the answer right there.





Note: In the coffee shop right now as I write this: 20 people, 7 exposed phones, 2 audible Facebook conversations, a couple next to me who has not spoken a word to each other in 25 minutes as they both thumb through their phones, and my favorite quote: “I just don’t understand what Susan means by this post.”

;)

My Best Self (Being alone in a crowded room)

I recommend listening to this song while reading this post.





A good friend of mine recently brought up the idea of being your ‘best self’. I’ve sort of been hooked on that concept in the days since.

What is our best self?

The idea inherently suggests that we have a self that we do not consider our best. A self that perhaps we are not proud of, or maybe one that we are not as comfortable with. Why does this self make us uncomfortable? Is it an issue of perception and subsequent judgment? Is it this judgment that we are uncomfortable with or even fear? Is it the specific people who are judging? While thinking about it, it is probably important to recognize that the initial judgment is our own, for we judge which self we are or were at the time--our best, or the person who is beneath that.

So this ‘best self’ of mine. Who is he? Is he the one that is confident? Is he the one that is outgoing? Is he the funny one? The one that other people like to be around? The winner? The one who sounds smart, or says the right things at the right time? The one who knows when to say nothing and listen? If I manage to embody any of these qualities, does that put me at my best?


I was at a cocktail party recently and while at a table seemingly involved in conversation with others, I couldn’t take my eyes off a man in the room. He walked around. That’s what he did. He walked around, never stopping, fearful that someone might notice that he was with no one. He shifted his hands from his pockets to his side and back to his pockets, in a subconscious routine. He walked with an over-exaggerated purpose, and I watched. I watched because I knew exactly what he was feeling, as I have been there countless times. So I sat at my table occasionally dropping a one-liner to appear engaged, but I couldn’t stop watching this man, alone in a crowded room.

Eventually, I lost track of him.

But I looked for him still, hoping that he had found his niche, but knowing that he most likely excused himself from the party.

It all reminded me of a novel I read, in which the author wrote of the evolution of communication. She divided the growth into ages. One she called “The Age of silence”. In it, she spoke of moments like this, the moments in which we feel uncomfortable. She called upon the reader to think about their hands in those situations and how we never know what to do with them, how they feel as though they are foreign to us. She suggested that this was our hands remembering an age before spoken communication. How they are longing to communicate, but we simply don’t know how to use this tool or perform this act anymore. We have evolved past it, but we still occasionally get caught between that and, well, words.

Maybe we evolved too far, or maybe we just think too much. We want to find the right words at the right time. We want to be our best self.

Again, who is my best self?

He is the guy who is honest. He gets uncomfortable at times, but he recognizes it, and he recognizes that others do too. He doesn’t second guess himself because he doesn’t need to if he is genuine and authentic, and he knows that if he is being either of these things, then he is being himself. That is the best self. The honest one.




“If at large gatherings or parties, or around people with whom you feel distant, your hands sometimes hang awkwardly at the ends of your arms - and you find yourself at a loss for what do with them, overcome with sadness that comes when you recognize the foreignness of your own body - it's because your hands remember a time when the division between mind and body, brain and heart, what's inside and what's outside, was so much less. ”
― Nicole Krauss, The History of Love


“When will you learn that there isn’t a word for everything?”
― Nicole Krauss, The History of Love


“Holding hands, for example, is a way to remember how it feels to say nothing together.”
― Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

It is. I am.

I was heading home from an aimless jaunt into the city center around an hour after sunset when I met two men. They introduced themselves, and we began to talk. We probably talked for a couple hours. I’m not really sure. It was one of those conversations I have come to treasure--the ones that fade the relevancy of time. When I got home, I just couldn’t shake two of the questions I’d been asked.


“How big is your community?”
“Where?” I asked
“Back home.”
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by this. A slideshow of people ran through my mind, ranging from family, friends, students, colleagues, neighbors, baristas, and so on. I could make a case for all of these people being part of my community. I sought clarification.
“Whatcha mean?”
“Your community. Who is in it?” He responded.
This did very little to clear up my confusion. “Well, my community is very large. I’m not sure how to answer the question.” He looked at me the way an old professor looks at a new class of out-of-touch, naive freshmen and said, “Your community. Not everyone around you. The ones that get you. The ones that know who you really are. The ones you could go to at any time for anything. The ones you choose to spend your time with. The ones you keep closely updated on your life. The ones you see often enough to nearly call family.”
“Oh, ok. Let me think about it for a second.”
I took the lump sum of people from my earlier grouping and began to shrink that number--boiling water down to salt. I was thinking for about 30 seconds when he interrupted me and said, “This is taking too long. If they don’t come to mind right away, then that’s not what I am talking about mate.” He looked me in the eye and said slowly and encouragingly, “Now...how many people are in your community?”
I told him my number.

“That’s a good number,” he said.
“It is.”


