by Andy Andrews
“Yes,” Jones replied. “I’m beginning to think the condition runs in your family.” As the meaning of that remark flew over Mary Chandler’s head, he went on. “I’ll explain it like this: As I’ve already stated, you are an incredible woman. Together, you and Jack have accomplished great things. You have helped many people. To this date, the effects of your butterfly wings on the lives of other people are many, long lasting, and ongoing. But there is more to be done. Much more . . .
“You see, my dear, there is a future that lies ahead of every man and woman. Our choices now—this week, this month, this year—are very sticky. Once made, their effects never go away. Rather, those choices about how we think and what we do are a constant presence. Every thought, every action is a choice, and even now the choices you have made in your life thus far are shifting and combining in order to create who you really are. Therefore, simple logic says that by paying careful attention to our choices from this point forward, we can create a future we choose instead of a future that ‘happens.’
“In your case, Mary Chandler Bailey, you are a very accomplished human being. However, if you wish to have increased influence for good, if you desire greater financial options in order to give and help more, if you truly want to create hurricanes of opportunity for others with your butterfly wings, you must become the kind of person who can accomplish these things.”
Mary Chandler was listening intently. Jones was about to close the circle on his narrative, and the truth of it would shock her. For a long time after she would wonder how she could have wasted so much time and energy because of what she referred to as her “eye condition.” “I’ll never know how much I missed,” she liked to tell people. “I was blind as a bat—walking around all day, every day—never suspecting I could not see some things that were right in front of me.”
“Amazingly,” Jones finally said, “the very things you must master—to become the person you must become—in order to accomplish what lies ahead, are being taught by your mother right now, but you are not paying attention.
“For instance, to fulfill the purpose of your own life, you must learn greater patience and exhibit that patience publicly and privately. You must possess a greater spirit of gratefulness and effectively demonstrate greater appreciation to others for the purposes they are fulfilling. You must learn to forgive even when another does not reciprocate. You must also learn to accept forgiveness when it is offered and recognize that, sometimes, the offer is not verbalized but expressed in an action or from one’s spirit.
“Your mother, Mary Chandler, is teaching these things right now. Today she is being used for a mighty purpose that will one day touch tens of thousands of lives through the life of her daughter . . . you. You are still her little girl, and she still loves you more than anything. She does not think in the same way you do anymore. But her soul—that spirit that was your mother—is still your mother.”
Mary Chandler had begun to cry. Jones knelt on the porch’s floor and took her hand. “Mary C?” he said quietly, causing her to look up, startled. Jones smiled and said, “Remember how many times she called you that when you were a little girl? Remember how it made you laugh? Years ago, in a conversation with Jack and me, you mentioned a song that she used to sing to you every night when she put you to bed. Do you remember it?”
With perfect pitch but faltering tone, Jones sang. As the tears flowed freely, Mary Chandler held on to the old man’s hands with both of hers and pressed her head against his shoulder as his voice washed over her with memories from childhood.
Hush, my sweetheart. Close your eyes.
It’s almost time to say good night.
No more worries; work is done.
Sweet dreams now ’til morning sun.
Jones lifted his shoulder, gently pulling it away, causing Mary Chandler to lift her head. As she looked into the old man’s eyes, he squeezed her hands and asked, “Do you remember the rest?” She nodded. “Sing it with me,” he said, “and tomorrow, go wrap your arms around your sweet mother . . . and sing the song for her.”
Once more Jones sang the familiar tune, and with tears continuing to course down her cheeks, Mary Chandler joined her own voice with his. It was a moment that marked the beginning of what would become a greatly expanded level of searching, learning, and understanding for her. And there would be a renewed purpose, with direction and a trajectory in Mary Chandler’s own life that she had never expected . . . or had even known was possible.
Hush, my sweetheart. Close your eyes.
Now it’s time to say good night.
Daylight’s fading; rest your bones.
Don’t be afraid; you’re not alone.
Mary Chandler held on tightly to the old man’s hands until he got to his feet. With a squeeze, she released him and said, “Thank you. I don’t know why I never saw that before.”
Jones smiled and shrugged. “Well,” he said softly, “now you do.” He shrugged again. “It’s an old condition, a common story. I was blind, but now I see. Perspective changes everything.” He motioned toward the empty end of the couch and said, “Looks like plenty of room to stretch out. Why don’t you rest a bit? I’m sure Jack will be on up soon.”
Suddenly Mary Chandler was tired. In fact, she was more exhausted than she could ever remember. With just the suggestion, she slowly lay down with barely the energy to get her feet up. Later she couldn’t recall if she had even said good-bye. She remembered only her mother’s song. Jones had placed his hand on her head while he softly sang it again, and by the time Jack woke her up to go inside, the old man was gone.
Thirteen
It was the Tuesday morning after I had seen him last at the Grand Hotel, and I drove to Fairhope to find the old man. I knew I would see him at the next parenting class, but I needed to see him sooner. I was not doing well. In fact, those were the exact words Polly had used that very morning. “You,” my wife had declared with a finger pointed in my direction, “are not doing well.”
