Sometimes my big ol red Dodge Dakota looks SO small.
It really affects my sense of manhood. Make me feel inferior. How can I ever face the world again?
The Woman Stranded Beside the Road
On the way to work this morning, I suddenly came upon a pickup truck on the side of the road, its flashers on, and a woman standing by the tailgate with something in her hand. I figured it was a cell phone. By the time I saw her, I didn’t have time to stop, so I continued on.
But I kept thinking about her. Doggone it, I hate it when that happens. When my conscience gets all uppity.
I kept telling myself I should go back. Then I would talk myself out of it. “She had a cell phone. She’s calling somebody. Probably somebody else has stopped by now.”
The whole “what goes around comes around” principle, which is actually biblical, kept coming to me. If I were stranded, wouldn’t I want somebody to stop (a self-centered motive for helping somebody, when you think about it). There was the whole “angels unaware” argument (was I ignoring the angel Gabriel?). I didn’t think til later of the even better argument, “If that was Mom, wouldn’t I want a Good Samaritan to make sure she’s okay?”
So anyway, I knew God wanted me to turn around. It was what a Christian should do.
I was over a mile down the road before I found a place to turn around. I drove back, and saw the woman walking toward Roanoke (still miles away) with a small red plastic gas container in her hand. She was probably 30 yards from her truck. I turned around through the median again and drove toward her.
And JUST before I reached her, a maroon van stopped, and she climbed in.
I continued on, my conscience satisfied. I did consider the possibility that maybe the driver of the maroon van was a deranged serial killer, and I was too late after all. But some things just have to be left to a sovereign God.
Haircuts and the Invisible Man
Whenever the gals at work get a haircut, everyone notices. It gets commented on, evaluated, oohed and aahed. The haircut, no matter how drastic, is given more than ample attention.
The men receive no such treatment. It is a double standard which society has yet to address honestly.
I got a haircut after work tonight. As you can see from the before-and-after self-photos above, there is a significant difference. How can you not notice the drastic change in my appearance? But tomorrow, nobody will mention it. My haircut will go totally unnoticed.
Once again, my feelings will be severely hurt. Yes it hurts, I’m not ashamed to admit. What do I have to do–get a buzz? Color my hair red? Add blue streaks?
I just want to be acknowledged, to have my existence validated. To hear someone say, “Oh, you got a haircut. Looks nice.” Yet tomorrow, I will no doubt spend the day in my office, putting up a brave front but silently crying out for recognition…and receiving none.
It’s not easy being a guy.
The Mac II at Age 25
The Macintosh II is celebrating its 25th anniversary. That was my first Mac, back in 1988. Well, it wasn’t actually mine, but for work. I, personally, owned a Mac SE, one of those all-in-one boxes.
The Mac II was the first Mac with an open system–a beige box users could open up, with expansion slots, and a separate monitor.
For the next several years, I produced a monthly magazine on the Mac II. I used Pagemaker, laying out everything on screen, and used a Laserwriter II for printouts, which I sent to a commercial printshop.
Compare that to the AT&T PC I’d been using for about five years. Two 5.25″ floppy drives, no hard drive, and the clunky DOS operating system (which is redundant, I realize, since DOS stands for Disk Operating System). I composed articles in Wordstar, sent a floppy to a commercial printer, and they sent back long photo-typeset strips of paper. I then spent the next two weeks hunched over a light table laying out the articles before sending everything to the printshop for final printing. It was like farming with oxen.
The Mac II established the Mac as the computer of choice for graphic artists and publishing professionals. Microsoft desperately introduced Windows in an attempt to mimic the Mac. Today, they’ve got it down pretty well. But back in the late 1980s, Microsoft wasn’t even close. Not even in the same universe. Compared to the Mac, Microsoft was a Third World country. I don’t begrudge people choosing a PC today. But just recognize that there was a time when the Mac was ridiculously far ahead (compared to a mere “very far ahead” today).
The Mac II had 2MB of RAM, and a mammoth 40MB hard drive (who would ever need more space than that?). Instead of using those wobbly, fragile, and highly unreliable 5.25″ floppies, the Mac II sported two slots for the hard plastic 3.5″ floppy (which weren’t floppy) disks. And then there was that 12-inch color monitor, a huge improvement over the green-and-white display on my AT&T PC.
