This I Believe: Life Lessons

by Dan Gediman

  I moved out of the parsonage, got a job in a furniture factory, and bought a used mobile home for $6,000. People from the church would come by my trailer from time to time to tell me they were still praying for me and that they hoped I would come back to Jesus before I wound up in hell. I just stared at the ground the way you would with a schoolyard bully and hoped they’d go away.

  As the years passed by, opportunity took me all over the United States and to other countries as well. I saw churches everywhere I went, and I noticed something I’d never seen before. I met people who didn’t pray to Jesus. You have to understand, where I come from the people who tried to teach me about God by using fear also kept me from learning about other paths to God. Any variation was described as a trick of the devil.

  But I saw good, sincere Muslims, Buddhists, and Jews all walking in the light—as they knew it. I started to believe that no one is capable of knowing God’s specific identity, so I decided to seek him down my own path, because I believe that’s what he wants me to do. I talk to him daily. He never says anything back, but I know he’s listening. I thank him for my family and friends, and I thank him for the good life I have. I still have problems like anyone else, but overall there’s peace in my heart.

  The people who were trying to get me to God used fear and intimidation like a hammer, beating into submission anyone who dared to question their brand of absolute truth.

  The higher power I now pray to gives me love, joy, and comfort. And I’m not afraid of him. I had to break away from the God I was supposed to believe in to find the God I could believe in.

  Singer-songwriter Paul Thorn was born in Wisconsin and raised in Tupelo, Mississippi. He was a professional boxer and worked in a furniture factory before being discovered playing guitar at a local pizzeria. Mr. Thorn’s latest album is Pimps and Preachers.

  The Perfect Merge

  Lori Vermeulen

  I believe that the strength of a person’s faith is inversely proportional to the distance she travels before merging when entering a construction zone.

  “Merge!” the blinking yellow lights shout. “Merge! Go left! Move over immediately!” What’s a body to do when faced with such clear direction as this? If I merge immediately, I will be obeying the law. Furthermore, I will be safely in the correct lane when only one lane remains. What else can I do but merge?

  Well, there is, of course, a second option. The alternative is to selfishly speed ahead while leaving those early mergers in my dust. I can pass everybody and sneak into the merge lane at the last possible moment. This choice would put me in first place, and isn’t first place the best place to be?

  This is a simple choice if I am thinking only of myself. The decision only becomes complicated when I consider both the actions and the welfare of my fellow mergers. If all drivers merge as soon as possible, everyone will be in the right place when the two lanes become one. No one will be left behind. A perfect merge means that no one is delayed for even one second. But, let’s face it: if just one individual chooses to speed ahead, a delay will occur for everyone when the entire merged lane must stop to let the speedy one in. And, in that case, he who merged first will wait the longest. Do I want to be the offender? The one who just “can’t wait” and ultimately destroys the synchronous beauty of the perfect merge?

  To love one’s enemies is to merge early and wave to the guy who speeds on. Isn’t that what all the great religions teach? I am a human being, and therefore I have a choice. I can choose to be selfish and a step ahead of everyone else, or I can choose to be generous and accept the risk of being left behind.

  It is an act of faith to merge early. My faith in making this choice is not in the belief that all will merge early and no one will be delayed. Oh, no. As long as there are human beings, there will be those who will fail and fall short, and there will be times when I will be one of the fallen ones. My faith is in the belief that sacrifice for others is inherently good and making the choice to do good is the gift of being human.

  I’m now a college administrator and professor, as well as a parent, so I’ve had numerous opportunities to look at many different perceptions of fairness and try to understand them. I tell my students and my own children that the important thing is that everybody has a choice, but the only choices you can control are your own. We find unfairness everywhere in life. I believe it’s best to accept this and choose to do the right thing.

  So I merge early because I can. And I hope that I smile and wave when stopping to let my fellow man in ahead of me.

  Lori Vermeulen is the dean of the College of Arts and Sciences and a professor of chemistry at West Chester University of Pennsylvania. She has been married to her high school sweetheart for twenty-nine years and is the mother of three beautiful children.

  Listening Is Powerful Medicine

  Alicia M. Conill, M.D.

  I believe listening is powerful medicine.

  Studies have shown it takes a physician about eighteen seconds to interrupt a patient after he or she begins talking.

  It was Sunday. I had one last patient to see. I approached her room in a hurry and stood at the doorway. She was an older woman, sitting at the edge of the bed, struggling to put socks on her swollen feet. I crossed the threshold, spoke quickly to the nurse, and scanned her chart, noting that she was in stable condition. I was almost in the clear.

  I leaned on the bed rail and looked down at her. She asked if I could help put on her socks. Instead, I launched into a monologue that went something like this: “How are you feeling? Your sugars and blood pressure were high but they’re better today. The nurse mentioned you’re anxious to see your son who’s visiting you today. It’s nice to have family visit from far away. I bet you really look forward to seeing him.”