Then he asked me a question I have been asked many times before, but this time stands apart from the others.
“Have you ever been in love?”
“Yes. I have.”
I can still see his face as he received my answer--the unmistakable expression of pure interest.
“How many times?”
I paused a full second and answered him. The conviction in my voice stunned me, but not as much as the number itself. In that moment, I was more honest with Sean than with any other person who has ever asked me that question, including myself.

“You are lucky,” he said.
“I am.”



I’m still not completely sure why I felt so comfortable offering him this personal answer. Maybe it was the directness of the question. Maybe it was the setting--a purely honest setting: sitting with our backs against a park bench, sharing a piece of cement sidewalk, shadowed and unnoticed, with two men who were wearing the only clothes they owned. Perhaps it was the person asking it--his genuine interest, as he had nothing to gain from my answer, no connections, no judgment. He could do absolutely nothing with it...except know, except relate. And maybe it was just me wanting to be honest.

Two genuine men asked me two real questions. They had no practical reason to do so, but they did anyway.

With a rake in my hand...

The other day I was at a local pub grabbing something to eat and getting some work done. As I was leaving, I was drawn into a conversation about music with a gentleman as I walked by the bar. I had overheard him from my table, and couldn’t help but put in my two cents worth on the way out. After a few minutes, he asked me to pull up a stool, which I took to mean that I had proven myself to be a credible source on the matter.  I took the seat, and after about 20 minutes our conversation picked up a 3rd patron and shifted from music to other subjects, such as history, education, and ultimately sports. Being in Scotland and in the company of two avid golfers, we spoke for a great while on that sport. I know my golf, and can carry my own in a conversation, though I don’t play the game much myself. However, I clearly didn’t share the passion that these two had for it. After a while, we lost one of our trio, and it was just me and my new mate John.  Continuing from our golf conversation, he asked me what my sport was. I, of course, told him that my love was for the game of baseball.  Telling me that he was not very familiar with the game, he asked,

“Why is it that you love it so much?"

I started to answer quickly because it seemed to me like I should have a ready response for a game that I had devoted so much of my time and thoughts to over the years, but I was surprised to find that I had no idea how to answer the question.

I glanced at the ground just beyond John and thought for a long moment.

Then, tilting my head slightly to the side, a smile turning up the left side of my mouth, I began to explain.

I said, “John, yesterday was a beautiful day: one of those days where you feel guilty staying inside, but you aren’t really sure what to do with your time. So here’s what I did. I filled a thermos with coffee, grabbed a book, threw my glove in the car, and decided to drive down to the river. After about two hours of reading and lying in the sun, I decided to head home. As I was driving back, I passed by a park and remembered the glove sitting in the back seat. I pulled over and broke it out.  I spent about a half hour throwing myself pop-flies and attempted to finally perfect the behind the back catch I have been working on for nearly 20 years now. It was during this that I realized I hadn’t caught a ball in about 10 months, which is easily a personal record for me. I mean John, there was a time that going 2 days would have been unthinkable.” I let this point sink in for a moment, for both John and for myself. “It’s interesting how something can be so central to our lives and our identity for so many years, and then become completely withdrawn from us. Actually, I suppose we become withdrawn from it.” He nodded in thoughtful agreement. “That glove is as much a part of me as anything I have ever owned. I have had it since I was 11. I can remember the place and day that I got it. I can remember breaking it in with Crisco and a hot oven. It’s been with me ever since, and if at any point since that day you had asked me exactly where it was, I could tell you without thinking. It has survived easily over 10 moves in the past 15 years, and when I moved over here, my two gloves were the only items I took as a carry on.” This caused him to smile.

“This is where my love gets a bit irrational though. I want you to know that I realize this part will sound a bit crazy to you.” He nodded I go on and gave me a look of assurance that he would not judge.  I looked him right in the eye and said in a softer, more serious voice, “I will put it on now and then just for the feel and the smell. Not just any glove though, it has to be mine. It has to be the same leather that has accompanied me in every dugout I’ve set foot in. It has to be the one that has soaked up the sweat of my hand, the dirt of the fields, the salt of the seeds in my bag, and the must of the trunk of my high school car. You know how a smell takes you back in time? The smell of my glove does that for me. And to be honest, each time I go to scratch the palm and close my eyes to take in its fragrance, I am a little nervous that it won’t happen--that maybe this time the magic will be lost. You know the old saying that you can never go home? Do you remember the day that you found the truth in the statement?” I paused. “When you finally understood it?” pausing again. “I think a part of me is afraid that one day I will pick up that glove, rub the leather, inhale, and it will just be a smell.  There will be no memory of playing catch with my dad on the side of the house, or hearing him tell me to, ‘Throw the dark one,’ when I had a guy down 0-2…or seeing my parents in the stands of my high school ballfield…or being conned into doing the dishes or mow the lawn in order to play catch…or watching a Spokane summer sun set over a freshly raked diamond as the temperature falls the last degree to perfect. No… I fear that one day, I will simply take in the aroma of leather… The years of sweat, salt, dirt, and Flexall 454 will just be added to the leather, distinguishable, but not magical."

I paused to catch my breath and make sure I hadn’t lost him with that revelation.

