August 2006
The other night, while surfing mindlessly through an endless menu of cable channels, I came upon the movie As Good as it Gets. I was pleased to discover that I hadn’t missed my favorite scene. The part where Jack Nicholson tells Helen Hunt, "You make me want to be a better man." To which she replies, "That’s maybe the best compliment of my life."
When the scene was over, I changed the channel. I kept clicking around, but was distracted wondering if I had ever received a Best Compliment of My Life. Two instances came to mind and although neither was a direct compliment, the inference was clear in both cases. The first was when a co-worker asked me if I’d like to be fixed up with his younger sister. I hold this man, and his father, who also worked with us, in highest esteem. I remember thinking to myself how flattering it was that someone would think so highly of me as to want me to date his younger sister. I declined the offer, however, I simply could not take the chance that, should things go wrong, it could make for a rather uncomfortable dynamic at work. Still, I didn’t think there could be a higher compliment. That is, until I was entrusted with the welfare of my best friend’s children.
I was raised Methodist, and as an adult, have adopted a more secular view of the world. So when my best friend, Michael, who is Catholic, asked me to be the godfather of his son, all I could say was, "What do I have to do?" I was referring to two things; what would my role be in the baptism ritual? And what would be expected of me, long-term, as godfather? I didn’t have a clue.
Michael didn’t mention anything about religion, he just said that if anything happened to him and his wife, Kim, that I would be the one to take care of their son, Nicholas. It’s a ponderous statement. The implication is grave, but the sentiment is very touching, and highly flattering: If we die, we choose you to see that our son is protected and well cared-for.
While my mouth was saying, "I’d be honored," my mind was saying, please don’t let anything happen to them! I love them both, and couldn’t imagine life without them, but what about poor Nicholas? What if something catastrophic were to happen to his parents and, on top of losing them, he’d discover that a middle aged bachelor, who’s only dependents were two house cats, was going to be his guardian.
When I told my mother that I was going to be Nicholas’ godfather, she seemed surprised. She’s the parent who raised me Methodist and has some understanding of the Catholic faith. She said that she was sure that the Catholic church had very specific and strict rules regarding non-Catholics as godparents; It’s unacceptable. Sure enough, Michael called me a day later to inform me that, as a non-Catholic, I would not be permitted to stand as godfather. The hurt and frustration in his voice was unmistakable. His church was dictating who he could choose as his son’s godfather. I was frustrated as well; I thought, how is it that an institution created to unite people could be so exclusive in its doctrines?
At the baptism, Michael’s brother-in-law, John, stood as godfather. This could hardly be described as settling. John is a wonderful man, and a good father. But, I know Michael felt bullied by his religion, and he does not like to be pushed around.
Three years later, Michael and Kim had a baby girl named Lindsay. I was again asked to be godfather. It seemed that in the three years between their children’s births, a loophole was discovered that would allow me inside the forbidden city. I gladly accepted, and this time nothing would stand in the way, not even my own reservations about my role as a godparent.
During the ceremony, I was making all of these promises, trying to pay attention, and not make any missteps. I was imagining the priest was waiting for me to screw up so he could expose me as a heathen. I was making vows to raise Lindsay according to the teachings of Catholicism in the event of her parent’s demise, while a voice inside me was screaming, Stop the ceremony, there’s no way that I’m going to do that! I’m a hypocrite! I’m an outsider! I don’t believe what you believe! The inner voice remained mute, and the ceremony went off without a hitch. It was official, I was Lindsay’s godfather.
It is now August, 2006, and Lindsay is almost three years old. Because Michael and Kim live in Scarborough, Maine, and I live in Stoneham, Massachusetts, the amount of time I get to see Lindsay and Nicholas is limited. Last Sunday, as I was driving northbound on the Maine Turnpike, on my way to Scarborough, I was thinking about the fact that my goddaughter and I really don’t know each other. I’ve spent quality time with Nicholas on several occasions over the last six years, and we have a wonderful relationship. He’s a smart, caring, energetic kid, and we’re always excited to see each other. But, the last time I saw her, Lindsay was barely speaking, and she spent much of the time during my visit napping. I wasn’t sure what to expect.
Lindsay was shy at first, but that didn’t last. Within an hour of my arrival, I was treated to the inevitable tour of the kid’s bedrooms. Later, while Kim was out shopping with one of her girlfriends, Michael and I took the kids out for dinner. While Michael strapped her into her car seat, Lindsay asked me if she could hold my wristwatch on the ride. I unfastened the buckle and placed the watch in her tiny hand. When we got out of the minivan at the restaurant, Lindsay looked up at me with her soft blue eyes and extended her arms towards the sky, I scooped her up and carried her into the restaurant. She requested the seat next to "Uncle Jeff" while we ate, and sat on my lap when we were done with our meals. I was thoroughly charmed by this affectionate child with the curly, light blonde hair.
On my ride back to Stoneham, I was reflecting on one of the very best days of my summer, and something became very clear to me. I knew that I would do anything for Nicholas and Lindsay. Michael knew this about me even before I did. Six years ago, he told me that he trusted me with the lives of his children. That’s a tribute that transcends religious faith. That is the faith of true friendship. And it’s the best compliment of my life.
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"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
It’s a question adults ask of children."I don’t know" was always my answer.Astronaut? Fireman? Doctor? Not me. I had no clue. No goals.
After an unremarkable twelve years in the public school system, I took the civil service exam and accepted a job with the US Postal Service.
"What do you do?"
It’s a question adults ask of one another.