  She stopped me with a stern, authoritative voice. “Sit down, doctor. This is my story, not your story.”

  I was surprised and embarrassed. I sat down. I helped her with the socks. She began to tell me that her only son lived around the corner from her, but she had not seen him in five years. She believed that the stress of this contributed greatly to her health problems. After hearing her story and putting on her socks, I asked if there was anything else I could do for her. She shook her head no and smiled. All she wanted me to do was to listen.

  Each story is different. Some are detailed; others are vague. Some have a beginning, middle, and end. Others wander without a clear conclusion. Some are true, others not. Yet all of those things do not really matter. What matters to the storyteller is that the story is heard—without interruption, assumption, or judgment.

  Listening to someone’s story costs less than expensive diagnostic testing but is key to healing and diagnosis.

  I have often thought of what that woman taught me and reminded myself of the importance of stopping, sitting down, and truly listening. And, not long after, in an unexpected twist, I became the patient, with a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis at age thirty-one. Now, twenty years later, I sit all the time—in a wheelchair.

  For as long as I could, I continued to see patients from my chair but had to resign when my hands were affected. I still teach medical students and other health care professionals, but now from the perspective of both physician and patient.

  I tell them I believe in the power of listening. I tell them I know firsthand that immeasurable healing takes place within me when someone stops, sits down, and listens to my story.

  Alicia Conill, M.D., is a clinical associate professor at the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine. A native of Cuba, Dr. Conill also directs the nonprofit Conill Institute, which provides education to increase empathy, knowledge, and awareness about people living with chronic illness and physical disability.

  Semper Fidelis

  Andrew Paradis

  My foundational belief, the one thing I find that I can count on in myself, and that I cling to in times of crisis, was formed during my service in the U.S. Marines. Their motto is “Semper Fidelis,” which means “alw
ays faithful.”

  In the Corps, that motto translated to the idea that you never leave your partner, especially in times of great need. You are there not to save or protect yourself, but to make sure your buddies are safe and protected; simply put, the mission and your comrades are more important than you are, and you realize quickly that you are engaged in events far larger than yourself.

  Since serving in the Corps, I have been challenged to remain always faithful. Several years ago, my wife, who has a physical disability (Ehlers-Danlos syndrome), began suffering from an undiagnosed mental illness, bipolar disorder. In the months leading up to her eventual diagnosis and treatment, she attempted suicide three times. I did all I could to keep up as much of a normal life as possible, especially for our young daughter, who also has Ehlers-Danlos. I didn’t want her to think of her mom as crazy, as a person who couldn’t be her mom anymore.

  Over the winter my endurance began to wear thin; I felt alone in an emotional storm, all guidance systems offline. There were times of deep weakness in which I almost gave in to my wife’s late-night whispered pleadings to help her kill herself: “Just turn the other way,” “Just take Ana to visit your parents for the weekend.” But in the few islands of calm, I was able to somehow rekindle the spirit of that Marine Corps motto. I decided that if nothing else, I would not quit on the woman I loved; I would not quit on our daughter. If it brought me to my knees, so be it. I would see her through her recovery process. I needed to be there to make sure she was safe and protected, regardless of any impact that would have on me.

  Now, four years later, my wife is on good meds and in good therapy, and she has regained her true, loving self. Our daughter has her mom back, I have my wife back, and she has herself back. And it is because of this fundamental belief, this notion that you never quit on those you love.

  Semper Fi.

  Andrew Paradis is a former U.S. Marine and current theoretical physicist/software engineer. He grew up in Fort Kent, Maine, with four younger brothers, who correctly tortured him for his many idiosyncrasies. He lives and works in western Maine with his wife and daughter and their dogs, cats, and horses.

  Our Vulnerability Is Our Strength

  Colin Bates

  Most of my friends have recently graduated from college. Every so often one will call me up to grumble about their new job, telling me how underappreciated they feel or how they’re not achieving the success they wanted. I enjoy listening to them. I think that’s what friends are for. But it also gives me perspective on my own work.

  I work with two developmentally disabled men, my bosses essentially, who each have profound mental retardation. They’re loud without being able to speak. They’re violent without understanding the consequences. They can’t bathe themselves. They can’t cook or work a job. Their behaviors range from catatonic to aggressive.

  As a resident service assistant, I go to where these men live and help them in everything they do—bathing, dressing, cooking, feeding, cleaning, going to the bathroom—from the moment they wake until they go to bed. It pays nine bucks an hour.

  Underappreciated? Try having your hair ripped out while changing a diaper. Try having the meal you’ve prepared thrown at you. Try being spit on.

  The funny thing is, I love my job. I do. I know I’m young and still have a lot to learn, but here it is: I believe in helplessness, which is to say I believe we need other humans.