“I have been abroad now for well over a year and there are many differences between here and home. I miss certain aspects of the states, but outside of the people, one thing stands out above all. Spring and summer came and went John. I could feel it in the air, but I didn’t hear bats cracking, or gloves popping, or metal cleats on pavement. Since I was little, I swear I have been able to smell the beginning of baseball season in the air. The game of baseball truly does make America special.”

He did his best to look like he understood, but both of us new we weren’t entirely in sync, so I tried to explain further.

“Sometimes I think that everyone should rake a diamond once in their life. But I suppose it wouldn’t have the same meaning. You have to feel an ownership of that piece of land. You have to have a history with it. Some of my favorite moments in baseball were the hour before and after each practice and game when I had a rake in my hand, and I thought about nothing but the game. It was during this time that I would rake the dish, the area around the plate. When I was out on the dirt I would enter a Zen-like state. Every grain of that dirt would be contoured to my approval. Certain parts were raked toward the mound to cause the ball to bounce high and others to cause a low skip. It was my canvas. (I realize at this point that I am talking more and more with my hands, and I put them to rest on the bar.) I understand that it was mostly mental, but to me it meant that this little piece of land was mine, and I could manipulate it to do whatever I needed. It gave me an edge. It gave me a sense of control.” Then, looking like someone who just realized that they had been in love with their best friend for years, I said aloud, “Like no other place in the world, that particular piece of dirt allowed me, without fail, to find perspective. Not just about baseball. It gave me a feeling of peace.”

John looked at me inquisitively and with thick skepticism. “But you must admit it’s a rather boring game, right?” he said.

“No, John. It isn’t. Just recently I remember saying that I am beginning to accept that there are people who don’t love the game of baseball and can’t comprehend it as being beautiful, but I don’t understand it.  I’m guessing you don’t feel that way either. But you have an excuse since it isn’t played over here. For the others, I think it must be because they don’t see the game. They may have been to games, but they don’t see the game. To love it, you have to see the intricacies of each pitch and the constant focus of each player on the field at any given time: an orchestra waiting for the sound of the first note. You have to see a catcher stand up in the 9th with 1 finger in the air and yell out orders,
 “1Down-CornersIn4To1-RollaPairInTheMiddle-OutfieldDoOrDie-WhaddaYaSayNow.”
You have to see how the catcher’s muted conversation with the pitcher over the location and type of pitch about to be thrown dictates the movement of all 9 defensive players. And you‘d have to see the factors that weigh in on this decision, such as the count, the outs, the batter’s tendencies, his position in the box, the runners on base, the pitcher’s repertoire, the pitcher’s fatigue, the score, the inning, and most importantly, where they want the guy to hit the ball.  Only when you are able to see everything can you understand how a 2-1 ballgame can be so enthralling that you lose sight of anything beyond the walls. And only then can you honestly describe it as beautiful.

I realized that this last rant did not explain it well enough for him, or maybe it just bothered me that it had only scratched what I was trying to get at. It didn’t explain the passion. So I continued.

“And I suppose you need to know what it looks like, or hell what it feels like, to catch a guy taking off from first base out of the corner of your eye. You have to know what it feels like to win that moment. That challenge. Sport at its finest—when it is the most simple: A runner challenging you that he can get to the bag before you can throw a ball there. It’s simple; it’s beautiful. And it’s most beautiful because he was out by 2 feet before he began running because for the last 2 pitches you have been watching his every move and you called the perfect pitch up and away with just enough velocity, because you knew he was stealing before he did. Then you get to know what it feels like to watch your opponent trot back to the dugout across the diamond knowing that everyone is watching him, including you, so that you can lock eyes with him for just a moment--just long enough to turn up the left side of your mouth and use your glance to say, ‘That’s right.’ And like he never existed, you crouch down and go about your business with the next guy.

Now and then, I’ll pick that glove up and study it. I can see the variations of its original state. The different colored laces from when they busted my junior year of high school and the old man at the repair shop rethreaded it. (Yes, a baseball glove repair shop. Find one of those these days.) The man who worked out of a little shop and who couldn’t have been making any money at this outdated trade. The man who when I came to pick it up, asked me to catch him up on the local baseball scene and then didn’t charge me for the repair.  And if I look closer, on the thumb of the glove are all of the phone numbers that I have ever had, written in pen, faded, but legible: a written record of our journey. And on the heel are the scratch marks of many years of trying to rub off the etching of Jose Conseco’s signature because I could never get over the fact that the worst fielder in history had his name on my glove.

Even now, I’ll examine it and bury my face in its webbing. The smell always takes me back as I had hoped. Each time it is different and unpredictable. It may be to when my childhood friend, Chris, and I used to play catch at our dads’ softball games. Or maybe it will be when I made 3 errors in one game against East Valley, and I swore into my glove so many times that if it had emotions, it would be scarred to this day. Or maybe when I heard my high school girlfriend say my name from behind the backstop and I realized I was in love for the first time. Or maybe when a dear friend called me to the mound before the last inning he would ever pitch to share a few words with me that I will never forget, in a moment that still gives me chills to think about. Or maybe when I sat in the stands behind the dugout in May of 2003 trying to imagine what my life would be like without this game. Or maybe it will just be a random Monday practice, warming up down the line, talking about who hooked up with whom over the weekend and what an ass so and so is. It doesn’t matter. I loved it all. Every damn bit of it.