The operating system, OS6, was terribly primitive compared to today’s Macs. Unless you used the clunky Multifinder, you could have only one program open at a time. Yet, it was very intuitive, very user-friendly–a quantum leap over the cavemanish DOS system I had been using on the AT&T PC. The commands were consistent from program to program, and it just made sense.
That Mac II was the most expensive computer I’ve ever used–over $6000 in 1988 dollars, or $13,000 today. Now, I can get a loaded, top-of-the-line Mac Pro tower for less than we paid for that Mac II. Such is progress.
Since then, I’ve gone through a whole bunch of Macs, both at home and work–the Mac SE, 2Si, Power Computing clone tower, Quadra 800, PowerMac G3, Power Mac G4, Power Mac G5, and now a Mac Pro. Plus three different laptops, starting with a G4 aluminum back in 2001. Yes, I’m a Mac fanatic.
Memories of Miss Patton
My very first class at Huntington College was Honors Writing. Most freshmen took English Composition, but about 20 of us, probably based on our SAT scores (I never signed up for the class) were placed in Honors Writing. Two of my best lifelong friends, Brian Hughes and Ted Doolittle, were also in that class.
The teacher was Miss Edwina Patton. At that point, she would have been 60 years old. From the start, she spoke with enthusiasm. I’m just delighted that you’re here and we can spend the semester together, and oh, we’re going to have a good time and learn a lot, and I was at this writing seminar over the summer, it was really good, and I wrote this story I’m just dying to tell you about, and let’s get started.
She dressed meticulously, wore perhaps too much lipstick, and seemed just a tad eccentric. But I loved Miss Patton.
Miss Patton was also my faculty advisor. Every semester, I met with her to finalize my next semester’s schedule. She always spent a lot of time going over my options, offering advice, and calling around to make sure the classes I wanted were still open. She put a lot into it, investing herself in me. My friends would tell of quick, cursory meetings with their advisors, who basically just signed off on whatever the student had figured out. Miss Patton was not like that. She cared deeply.
But that was only part of what made her a special advisor. Throughout our meeting, she would shower me with affirmation. As we talked, she would throw in a comment to the effect that she liked me, that I had a lot of talent, that she enjoyed reading my assignments, that I had a great future ahead of me, that it was a pleasure to be my advisor. I always left her office covered with warm fuzzies, feeling exceedingly good about myself. I had just been with somebody who thought I was special and would go out of her way to help me.
There was also some mystery to Miss Patton. She was single, never married, yet she was attractive and smart and talented and kind and utterly likable. I understood that she lived in Bluffton, Ind., with her sister Elizabeth, also a teacher. What was her story? I never heard and never asked, but always wondered.
I don’t know how much potential Miss Patton actually saw in me. At that point, I was just a fairly ordinary student who showed real motivation only in her classes. She didn’t know I would go on to a career in writing. But partly because of her continual affirmation (coupled with a fair amount of conceit in this particular area), I came to believe that I was a genuinely gifted writer.
Miss Patton was in my grandstand, watching my progress and cheering me on. And that continued long after I graduated.
She was excited when I told her I would become assistant editor at the United Brethren Headquarters. “Oh, you’ll do just marvelous,” she would say. And, of course, I believed her.
Miss Patton stopped teaching in 1978, after 18 years at HC, but just couldn’t separate herself from the college. Over the years, I ran into her seven or eight times at Homecoming, Commencement, plays, and other college events. She was always excited to see me, greeting me exuberantly. I would tell her the latest things I’d done and where I’d been published, as if she were my mom and I knew she’d be proud. And indeed, Miss Patton would practically burst with pride, affirming me all over again. Though no longer my teacher, she remained in my grandstand.
Interestingly, even though my ability and credits quickly exceeded Miss Patton’s, I still looked to her for affirmation. Maybe because I knew I would get it. It’s hard to overdose on affirmation.
A teacher can have a tremendous influence not just on a student, but on a life. Few teachers exercise that influence, as Miss Patton did for me. When Miss Patton died at age 82, she left an empty seat in my grandstand. I want everyone to know that I was, and still am, in Miss Patton’s grandstand.
My Miniere’s Surgery, Two Years Later
Just looking at this photo gives me vertigo.