It was true. I was not and did not need anyone to diagnose that fact for me. The book that was not being written was hanging over my days and mocking me with dreams at night. For some reason I was unable to concoct a good story. Matt was continuing to be patient and good humored—at least to my face—and I was grateful for his loyalty, but privately I had gone from concerned to alarmed to fearful. Now, it seemed, I had arrived at the level of disgust; and while it was all directed at myself, those closest to me endured a degree of grouchiness from me they did not deserve.
After walking the grounds of the Grand Hotel, through the marina, and scouring downtown Fairhope, I finally spotted Jones walking up the hill from the city pier. Quickly parking, I called after him and ran to catch up. He was waiting at the top of what was a much higher hill than I remembered.
I was already in a bad mood, and having run up Mount Kilimanjaro after a man who kept walking as I struggled up the cliff behind him did not soothe my irritation. Fortunately for him (and probably for me) I could not speak for several minutes. The lack of oxygen at that altitude prolonged my period of assimilation, which was a good thing. By the time I could breathe and talk, I had forgotten why I was aggravated in the first place.
“I’ve looked all over for you,” was the first thing I said, to which Jones replied, “I haven’t been all over. I’ve only been here and there.”
“You know,” I said to Jones, “when you’re out of the area, I don’t know where you are. And when you are in the area, I don’t know where you are. Of course, you could be in the area, but because I don’t know when or if I will see you again, it doesn’t really matter that you are. That you are in the area, I mean. So you might as well, at least as far as I’m concerned, be out of the area.”
Jones nodded seriously and said, “Fascinating. Would you write that down for me? I’d like to take it to a crazy person for translation.”
After laughing at me about that, he headed toward the shade in a nearby front yard and sat down on the ground, motioning for me to join h
im.
“You’re concerned about the book, ain’t ya?” he said.
“Yes sir.”
“No fantastic story?” he asked. “No spies? No war heroes? No folks traveling through time?”
I shook my head.
“Hm . . .” Jones put his hands behind his head and lay back in the grass. “How about a grave robber? You used a grave robber in The Lost Choice.”
“No,” I said. “I’m thinking ‘grave robber’ is not a character choice to trot out in more than one book.”
He seemed to consider that thought before nodding. “You’re probably right. Okay, no grave robbers. Looks like you are seriously stuck.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
“‘Seriously stuck’ isn’t such a bad thing.”
“Really?” I said drily.
“Really,” Jones responded. ‘Seriously stuck’ provides a clearly defined opportunity. When one is seriously stuck, there is an obvious choice that must be made. You can do one of two things. You can quit, or you can break through to a new level of awareness and achievement. There ya go. Take your pick.” He smiled contentedly and closed his eyes.
I waited to see if he would keep talking. When he did not, I shook my head and said, “When you say something like that, it seems very simple.”
He did not open his eyes. In fact, the old man added a yawn to his sleepy posture as he responded. “It is simple. It ain’t necessarily easy, but it is simple.” Jones paused before continuing. “And,” he said, “‘seriously stuck’ has another benefit. That condition is one of the few that allows the time needed to closely examine our surroundings. The answer one seeks when seriously stuck is never far away.” He opened one eye to see if I was listening. Satisfied that I was, he closed it and settled into a more comfortable position.
“Well, I think I have looked close by for a story,” I said, “but frankly there is nothing around here but a normal place with normal people doing normal things.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Jones inquired.
“Normal is just too ordinary,” I tried to explain. “Normal is normal. People have to be entertained.”
Jones furrowed his brow. “Are you trying to help folks change their lives or entertain ’em?”
“Both, I think. If the books don’t entertain to a degree,” I said, “people might not stick around long enough to be helped.”
“You have a point there,” he said. “Still, sometimes real life can be right entertaining. Keep an eye on it.”
“I will,” I promised.
Jones jumped to his feet. “Give me a ride?”
“Sure,” I said. “Where to?”
“You just fetch the car,” he said. “Baker Larson ought to be in town soon. Let’s go see him.”
I managed to get down the hill without injury and was on my way back up when I saw a guy who turned out to be Baker Larson walking across the front yard in which we had just been sitting to shake Jones’s hand and give him a hug. I parked again—this time close by—and went to join them.
Baker and I were introduced, and Jones gave me a brief overview of their first encounter. Baker filled in a few blanks about their current situation, including the finances, and soon the three of us were sitting in the shade, just as Jones and I had done earlier. We talked about the heat and about fishing. We discussed ideas for a tree house in the oak that was above us and dissected the Atlanta Braves pitching staff before Jones abruptly changed the subject.
“Baker,” he said, “you’re looking to make a comeback, correct?”
“Yes sir. Absolutely,” the younger man answered.
“So what is the biggest barrier to getting started on that comeback right away?”
“That’s easy,” Baker answered. “My credit is shot.”
Uh-oh, I thought, swinging my eyes to Jones for the reaction. He shouldn’t have said that . . .
“Hey, Baker . . .”
“Sir?”