You see John, the way I see it, we like sports for many reasons. But those who love them, love them for the purity--the simplicity. In a life that has so many choices and so many ambiguities and so many factors and so many muddy consequences, sports offer rules and boundaries and finite ends. But all of these qualities are just the foundation that allows us to experience the great rewards of the game: the relationships, the memories, the adversity, the pain, the accomplishment, the joy, our childhood. 

We spend our time in many places and settings as we get older, but some allow us to grow more than others.

I came of age on the diamond."



I could have said all of this to John as I sat next to him on that stool. But I would have still felt the way I do now: like I didn’t even get close.

So instead, after he asked me that question, I glanced at the ground, eventually tilting my head slightly to the side, a smile turning up the left side of my mouth and said the only answer I could think of,
      
“Because it’s more than just a game.”

Lessons I Learned From Grandma

I just got a call from my dad. He told me that Grandma is about to die. My grandma told me the same thing last night.


I have been pacing around my flat for about a half hour. I’m wide awake, and I keep walking like I have something to do, but I don’t know what that is. So I decided to sit down and write.

And here I am.



My grandma was one of the strongest people to ever live. I say that with no exaggeration. She really is one of the strongest people to ever live. I feel lucky to be able to say that I am part of the family of such a person.

I was fortunate to grow up in the same city as my grandma, which means I had the opportunity to get to know her very well. And when you are young, you are shaped by those you share your time with. Some people lead by example, and some preach. My grandma did both. She was frank, blunt, and even curt at times, but she said it how it was. She did not spare people’s feelings if she felt they needed to hear what she had to say. Over the years I learned that she basically believed that if you put yourself in a situation then you ought to own up to it. But more than this, she believed that even if you found yourself in a tough position due to nothing of your own fault, if you were dealt a bad hand, you needed to own that too. You see my grandma taught me that all people are people. It doesn’t matter what you look like, what you do for a living, how much money you have, or anything superficial. It mattered that you were a person. It sounds so simple, but everyday we judge people, everyday we look at people as being different. We may not go as far as to act like they are different, but we are often guilty of looking at them differently. My grandma had an eye for this.

It seems that every time I talk with one of my relatives, I learn about a chapter of my grandma’s life that I didn’t know before. Her story gets richer with each detail. My cousin Sarah and I talked about how her life could easily be a movie. She lived through the Great Depression and was a member of what has been accurately described as the greatest generation. She and my grandpa divorced when her four kids were still young and all living at home. She raised this family of four on her own and managed to put three through Catholic private schools through 12th grade. She did this by starting her own business, a nursing home, from the ground up with significant help from all four children.

A particular memory comes to mind right now. When she was in her 60s she decided to adopt Brian, a child with severe Cerebral Palsy who could speak just a couple of words and had little use of his limbs. He became an integral member of our family. This particular memory goes like this: One time my brother, Brian, and I were playing basketball in her driveway. My brother and I would play around the world, one on one, and take turns putting up shots. About every 5th shot or so, we would help Brian take a shot. We did this for about a half hour until, without any warning, Grandma came out and began yelling at us. I remember her angrily shouting, “Brian is a person too. Just the same as you two.” I also remember trying to explain that we were including him in our game, but just not every other shot. This made her even more angry. It wasn’t at that moment that I understood her anger. Like many profound lessons, it took time to finally set in. And as I’ve gotten older it makes more and more sense each year, and every time I see someone treating someone else as if they are a fraction of a person, it sinks in a little deeper. You see, my grandma taught me that everyone is equal. Completely equal. Not just 1 out of every 5 shots. We all deserve the same amount of shots.

As I mentioned earlier, her life had many chapters, but they all had something in common. She lived to serve. The different chapters are often broken up by her decision to focus her service toward new people in need. As far back as I can remember, grandma had at least one person outside of her blood-related family, sometimes three, living with her and depending on her. My dad has told me that this is true back to the days that he was a child. Even into her eighties, she was still lifting Brian in and out of his wheelchair, she was still making sure everyone made it to church on Sundays, and she was still cooking delicious meat and potato meals.

I could honestly spend tens of pages talking about the many things she has done in her life. And that would only be what I know about. And I assure you that each page would impress you more, and I would still not be able to do justice to such a rich life. Instead, I would like to focus on the lessons that she taught me.

Never let your family stray.
Bridge the gaps, geographically, spiritually, and personally.

Tell it how it is.
In a world that is increasingly focused on being politically correct and careful with words, she was not. It was refreshing.

Be the one that will say what others are afraid to bring up.
We all need one of these people in our life.

Fight for what you believe is best for others.
She lived a life of service.

Never accept “No.”
I pity anyone who told her this.