Exactly two years ago today, I was in Indianapolis preparing for surgery. An endolymphatic shunt was implanted behind my left ear. I don’t know how big it is, what it looks like, what it’s made of, how it works, or exactly where it’s located. But it has changed my life.
I was diagnosed, back around 2004, with Miniere’s Disease. It’s an incurable ailment characterized by vertigo, and it comes and goes. You feel fine for a while–weeks, even months–and then you enter a period in which you feel like you’re swimming in cloudy water. The only thing you can do involves diet–limiting salt, caffeine, and alcohol. A fourth trigger, stress, isn’t always something you can control.
Along with Miniere’s Disease comes vomiting. Your head is spinning, and up comes supper. Happily, I’ve not had a vomiting episode for a whole year. The last time was around the middle of April 2011. Strange that my life is timelined around vomiting episodes, but that’s the way it is. Going a whole year is pretty amazing. Other Miniere’s sufferers would consider that extraordinary.
The endolymphatic shunt simply relieves pressure that builds up in the inner ear. All it takes is to push a drop or two of liquid into the shunt. From there, it is absorbed into the surrounding membrane. That’s as much as I understand and can explain.
Now, I’m in no way “cured.” That’s not gonna happen. I have noise in my left ear all of the time–usually just low-level static, but it can get much louder and more tone-like. My hearing in that ear is probably around 30%. My right ear is fine; Miniere’s normally only affects one ear.
I also watch my salt and caffeine intake. Especially salt. When I’ve had too much salt (like a pizza), the ear noise increases. The difference now is that it doesn’t lead to full-blown vertigo, with consequent vomiting. I can almost sense the shunt kicking in–what would in the past have led to vomiting now magically dissipates.
Not that I don’t experience vertigo. It’s still there, in milder forms. I’m not real steady. When I ride my bike and look behind me, I feel like I’m gonna fall. There are times when things get wavy and wierd, and during the past year I’ve had a couple very minor cases of nystagmus (a quick fluttering of the eyes, which causes the world to spin around you, rendering you nonfunctional for a few seconds).
But, it’s been a huge improvement, and I’m grateful.
Miniere’s isn’t cancer. There are some extreme forms, but for most people (like me), it’s something you can live with. But you need to adjust how you live. Like, no frozen food (which is huge in sodium).
There are several surgical options, including totally removing the inner ear machinery. The endolymphatic shunt is the least invasive, and has a 90% success rate (70% after 3 years‚). For me, it seems to be working. I just hope I’m in that 70%. Another year to go.
My various posts about the surgery:
- Now Proud Owner of an Endolymphatic Shunt (April 17, 2010)
- My Meniere’s Surgery, One Year Later (April 16, 2011)
- My Meniere’s Surgery, Two Years Later (April 16, 2012)
- Miniere’s Disease and the Barf Update (April 25, 2013)
- My Annual Meniere’s Disease Update (April 22, 2014)
Christlikeness at the Chrysler Dealership
This morning I had a chance to practice a minimal degree of Christlikeness. But it didn’t start this morning.
It was somewhere around 1983. I was single, living in an apartment, and not exactly pulling in big bucks. One Friday I arrived home from work to find my electricity had been turned off. The relevant office was closed. I would need to wait until Monday to get it taken care of.
I’d been reading something about how Christians should treat people (can’t remember specifically what it was, now), and I knew this was a test to see how I would respond. So when I showed up first thing Monday morning, I didn’t mention how I’d been inconvenienced, that I’d been using outlets in the hallway all weekend, and that I lost everything (which wasn’t much) in my freezer. I could have made a real indignant scene. Lots of people, Christians and non, thrive on making a scene when they feel they’ve been wronged.
But that’s not Christlike.
I just very nicely told what had happened and produced my cancelled checks. The lady looked it up. Yep, their error, and they would get my electricity turned on right away. She sort of apologized. I thanked her, said I really appreciated them taking care of it, and went on my way without demanding some kind of compensation for my spoiled food. I left feeling very good about having remained civil.
That experience set a pattern which I’ve repeated many, many times over the years in similar situations. Which brings us to today.
Last Friday, O’Daniel’s, a Chrysler dealership, replaced my bad fuel pump. This morning, on my way to work, I stopped at the gas station. Four gallons later, I noticed a splashing sound. I looked down and saw gas pouring out underneath my pickup. I quickly turned off the pump. Hmmm, what to do.