“Read my mind.” Jones bugged his eyes open and stuck his face toward the younger man.
Baker was puzzled but had enough experience with the old man to play along. “Ah, okay . . . ,” he said and stared at Jones. Within seconds he had given up. “Oh well,” he said, “I can’t do it. So tell me . . . What are you thinking?”
Jones glanced at me and whistled. “Very nice,” he said. “You hit it right on the nose. In fact, those were my very words: ‘What are you thinking?’”
Baker frowned and said, “I don’t get it.”
Jones laughed. “That’s exactly right. You’re getting ahead of me, but that is correct. Say it again.”
Baker lifted his hands in confusion. “I don’t get it.”
“Correct,” Jones shot back playfully. “In this particular instance, you do not get it.” Before the younger man could be offended, Jones explained. “Look, I’m just teasing, but to begin your comeback—no fooling around at all—you’ll need to turn most of what you think . . . up . . . side . . . down. Do you hear me?”
Baker nodded grudgingly. “I hear you. Don’t believe everything you think, right?”
“Correct. I’m glad you remember. What about the secret doctrine of extraordinary achievement—my little speech about not being like everyone else?”
“I got it,” Baker said. “I say it to myself a lot.”
“Good man,” Jones nodded. “That just might be the best advice you ever get. It covers a lot of ground. So keep this in mind . . .” Jones was face to face with the younger man. “If you do not want an average life, you must be on guard against, and quietly suspicious of, conclusions made by conventional thinking.”
“Like what?” Baker asked.
“Like your nonexistent credit at the present time,” Jones said. “Conventional thinking says that is a bad thing.”
“And you’re about to tell me it’s a good thing?” Baker said skeptically.
“It depends,” Jones replied. “Do you want an average life or an extraordinary life?”
Baker said nothing. He simply stared at the old man.
“Son,” Jones said, shifting and moving closer. “You have to answer that question for yourself. Average life . . . or extraordinary life? You really do have to choose.
“I know where you are right now. Don’t try to hide your thinking. Examine it. Right now, you don’t want to choose either one. You don’t want to say anything. You figure that if you answer ‘average,’ then you’re a loser for settling for less than the best for your family. On the other hand, you know that if you speak up and declare, ‘I want to live an extraordinary life,’ you’ve committed to do something different and be something different, and that is going to be tough. But you must choose.”
Jones gestured toward me. “Thirty some-odd years ago, I had much the same conversation with him. And his situation at that time makes you look like a king.” Baker looked at me with more interest. “I told Andy the same thing you need to understand now . . . that if you do not choose, you’ll end up like everyone else in the world who has never chosen. The people who do not actively choose a road to travel always default to the road everyone else is already on. They default to ‘average.’
“So do you want to be different, Baker? Then choose. Most people would not. They will not. In fact, most people would leave right now, offended that anyone would dare talk to them this way. Most people in your place would probably hit me or cry or cuss.
“But you know what? I don’t think you are ‘most people.’ I think you have ‘extraordinary’ running through your veins. You’ve just never known what to do about it. Well . . . I’m ready and willing to guide or assist you in any way I can, at least for a time. But first, you must choose.” Jones eased back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him, but continued to watch the younger man carefully.
Baker paused only a moment before beginning to nod. Looking Jones in the eye, he said, “You’re right. You are right about all that. And about me. I am scared. In fact, I don’t know if I have
ever been this scared. But maybe that’s a good thing too. Even when I was a little boy getting picked on by the big kids, I always fought best when I was scared.
“I’m tired of doing things halfway. And, frankly, I am tired of being scared. Honestly, right now, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to make a living, but I’ve thought about all you told me last week . . . especially all that about setting standards according to the results I want to achieve. Okay then, I’ll figure out the how later, but right now I am quite certain about the results I want for my family. Okay. I’m ready to learn and move. So, if you will, mark me down for an extraordinary life.”
“Done,” Jones said. “Consider yourself on the list.” Turning to look at the older house behind us, Jones gestured toward it and said, “I need to be in there in a bit. It’s almost noon.”
I looked at the house and wondered about Jones’s appointment. What could that be? I also wondered how he had connected with Baker. After a mental detour away from the conversation, I zoned back in.
“I know we haven’t much time,” Jones was saying to Baker, “but there are several quick things I want to convey. You are determining to think differently in order to achieve different results, correct?” Baker agreed. “Okay . . . about the credit thing. Would a life without debt of any kind be extraordinary?”
“Ah . . . yes,” Baker said, trying not to show his doubt about that possibility so soon after he had told Jones that he wanted an extraordinary life.
“Good, I agree,” Jones said. “Question: Last week, had your credit been good, would you have gotten a loan? For something?”
“Probably,” Baker admitted.
“Yes,” Jones agreed again. “Most people would have in your situation. Of course, if you had, you would have been right back in debt. In essence, you would have moved away from—in the opposite direction from—the life you just chose to pursue.
“Look at it from this perspective: a situation that looks like a bad thing to most folks—you can’t get a loan—is now a good thing if you can manage to think differently.”