Always have few bucks in your pocket.
She never let me leave without something in my pocket.

Never underestimate the power of one woman.
There was nothing she could not accomplish. There was no battle she refused to take up.

Keep your faith: In good times and bad.
God is with us in both.

Apathy is cruel.
Grandma was never guilty of not caring.

Keep life simple.
No matter how complicated a situation seemed to me, she had a way of simplifying it that only someone who had seen so much could do.



She constantly had a message. Each and every time with her, she would impress messages upon me with dogmatic conviction. I will admit that I didn’t always listen or give them the consideration that she wanted and which they probably deserved, but as I have gotten a bit older, I can distinctly see them playing out in the way I lead my life. I guess after a while they sunk in. Among these many messages, two always stood out for me. They were the two that she emphasized the most. She always told me to remember two things: First, no matter what was going on in my life, accomplishments or hard lessons, she always told me to remember who I should thank, which was God. Second, she always told me to remember and be proud of where I came from. She meant our family.


My dad called tonight to tell me that grandma is dying, but she already told me herself last night. She was in a hospital bed. She couldn’t speak. I was thousands of miles away. But that could not stop my grandma. The family had news, and she was going to find a way to tell me. So she came to me in a dream. In true grandma fashion, she busted out of the hospital and picked me up. We were in Spokane, and she was driving her signature van that will forever be in my memories of her. She asked me how I was. She told me to be thankful for what I have and remember who to thank. She told me to remember where I came from. And she told me she was going to die.

Nothing could stop my Grandma.







I was able to get back to see her one last time and attend her celebration of life. I was also able to speak at the service. This post became a combination of thoughts I jotted down on the night I found out about her health and while I was in Spokane. I have had it written for a while, but I went back and forth on whether I should post it. Ultimately, I decided that this story should be shared. Before I end this though, one thing that I wanted to say, which was how I always described her, I felt I couldn’t say on an altar, so I will say it here.

She was a badass.




I have always been, and will always be, proud to be a Cunningham.


“Always remember there is nothing worth sharing like the love that let us share our name.”
-The Avett Brothers

I'm a Sucker (The Story of My Bracelet)

It’s not a pretty bracelet. It’s made of colors I would never choose myself. It’s certainly not ‘cool’, as braded bracelets haven’t been for at least a decade now. It’s so poorly made that its weave has nearly completely come undone, leaving it bunched up on one side while three single strings struggle to keep the whole thing from falling off. It's too big for my wrist, which causes it to slide up and down my arm and often annoyingly onto the palm of my hand. It catches on corners of objects and constantly gets in the way. But, it fits me well.

I haven’t really had it very long. I got it in Paris back in February. I was walking up the stairs to Sacre Coeur where I was approached by a 20 year old man from Ghana. As those of you who have walked a busy street with me know, I will talk to anyone who genuinely approaches me. So he begins to tell me about his country and asks whether I have ever been there. While he is talking to me he politely asks me to hold onto three strings, which I do as I listen to him. He goes on to tell me of the beauty of his country in both nature and in his people. He asks me if I have heard the phrase Hakuna Matata, to which I think in my head, “Well yeah, who hasn’t seen The Lion King?” but I keep that to myself. He tells me of the struggles facing his country and asks me to strongly consider making a visit there. By the time he has finished his story, he is tying the bracelet he has been braiding during our conversation around my wrist. Now, I consider myself a fairly street smart fellow, but I will admit that I didn’t see the next part coming. Somewhere in the story I had convinced myself that this man was truly trying to get his message out to others in the oldest and most honest way, by just telling his story. But then I saw him hold out his hand and ask me for 20 Euros. I didn’t give him 20, but I gave him a fair price.

Again, as those who have walked a street with me know, I will always give a person money who genuinely asks me for it.

I am given a hard time about this quite often. I’ve heard all of the reasons not to give money to people on the street (And yes, they are people first. No matter what name you wish to call them). I will spare you the list of reasons, as I am sure you can all recite it to yourself by heart. I find it fascinating how much people think they know about strangers they see on the street. Suddenly everyone becomes an expert on the homeless. But have you ever seen one of these experts (maybe you fall into this category) have a genuine conversation with someone who approaches them, or have they/you gone out of their/your way to learn how exactly someone ended up homeless? Spare me the internet. Do you know an actual story? Those who know a story, know how far from an expert they are. Some of us are closer to ending up in need than others, and those who aren’t should be thankful, but everyone should objectively look at how false that wall is between ‘us’ and ‘them’ and how easy it could be to find ourselves or someone we know on the other side. Most of us have someone to lean on if things got bad. Be thankful for that.

So I am what society calls a ‘sucker’ when it comes to offering money to those who ask for it. I admit my belief in people has burned me at times. I have been taken advantage of much more than once. I have stood in line behind the man I gave money to outside the store as he buys his booze. So please don’t paint me as naïve. I’m just not ready to condemn all for the dishonesty of others. When talking about this, I am always reminded of a belief that a dear friend of mine told me about 6 or 7 years ago. She too is a ‘sucker’. Here’s what she said:

Zack, here’s how I see it. One day I will be at the pearly gates and Saint Peter will be there with the knowledge of the choices of my life. And he may pull me aside and say, “Hey, you remember that guy on the street corner that one day that asked you for money, and you gave it to him?” I will answer, “Yes.” “Well, he lied to your face and took that money and blew it on booze and cigarettes. Sorry to tell you this, but you got taken.”