I pushed the truck away from the pump, and mentioned the spill to the attendant. Then, on fumes, I drove to O’Daniel’s. I could have made a big scene–how they didn’t get it right, how their mistake cost me $17 in gas, how I would be late for work and had oh so much to do, how the truck could have caught on fire and left me disfigured or my wife a widow….
But that wouldn’t be Christlike.
Instead, I kindly explained what had happened, and asked if they could look at it right away. I also mentioned that the Check Engine light had been on all weekend. Could they look at that, too? Thanks, I appreciate it.
They quickly found the gas-leak problem and fixed it (no charge, of course). And 20 minutes later, I was on my way.
I stopped at the nearest gas station, just down the road. No leakage. BUT, the Check Engine light remained on. Phooey. I drove back to O’Daniel’s.
When I pulled into the service bay, the service people had an “Uh oh” look. The service manager, a woman who had always treated me real well, came right out to the truck with a dire expression, expecting to get the riot act for something or other. She asked what was wrong. Again, I COULD have ripped her about how I was being inconvenienced, about how incompetent they were, about how I would never use or recommend them again, about how I would be even later for work, blah blah blah. Stuff she hears every day, I imagine.
But that wouldn’t be Christlike.
With a cheerful demeanor, I explained that the Check Engine light was still on, and I thought I might as well bring it back. She took the truck immediately, while I (again) grabbed my laptop and headed for their nice customer lounge (with free Wi-Fi). Within 10 minutes, she came to get me. It was just a matter of clearing a computer code.
She apologized for the trouble. Again, she was just waiting for me to pummel her. Instead, to set her at ease, I chuckled. “No problem,” I said. “Things happen. Thanks for taking care of it so quickly.”
And I drove off. I couldn’t help hoping she was thinking, “I wish all of our customers were like that.”
In American society, we’re so caught up in our rights, our entitlements, our expectations. When things fall short, we think it’s perfectly acceptable to chew people out. Especially in business relationships, like in relating to service people. We feel entitled to be demanding and, when our demands aren’t met, caustic and demeaning. Christians do that as much as nonChristians. We’ve all seen that.
Now, I can be stern and straightforward. Sometimes it’s necessary. There is a place for being stern and straightforward. But there is never a place for being unChristlike.
Jesus taught about denying ourselves. About treating others better than we are treated. About giving and loving way beyond what anyone else would expect. About going the extra mile. He suffered and died because of problems he didn’t cause. So the least I could do was to accept some inconvenience from the O’Daniels people without getting bent all out of shape.
That service manager at O’Daniels will never know that my attitude was rooted in being a Christian. I didn’t mention my faith in any way. But God and angels and demons were all watching, and they knew. It’s a little thing, but a tiny spark of Christlikeness, a few molecules of the real thing, won the day, and that’s always makes Jesus smile.
My iPhone and Me, Re-United
I visited Shoe Carnival this afternoon, and was about a mile away, heading home, when I realized I didn’t have my cell phone. I remembered referring to it at Shoe Carnival. The belt pouch had been coming loose lately, not staying tight. I figured it fell off.
I rushed back to Shoe Carnival. We scoured the store, called the number–nothing. My iPhone 4S wasn’t there. Somebody, I figured, found it and walked off with it. I drove off praying, “Lord, you know who has my cell phone. Please get it back to me.”
It always helps to pray. I had read from Brother Lawrence that morning, who said we should maintain a constant state of prayer, “imploring His assistance in our affairs just as they happen.” This had just happened. So I implored.
At home, I signed in to my iCloud account, and clicked on the “Find My Phone” button. There it was–just off South Anthony. (If you’re from Fort Wayne, you are now groaning.) I could see the house in Google satellite view.
From the computer, I locked the phone. I was about ready to remotely wipe it clean, when I noticed that I could send a message. So I sent, “If you have this, please call” and I gave my home phone number.
Within 30 seconds, a woman called. She had found my phone outside Shoe Carnival and tried to turn it in to the store, but she was told to just drop it in a mailbox (which explains the somewhat odd and unhelpful behavior of the store manager–he already KNEW the phone wasn’t in the store, because he turned this lady away). So she was kind of stuck with the phone, and just went home with it.
“Where can I meet you to get my phone?” I asked.