  It isn’t enough to be what our society has dubbed as successful. What we really need are others around us engaging, nurturing, listening, and willing to sacrifice their time and agendas. I don’t care if you’re the CEO of a multibillion-dollar company or a single mother with five kids. Nobody is completely self-sufficient, and so, in that way, we are all helpless. We’re helpless unto each other.

  The cool thing about the guys I work for is that they make their needs explicit. Things that take seconds for most of us, like changing socks, can take hours for them, but their vulnerability isn’t a handicap so much as an example. Being with them, encouraging them—“Yes, the socks are on! The socks are off!”—puts things into perspective.

  Most of the people I know are embarrassed by what they can’t do. They see it as a sign of weakness and consequently walk around with burdened hearts. For my generation the notion that success equals fulfillment has been pounded into our brains as if it were the truth. My generation is being told that if you can’t do something alone, if you’re not smart enough or capable enough, then you’ve failed.

  So far, the turning points in my life have not been the times I succeeded at something, but the times I’ve whispered, “I’m lost,” or “Help me,” or “I need a friend.” In becoming helpless, I’ve allowed myself to be shaped and supported by those who love me—which makes helplessness a gift.

  And I have my bosses to thank for it. We’ve discovered the joy of helping and being helped. I believe that sometimes our vulnerability is our strength.

  Colin Bates is a resident service assistant for people with mental disabilities and a student at Pennsylvania State University. He’s finishing a degree in English and will pursue an MFA in creative writing. He lives in Bellefonte, Pennsylvania, with his cat, Cleo.

  Patriotic Ponderings

  Joan Skiba

  As an army brat growing up in a military home, raised by military minds, I was receptive to all of the patriotic messages surrounding me. At a very early age, I recall memorizing a poem that always created a tremendous sense of pride as well as a healthy dose of goose bumps. A snippet of the poem is imprinted in my memory: “loyal hearts are beating high: / Hats off! / The flag is passing by!”

  There was no question. I was the embodiment of a patriot, albeit a very young one. I was proud to be an American and knew in my young heart that the families in the military were very special and especially patriotic. Then I grew up.

  I went to Ohio State in the sixties and saw firsthand the antiwar groups that frequented my college campus and dared to question my country’s values and actions in Vietnam. Their messages alarmed me. I was putting all of my energy into my nursing education and had no inclination to question my government or the war. I felt hostility toward these dissenters and had no desire to hear any of their ideas. My naive, uninformed self believed that anyone opposing my government should just leave the country.

  After graduation, I joined the Army Nurse Corps. I went to Vietnam and worked in an emergency room, tending to the casualties of the war. Within the first week I began to question my youthful paradigms. I looked into the eyes of a dying nineteen-year-old American and could not justify his death. I took care of a Vietcong soldier, tending to his wounds, knowing he would survive those wounds but ultimately lose his life to his captors. I cried as I plucked out pieces of small metal fragments from his body.

  I gradually began to understand that war is patriotism on opposing sides. The uniforms differentiate the dogma but don’t separate the grief. The uniforms define the combatants, but their losses are universal. The young American and Vietcong were patriots. Each loved, each defended, and each died for his country.

  This is when I came to believe that a patriotic person can question and disagree with the country she loves.

  I embrace my sense of belonging to this country, my love of this country, and the democratic values of this country. I staunchly endorse the patriotic right to question my country’s values and its actions. As an American, I can question. As an American, I have the right to oppose any of my government’s actions.

  I believe it is my responsibility as a patriotic person to be informed and to never stop questioning.

  And, yes, I still get goose bumps when watching our flag pass by.

  After more than twenty years in emergency medicine, Joan Skiba returned to school to become an elementary school teacher. Her goal every year is to impress upon her young students the importance of critical thinking and the value of knowing, not simply believing. Ms. Skiba says war taught her that.

  Opening the Door of
Mercy

  Karin Round

  One afternoon a couple of summers ago, just as the sky was darkening, a woman I didn’t know stood sagging on our threshold, holding the screen door open. I saw the silhouette of her head through the window.

  No, she answered me, she was not all right. She didn’t feel well at all. So, I wondered, what was I supposed to do now?

  This moment of decision had happened to me before. For almost nineteen years, we’ve lived here at the foot of a highway exit ramp. Our address is blandly suburban, but the highway often leads exhausted cars onto our curb. Lately cell phones have diminished the flow, but we’ve met many people in distress. More diverse than our own community, these travelers have all asked for little things, such as the phone, a glass of water, or simply directions. All have been strangers to me.

  Ours is a cynical, suspicious time. Conventional wisdom advises that to act as a good Samaritan is to be naive and risk terrible consequences. The news is full of stories about victims who unwittingly endanger themselves. I’ve no doubt that those are true stories, but the lesson rubs me the wrong way. Sometimes to do the right thing, you must take a risk. Must we fear all of those whom we don’t know? If so, then how do we act or identify ourselves as neighbors or citizens when we won’t greet one another without proper introductions and background checks? Is our own personal safety always the important consideration?