She then told me this, “I can handle hearing that. I really can. In the broad scheme of things, that money didn’t really mean that much to me. But what I wouldn’t be able to handle is being at those same gates and having Peter say, “Hey, you remember that guy on the street corner that one day who asked you for money, and you didn’t give it to him? Well, he really needed it. He was feeling helpless. It wasn’t much, but it would have made a big difference for him that day.”

“That,” she said, “I can’t handle.”

Let us not forget how humbled someone must be to resign himself or herself to begging. To think that man, with his immense pride, would turn to this immediately is being ignorant to our nature.

So as I said, my bracelet isn’t pretty. It isn’t cool. It isn’t well crafted.

But it does fit me well.

France-Part Two

For someone who has spent 18 years in Catholic schools as a student and taught in one for 3, I really don’t talk about religion all that often. Well, I suppose that’s not true. I do talk about it. I talk about it a lot in fact. But I talk about religions—not about my own faith and the constant embattled journey that it is.

It’s a topic that we can avoid talking about quite easily. It requires a question that people shy away from asking. You simply don’t ask someone how their faith is, or even if they believe in God. It’s one of those questions that are too uncomfortable and too sincere to ask, like “Are you happy?”


My original draft of this entry told a long chronological story of visiting churches, and I tried to cleverly embed my thoughts amidst the storyline. It was a disaster. There was something missing, but I couldn’t place it. I must have read it upwards of 40 times. I eventually realized that in all of the words I had written, I hadn’t really said anything, or at least I hadn’t said what I thought. It had lost its authenticity.

There is something to be said for just telling it how it is, so I am redoing it now.


What I saw: A church
I visited Sacre-Coeur, in Paris. I was ushered around the interior walls in a hurried fashion and forbidden to take pictures. People still did.

What I thought: This is wrong
How wrong to be ushered through a church. How wrong to forbid pictures of such a beautiful place. How wrong to be taking pictures when asked not to. How wrong to be taking pictures of people while they are praying. How wrong to be treating them as a spectacle. How wrong to be taking a tour of a church during Mass. How wrong to have not realized it was a Mass time. How wrong to not sit down and join them in prayer as I realized this. How right to finally do it.

What I did:
Attended a mass in French. Thought about life and God. Lit a candle.




What I saw: Light
I went to the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris during a service. It was getting dark outside, but inside was glowing with candles, elaborate lighting, and the sunset through the stained-glass.

What I thought: This is beautiful
This is what I remember Mass feeling like when I was younger. This church is beautiful. How could I not realize this is a mass time? That’s twice today. I am again touring with a crowd of people during a time of prayer. I feel guilty--I must be Catholic.

What I did:
Found a pew to sit and join the service. Left after communion (You'd have been proud Dad). Lit a candle.




What I saw: My breath; darkness; somber people
I walked into the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Rouen, and it was so cold I could see my breath. Outside it was warm.

What I thought: This is uncomfortable
This is uncomfortable to be so cold. The lack of light is eerie. Is this how a church is supposed to be? This feels so dark. It definitely has that holy aura about it, but in no way does it feel comfortable. Was there a time in which this building saw light? Was there a time that people came here and smiled? This is comforting to be aware of my senses. This is comforting to be aware of my thoughts. This is a good church.

What I did:
Walked around and stopped to reflect when moved to do so.




What I saw: An elderly woman
She was in the darkest corner of the same cathedral in Rouen sitting in front of the statue of Joseph. She was there when I entered and remained when I left an hour later.

What I thought: She…
She is so still. She is so quiet. She comes here often. She looks sad.

What I did:
Took a moment to appreciate my family and friends. Lit a candle.




What I saw: Two women
They were in their 60’s. They were eating breakfast at one of the 6 tables in the dining room of our hotel. They were speaking English. They were talking about religion.

What I thought: This is not a coincidence
I am late and I should go. I should talk to them.

What I did:
Stopped and introduced myself. Listened. Pulled up a chair. Had a cup of tea. Talked candidly about my faith. Took a piece of paper one of the ladies offered me. Put that paper in my pocket for safe-keeping.




I have always been one to question my faith. Blind faith has never made sense to me. In fact, it has enraged me at times. Not questioning is not a show of good faith. It is a show of cowardice.

I can’t say that my faith is the strongest it has ever been. It’s also not the weakest. It’s a work in progress. It’s a journey that has no end.

Sometimes I forget I am on that journey though, and without someone asking me the questions, I can wander a ways without remembering where I am heading. I walked up to that first church in Paris, and though it took me a few minutes longer than it should have, I remembered where I belonged, and I took a seat, in the back row of course, but I took a seat…

…and I asked myself the questions.