“You can just come to my house,” she said, and gave me the address.
I drove there. A black lady met me at the door with the phone. I gave her $15 in gratitude, and was on my way home.
A prayer was answered. My pearl of great price was returned.
And I was pretty impressed by what I could do remotely to a lost phone.
Announcing My Engagement, 23 Years Ago
From 1981-1993, I was editor of our denominational magazine, and wrote a monthly column called “Randompokes.” I used my May 1989 column to announce my engagement to Pam. I came across the column last night while doing research for a history book. I thought readers might get a kick out of it.
When it comes to my love life, the United Brethren church is filled with false prophets.
I’ve been dating this girl for three-and-a-half years. Her name is Pam Mize, HC Class of ’84, and she’s a staff accountant for a firm in Fort Wayne (halfway to CPAdom, and maybe all the way there after she takes the exam again this month). Three-and-a-half years is a long time to date the same person, and it’s a pretty good indication that there is a certain amount of mutual attraction.
So, everyone has assumed that we’re perfect for each other, that we should get married, that we will get married, that it is our destiny preordained from Creation, that the angels will rejoice and sing hosannas as soon as I pop the question. Which, being interpreted, means:
The sum total of Humanity has been trying to get me married off.
The false prophets arise at holidays. Like Christmas. Every December, people predict that I will put a ring under Pam’s tree. “I just know he’ll give her a ring this year.”
Ditto for Valentines Day, Easter, Pam’s birthday.
“Steve’s going to propose this time. I’m certain of it. I can feel it.”
Thanksgiving, Memorial Day, Halloween.
“This is it. He’s going to propose.”
Labor Day, Columbus Day, Secretary’s Day, Groundhog Day.
“The time is right. I just know it’ll be this holiday.”
Woe unto you false prophets! You have been proven wrong again and again, yet you persist in your ways! A truckload of woes be upon your doorstep!
My coworkers, friends, and relatives were devastated when, once again, Christmas and New Year’s passed, and Pam’s finger remained diamondless. They were so sure the time was right. Presidents’ Day faded, and they pinned their hopes on Valentines Day.
“It’s Valentines Day for sure. Gotta be! I predict.”
On Valentines Day, various people asked me:
“Is this the day you make your announcement?”
“This would be a great opportunity to ask Pam to marry you.”
“You’re going to propose today, aren’t you?”
My standard answer: “Not a chance.”
Everyone predicted that I would propose on Valentines Day. But I refused to be predictable.
I waited until the next day.
That’s right Steve Dennie, confirmed and contented bachelor, staunch defender of the single life, is going to tie the knot, take the plunge, bite the dust, go for it. July 22. This final prophecy will be fulfilled, and then Christ can return….
Christians pretend to endorse singleness, and praise singles for the large amount of time they give to ministry and service. But once an eligible opposite enters the picture and marriage becomes a possibility, people suddenly change tunes. Forget about contented singleness and devotion to ministry. Marriage is a higher calling, a “blessing from God.” It’s better.
With this emphasis, too many people get married to marriage. They desire the state of marriage because they think—and everyone around them confirms—that marriage is necessary in order to be complete, fulfilled, happy, accepted. It is status quo. They want marriage so badly that they’ll make compromises and take shortcuts in order to “ascend” to marriage. The result is a lot–a lot–of bad marriages within the church. And because of our unhealthy exaltation of marriage, we have only ourselves to blame.
Too often, marriage is a result of two incomplete singles joining to form an incomplete marriage. I attended college with a lot of people like that. I decided a long time ago that I would avoid such persons. If I married, it would be to someone who had learned to be happy and productive as a single.
That’s Pam. She doesn’t need me. She has her own career, her own identity. Like me, she is a complete single in Christ.
I have greatly enjoyed being single. In fact in some ways I am being dragged clawing and screaming into marriage, because I treasure all the benefits of singleness.
I love not having to work my schedule around anyone else. I don’t have to be home at 5:30 because supper is ready, and don’t have to report to anybody if I’ll be late.
I love being able to devote so much of my time to my career. I can work until the early morning hours or even pull an all-nighter to meet a deadline, and I don’t have to feel guilty about neglecting anyone at home, because there isn’t anyone at home (except Maddie, my cat, and she sleeps all the time, so what does she care?).