"I work for the US Postal Service" was always my answer.
As Americans, we expect both questions - What do you want to be? and What do you do? - to be answered one way, with a job title. Pretty short-sighted when you think about it; our occupations personifying us. You’re probably saying to yourself, I wonder if he’d be giving this so much thought if he were, say, a lawyer instead of a civil servant. Probably not. But I am, so I’ve thought about it a lot.
For years, I wished people would ask, "What have you almost done or been?" Now that would be an exciting conversation:"Well, let’s see, I am almost 6 feet tall. I was almost an athlete then I was almost a drummer. I was almost an alcoholic before I almost went to college. I almost got married then almost died."
Pretty cool answer, no? Makes you curious at least, doesn’t it? I’m guessing more so than if I’d answered, "Postal worker". Unfortunately, no one asks about near-misses. So I went along with the program of work=self until one day at the post office - of all places - a statement escaped my mouth like a repressed hiccup. During the course of a conversation on career choices, I said, "I wish I had taken a shot at writing."
I spent a restless night tossing and turning that conversation over in my mind. I thought, What’s stopping you from trying? All I needed was a pen, some paper and a story.
That was the fall of 2005.
Several years earlier, in January, 2001, I contracted a life-threatening blood infection known as septicemia (blood poisoning), and came within a few hours of having my obituary read: Postal Worker Dead at 35.
After a full recovery, I waited for my life-affirming epiphany. It didn’t come. At least not right away.
Later that year, I began to recount my experience in near-death-diary form. I wrote down everything I could remember. Then, about half way through, I buried it in a drawer, and in the process, added almost-writer to the list of things I’d brushed up against and abandoned like a hit-and-run driver.
Fast-forward four years.
In need of something to write, I dug out the septicemia story and set about finishing it. Wanting to write was something I’d kept private. But, now I’d gone and said it out loud to another human being. It was no longer my secret.After a couple re-writes, and some much appreciated advice from a grammatically-gifted co-worker, I began handing copies of my finished essay to friends, family members and co-workers. My hands trembled and my stomach clenched. I was out there. Vulnerable. Awaiting their verdict.
One by one, they reciprocated; the praise was intoxicating; the encouragement sincere. It took almost five years, but, by writing about almost dying, I’d found my life-affirming epiphany.
Several writing classes, and hundreds of hours of solitude later, I had my first story published in Newsweek - It was official, I was a writer.
After years of not wanting to hear the question, "What do you do?" I now answer, "I’m a writer who works for the postal service."As for the other question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"I’m a late bloomer. It took forty years to figure out what I wanted to be. Trouble is, now that I’ve grown up, nobody asks.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
It’s a question adults ask of children."I don’t know" was always my answer.Astronaut? Fireman? Doctor? Not me. I had no clue. No goals.
After an unremarkable twelve years in the public school system, I took the civil service exam and accepted a job with the US Postal Service.
"What do you do?"
It’s a question adults ask of one another.
"I work for the US Postal Service" was always my answer.
As Americans, we expect both questions - What do you want to be? and What do you do? - to be answered one way, with a job title. Pretty short-sighted when you think about it; our occupations personifying us. You’re probably saying to yourself, I wonder if he’d be giving this so much thought if he were, say, a lawyer instead of a civil servant. Probably not. But I am, so I’ve thought about it a lot.
For years, I wished people would ask, "What have you almost done or been?" Now that would be an exciting conversation:"Well, let’s see, I am almost 6 feet tall. I was almost an athlete then I was almost a drummer. I was almost an alcoholic before I almost went to college. I almost got married then almost died."
Pretty cool answer, no? Makes you curious at least, doesn’t it? I’m guessing more so than if I’d answered, "Postal worker". Unfortunately, no one asks about near-misses. So I went along with the program of work=self until one day at the post office - of all places - a statement escaped my mouth like a repressed hiccup. During the course of a conversation on career choices, I said, "I wish I had taken a shot at writing."
I spent a restless night tossing and turning that conversation over in my mind. I thought, What’s stopping you from trying? All I needed was a pen, some paper and a story.
That was the fall of 2005.
Several years earlier, in January, 2001, I contracted a life-threatening blood infection known as septicemia (blood poisoning), and came within a few hours of having my obituary read: Postal Worker Dead at 35.
After a full recovery, I waited for my life-affirming epiphany. It didn’t come. At least not right away.
Later that year, I began to recount my experience in near-death-diary form. I wrote down everything I could remember. Then, about half way through, I buried it in a drawer, and in the process, added almost-writer to the list of things I’d brushed up against and abandoned like a hit-and-run driver.
Fast-forward four years.
In need of something to write, I dug out the septicemia story and set about finishing it. Wanting to write was something I’d kept private. But, now I’d gone and said it out loud to another human being. It was no longer my secret.After a couple re-writes, and some much appreciated advice from a grammatically-gifted co-worker, I began handing copies of my finished essay to friends, family members and co-workers. My hands trembled and my stomach clenched. I was out there. Vulnerable. Awaiting their verdict.
One by one, they reciprocated; the praise was intoxicating; the encouragement sincere. It took almost five years, but, by writing about almost dying, I’d found my life-affirming epiphany.
Several writing classes, and hundreds of hours of solitude later, I had my first story published in Newsweek - It was official, I was a writer.
After years of not wanting to hear the question, "What do you do?" I now answer, "I’m a writer who works for the postal service."As for the other question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"I’m a late bloomer. It took forty years to figure out what I wanted to be. Trouble is, now that I’ve grown up, nobody asks.