We often ask for the wisdom to find the road. I think it’s the courage to stay on the road that is hardest to come by.

France-Part One

I recently set out on a journey…


It was a significant moment in my life. Something happened along the way that changed me.

I decided to break my account of this into multiple parts. Here is the first.



A few weeks ago I made a trip to France. I was able to see buildings and structures that have become iconic over generations of time. I was able to interact with people of a foreign culture. I was able to stand in places that have become immortal in history books and family legacies.

Also, I was also able to take this journey amidst a constant accompaniment of my thoughts.

This trip was a last second decision. My school had the week off, but I was planning on staying in town and maybe taking some day trips. I figured I could finally see some of the places around me that I keep meaning to visit, while at the same time taking it easy on my wallet. However, as the time leading up to the break became smaller and smaller, so too did my rationality. Two days before the break, I bought a roundtrip ticket to Paris.

I was to leave on Saturday. On Friday, I was asked by a fair amount of friends and colleagues what I was planning on doing over the course of the vacation. I told them I was heading to Paris, with the ultimate goal of going to Omaha Beach, one of the beaches of D-Day, and the one that my grandpa had landed on. Every person said how great Paris is and how exciting it will be, and they all had the same question for me, “Are you going alone?” I would respond by saying, “Yes,” or sometimes a more casual, “Yep,” as if to say, “No big deal.” They would then say, “How cool,” or, “Good for you.” I thought it was pretty cool myself--The idea of it anyway.

Truth be told, beneath my bravado laced “Yep” was a bit of insecurity.

I think we often wonder what our limitations are. I know I wonder how much my body can handle, and I wonder even more how much my mind can take. I like to think that I can do the things that I dream up in my mind. They are the sorts of things that put to real life the vision I have of myself. You see, I have two versions of myself. The one that resides at the limits of all my abilities, and the one that is actively trying to catch up to that person.

I also like to think that I have a clear vision of who I am, which means that I am uncomfortably aware of the discrepancies between that person and the person I ultimately want to be. But that discomfort is good. In a large way, that’s what this whole journey to Scotland is about—challenging myself to be the person that I want to be. I purposefully say ‘want’ rather than ‘can’. I am not sure we need to push ourselves to be all we can be, but I do think we need to strive to be who we want to be.

And the only way we can know who in fact we want to be is to get to know ourselves better.

So I went to France a few weeks ago, alone, to get to know myself a little better.

Wrinkled Posters

Before you begin reading this post.
Please do not continue unless you are in a quiet place and you have at least 20 minutes to devote to it. Headphones are also recommended.

I also warn you that the part of me that has always wanted to be a hippie shines through in this post. Bear with me.



On Sunday, I was cleaning my kitchen after sleeping in unjustifiably through the morning. I decided to put on some music to aid the process, so I docked my ipod and hit shuffle. That’s when a song played, and my eyes became fixed upon a cheaply made poster on my wall.

If you’ll let me, I would like to tell you the story of this song.

A year ago I called a friend looking for inspiration of some sort. As many of my friends are aware, this is not an uncommon request from me. Often times, this is accomplished through a story, a movie, a book, or a heated debate, and other times, such as this, it is conceived through a song.

I can understand why people don’t have a passion for some of life’s arts that I have come to love, just as I hope that they understand when I am not always enthused about theirs. I am even beginning to accept that there are people that, no matter how hard I try, will never appreciate the game of baseball or be able to describe it as “beautiful”. However, I will never understand how some people can be so nonchalant about music; how they can listen to songs without being caused to feel the specific emotions that are locked away inside of us waiting to be coaxed out by the correct combination of notes and lyrics.

We listen to thousands of songs in our life. Whether we seek them or not, we are surrounded by songs. They are in the car, in the soundtracks to movies, being bastardized by commercials, and even in department stores and elevators. They are all around us. Sometimes we go out of our way to find them, and sometimes--they follow us.

So I called this friend seeking inspiration, and she shared a song from a particular band with me. Some of my favorite bands and songs didn’t resonate with me at first. They had to grow on me. Usually I wasn’t ready for them or their message. From the first song I heard from this band. I was in love. None has ever made me feel like this one did from the very beginning.

I am stubbornly and selfishly protective of songs that I love. I will keep them to myself in order to keep others from tainting the experience the song has caused for me. I will give them to people I trust, but not even them sometimes. I am the same way about books. However, I felt compelled to share this with anyone who would listen. I even remember boldly announcing to my class one morning as I introduced them to a particular song, that their lives would be changed on account of it. I can be a bit dramatic at times, especially when given an audience.

When I heard that they would be playing at a small venue in Portland a few months later, I bought tickets immediately, without even looking at the date. As the day approached, my excitement mounted. A couple weeks prior to the show, I was devastated to learn that the date of this concert was actually on a Monday. Since I lived in Seattle, and that is a weeknight, all seemed lost. But I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. I decided I would simply have to make the journey. I was even able to convince my girlfriend to make the rebellious school night trek with me.