I love eating what and when I want to eat with nobody around to scold me for not eating my vegetables.
I love solitude. For some singles, solitude translates into loneliness. But it fits my temperament
I love being able to prioritize job and church above family, since there isn’t any family.
I love not being responsible for anyone else’s well-being and happiness. Eliminates a lot of pressure and worry.
I love being perfectly content with a merely above-adequate home, with fairly good furniture and bare walls. Nobody else’s pride is at stake. It’s just me and Maddie, and we’re both easy to please.
I love being able to spend an entire evening reading a book or watching a couple good movies.
I love going into town on the spur of the moment to eat or shop or see a movie—without checking to see what another person wants to do.
I love being detached from the materialistic rat-race. Some people say singles are more self-centered, because they have only themselves to worry about. But I think that’s rubbish. From what I’ve seen, Christian singles are generally far less caught up in things than married people. We like nice clothes and nice (littler) cars, but that’s about it. Many, instead of spending money on spouse and children, give a larger proportion of their income to the church and others; ditto for their time.
These years of singleness have been wonderful years of growth and service. But God is directing me down a different path now, and though there is some clawing and screaming, there is also plenty of pulling and “Take me, I’m yours.” On July 22, I will make a lateral move, exchanging my single life for an equally good married life, during which I will continue growing as a person and as a Christian.
I know what you’re thinking: “Maybe Steve shouldn’t go through with this wedding. It doesn’t sound like he’s too crazy about the idea.”
Don’t get me wrong. I am crazy about getting married, because I’m crazy about Pam. I love her deeply. It’s a love built on common interests, shared values, commitment to Christ, and an intense friendship which evolved and matured over a period of five years. Plus a whole lot of “I can’t live without you.”
I’m in love with the single life, but I’m also in love with a girl named Pam. The twain met, and the girl won. And I’m not complaining.
Notes on Agendas and an Abortion Forum
In doing some research last weekend for a book I’m writing, I came across a note in our denominational magazine about an award one of my articles won back in 1987. The article, “Notes on an Abortion Forum,” took second place in the General Article category of the Evangelical Press Association’s annual awards contest. The General Article category typically had more entries than any other category, usually major feature articles. First place was a tie between Campus Life and Leadership Journal, and third place went to Moody Monthly, so I felt in good company.
“Notes on an Abortion Forum,” a lengthy article, remains one of the best articles I’ve ever written. In the 25 years since, I’d like to think I’ve written many articles that are better. But only a couple come to mind, and I’m not sure they’re better. I won two more awards from the EPA the following year, but those pieces pale in comparison to “Abortion Forum.”
I’d forgotten about the judges’ comments on “Abortion Forum.” Those comments were published in the magazine, in that note I ran across last weekend. In a totally self-serving tribute to myself, a congratulatory pat on my own back, here are those comments:
“It is even-handed, calm, and reasoned on a subject that makes many of us–and, I suspect, many of the author’s United Brethren readers–over-emotional and even irrational. The writer’s crisp, clean writing style presents the story of this abortion forum with the same dramatic tension that must have been in the air that night–short sentences, breath-catching silences, and pauses. I felt as if I were there. Given the topic and the denomination, I was, frankly, expecting the narrative to slide into a strong anti-abortion tirade at some point. That it never did was a pleasant surprise. The author rightly sensed that not every anti-abortion argument has to be shrill and vituperative. The writer’s skillful blend of the meeting’s highlights and his own private thoughts make it just as strong and persuasive.”
I received the award at a banquet in Washington DC. Receiving the award in front of my peers was fun. But my enduring memory of that night is the keynote message from Chuck Colson. One statement has stayed with me, and I’ve applied it many times to people who don’t share my priorities.
Colson said he was often criticized for not getting strongly involved in fighting abortion. He agreed that it was a terrible evil. However, he said, God gives different people different agendas. The agenda he’d been given was prison ministry, and he had thrown himself fully into that agenda. He applauded those who crusaded against abortion. But, he said, “That’s not the agenda God gave me.”
I found that very insightful. I took home an award that night, one I’m proud of. I re-read “Notes on an Abortion Forum” every few years, when I come across it; yeah, it’s good, very good. But Chuck Colson’s words stuck to me at a deep level, and often remind me to ask, “What is God telling me to do? What has he made me passionate about? What is my God-given agenda?”