As we waited outside of the classic rustic looking theater with our $9 tickets in hand, my feelings could only be described as “giddy”. From the moment the first song was sung, I knew I was having an experience I would never forget. The crowd reacted as if they were somewhat unsure of how to interpret what they were witnessing. You could tell that many of them had very little knowledge of who they were seeing. But as the night wore on, they seemed to share my belief that this was in fact an experience. A middle-aged woman in front of us, who had come to the concert alone, was even sitting amongst the standing crowd intently punching away at the keys on her laptop. We peered over her shoulder to see what she was writing, and learned that she was keeping a journal of her thoughts throughout the show. I clearly remember a moment in which this woman heard a group of three lines and felt compelled to make a statement, which was only audible due to the silence of the crowd who had long ago suspended all talking and movement in order to hear each word of the lyrics being shared with them. She softly and convincingly said in a voice that carried the weight of the experience it spoke from, “That’s the truth.”

And death is at your doorstep
And it will steal your innocence
But it will not steal your substance


As the band came out for their encore, they asked the crowd if we minded them playing a slower song that they hadn’t played on the tour. The lead singer said that they had been reluctant to play it for previous audiences, but they felt that “Portland gets it.” We all knew what that meant, and we listened as they allowed us to walk a little further with them. When it was over, I headed to the foyer to pull one of the concert posters off the wall. As I arrived, I saw a handful of other people with the same idea as me. We all wanted a piece of tangible evidence to prove that we had been there that night— to hang on our wall to remind us of this moment in hopes that we could recreate a glimpse of it each time our eyes are drawn to it.

We drove back to Seattle that night and arrived with just enough time to salvage an hour or two of sleep before heading to work. The whole way never doubting the worth of the trip.

Months later on a Friday afternoon, I was sitting at my desk in my classroom in Aberdeen. I knew that this same band was playing in Glasgow that night. I also knew that the tickets had been sold out well before I ever moved over here. There weren’t even people willing to part with them for a profit on the internet. I remember sitting there feeling disappointment and angst. In an absurd way, I felt like I was depriving myself of an experience and a chance to have a moment similar to that one back in May. I suppose I could best describe it as a feeling of need. So, I decided that I would not be able to justify not having tried. Therefore, I got in the car and drove the two and a half hours to Glasgow, even if I didn’t have a ticket. I was confident that if I was meant to get in, I would.

Unfortunately a brutal storm made that journey closer to four and a half hours, but that didn’t matter. I was on my way.

When I arrived, I parked my car and walked through the foreign city looking for the concert hall. As I had hoped, it was a small, worn building that looked like it had seen its years of undervalued music. I set up shop on the corner, dropped my pride, and began asking each and every person that walked by if they had an extra ticket. After an hour, my confidence was beginning to fade, and the reality was setting in. Even the scalpers had called it a night. It was just one other man and I desperately competing and leap-frogging over one another to get to the next person first. As the curtain time grew very close and all nearly seemed lost, a man tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I needed a ticket. I said yes, too excitedly. He asked me to name a price I was willing to pay. Afraid of how much I would be willing to pay, I told him I wouldn’t. I requested that he name a price instead, and he did. Knowing that you never agree to the initial number, I brazenly undercut it. That’s when he walked away and sold it to the other man. I felt my stomach sink. I had blown it. I had come as close as possible, and foolishly let it slip away, all to save 10 pounds. I knew the show was starting, and all hope was officially gone, but I stayed out on that corner anyway, clinging to faith and the depressing fact that I really had no other option. The line was gone, and only a few late-comers straggled in. Each was clearly in a hurry and no one showing up this late is looking to discard a ticket. That’s when a man walked over to me, and asked if I was looking to see the show. I said yes, and he held out a ticket and offered a price. Without asking a single question, I shook his hand. I was in. A rushed inside to beat the curtain. As I stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers, I couldn’t help but smile. And when the band walked on stage, we collectively listened and let ourselves feel. And as the concert came to a close, I whispered what I thought was in my head, but now I am pretty sure I said it out loud, “Glasgow gets it.”

So when I remember convincing a friend to listen to a song with me once, which turned into sitting silently through four, and instead of telling me that I was overdramatic, he asked, “How can anyone not love this?”
or when I remember how silent and still hundreds of people can be when they are fully aware of their emotions,
or I find myself driving through a monsoon with reckless abandon to get to a show I don’t have a ticket for,
or when I get a letter from a former student that confirms my bold statement that the song would change her life,
or I am stopped in my kitchen on a random Sunday by lyrics that sound so truthful they demand I listen,
or when I notice myself staring at a wrinkled concert poster on my wall in hopes that it will keep a memory from fading…I find myself at a loss for those who are not moved by music.





So I challenge you to take the time to listen to these three songs in their entirety. I ask you to truly hear the lyrics. Take a break from your busy day and the routine of daily life to be awakened and to be moved.

If for any reason this audio isn't working, here are the youtube links for the songs:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x2RKb3VNAOo

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kl-VCHzS1So

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMsTSdHIJds