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- Chris Fabry
- Married to Andrea since 1982. We have 9 children together and none apart. Our dog's name is Tebow.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Snapshots from a Little League game. A pitcher aims at home plate. Hopes he won’t hit the batter. Prays it’s close to a strike. Just close, that’s all he wants.
My son has made it to first because the pitches were only close. Blue helmet. Plastic cleats. The ball hurtles toward the plate and Brandon is gone, pushing off first and running with the pent-up energy only 12-year olds know. Striding toward second. The catcher stands and rainbows the ball over the pitcher’s head. This young man with a mask and shin guards who has suffered the slings and arrows of a coach who has only seen what he’s done wrong. But now he is up and firing toward two outstretched gloves. Shortstop and second jockey for position in a competition for who will catch and tag.
My son slides between them and the ball skitters a few feet away, harmless as a kitten. He is safe. A little dirty, but safe. And he stands on second and surveys the view, brushing off his uniform.
The pitcher gets the ball and eyes home plate, more determined. Focused. He is so focused he does not see my son straying off second, walking slowly back to first. Walking like he had no right to be where he had been.
“What’s he doing?” a mother says behind me. She has lamented the frigid temperature, now in the 50s. She is from Chicago, but her blood has been conditioned by desert heat.
“I don’t know,” another mom says. “Maybe he thinks he’s out.”
My son gets half-way to first, then a look of terror strikes him as he hears a voice from his bench and he turns back as the pitcher delivers. My son scampers back to second and half of the crowd breathes a sigh of relief.
The game over, we walk to the car and talk intricacies of the past two-hours. The player hit by the pitch who had to go out of the game. The triple another teammate hit. The pitcher on the other team whose mechanics and hair looked like Tim Lincecum.
“Oh yeah, on that play where you stole second and then tried to steal first, what happened?”
A laugh. Cheeks flushed red to match his hat. "Don't bring that up again."
“But what happened?” I say. “This is all about learning from our mistakes.”
A long, winding story of what goes through a 12-year old’s mind spills from his lips. Standing on second he was unsure whether or not he was “safe.” Or if the ball had been tipped by the batter. Or if he had left first too soon.
“When you make it to second, you stand on the base and call time if you’re unsure about anything,” I said.
“But I heard someone say ‘Go back!’” he says. “I thought it was the umpire."
Many voices yell many things at many people on a baseball field. There are voices we think we hear that mix and mingle with what we hear inside.
“Go back!”
In this diamond of a metaphor, I saw myself straying off second, moving but backward, returning to the base I touched long ago. A voice, a siren, a fear, maybe guilt urges me to go where I’ve already been. It sounds real.
“You don’t deserve to be there. Go back.”
Your opponent wants you to retreat. He does not want you to stand on the base where you are and move forward. But your coach compels you home. He is urging you forward and telling you this is about learning from your mistakes and he is waving his arm so you won’t break stride. Listening to that voice is something you have to choose. Listening to that voice will help you be “safe” at home.
Just remember to slide if there’s a play at the plate.
My son slides between them and the ball skitters a few feet away, harmless as a kitten. He is safe. A little dirty, but safe. And he stands on second and surveys the view, brushing off his uniform.
The pitcher gets the ball and eyes home plate, more determined. Focused. He is so focused he does not see my son straying off second, walking slowly back to first. Walking like he had no right to be where he had been.
“I don’t know,” another mom says. “Maybe he thinks he’s out.”
My son gets half-way to first, then a look of terror strikes him as he hears a voice from his bench and he turns back as the pitcher delivers. My son scampers back to second and half of the crowd breathes a sigh of relief.
The game over, we walk to the car and talk intricacies of the past two-hours. The player hit by the pitch who had to go out of the game. The triple another teammate hit. The pitcher on the other team whose mechanics and hair looked like Tim Lincecum.
“Oh yeah, on that play where you stole second and then tried to steal first, what happened?”
A laugh. Cheeks flushed red to match his hat. "Don't bring that up again."
“But what happened?” I say. “This is all about learning from our mistakes.”
A long, winding story of what goes through a 12-year old’s mind spills from his lips. Standing on second he was unsure whether or not he was “safe.” Or if the ball had been tipped by the batter. Or if he had left first too soon.
“When you make it to second, you stand on the base and call time if you’re unsure about anything,” I said.
“But I heard someone say ‘Go back!’” he says. “I thought it was the umpire."
Many voices yell many things at many people on a baseball field. There are voices we think we hear that mix and mingle with what we hear inside.
“Go back!”
“You don’t deserve to be there. Go back.”
Your opponent wants you to retreat. He does not want you to stand on the base where you are and move forward. But your coach compels you home. He is urging you forward and telling you this is about learning from your mistakes and he is waving his arm so you won’t break stride. Listening to that voice is something you have to choose. Listening to that voice will help you be “safe” at home.
Just remember to slide if there’s a play at the plate.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
This is the prayer, attributed to St. Francis of Assisi, discussed on the program 10/8/2013 and taken from the book, Prayers for Today: A Yearlong Journey of Contemplative Prayer. The prayer is also credited to Rafael Merry del Val.
O Jesus, meek and humble of heart, hear me.
From the desire of being esteemed, deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being loved, deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being praised, deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being preferred to others, deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being consulted, deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being approved, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being humiliated, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being despised, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of suffering rebuke, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being criticized, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being forgotten, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being ridiculed, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being wronged, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being suspected, deliver me, Jesus.
That others may be loved more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be esteemed more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That, in the opinion of the world, others may increase and I may decrease,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be chosen and I set aside, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it.
O Jesus, meek and humble of heart, hear me.
From the desire of being esteemed, deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being loved, deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being praised, deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being preferred to others, deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being consulted, deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being approved, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being humiliated, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being despised, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of suffering rebuke, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being criticized, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being forgotten, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being ridiculed, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being wronged, deliver me, Jesus.
From the fear of being suspected, deliver me, Jesus.
That others may be loved more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be esteemed more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That, in the opinion of the world, others may increase and I may decrease,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be chosen and I set aside, Jesus grant me the grace to desire it.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Creating something from the heart is difficult. Letting it go is even more difficult because you know there are flaws and imperfections.
A month ago my story, Every Waking Moment, was sent into the world. The picture on the cover is a profile of Treha. Some have asked, “Is that one of your daughters?” No. I won’t reveal the identity of the cover model, but the image is one I associate now with the “girl in my head.” The creation I dreamed up over several months.
Treha is wounded. She’s marginalized. She’s not “seen,” and this is the hard thing of releasing anything you love. You long for it to be seen and there’s so much competition and glitz and glitter in the world to look at rather than a plain Jane, an ordinary, struggling young woman with an amazing gift.
In the story, two young filmmakers stumble onto her. They try to capture her story, so the tale is told in linear fashion, but with bits and pieces of the film thrown in. For some, this is jarring. It doesn’t make sense. Others get it immediately and simply jump into the flow of the story and the clues revealed by the older people in Treha’s life. Bits and pieces of their own lives that commingle with hers.
Treha, and the reader by extension, has many questions about life. Where did she come from? Why is she the way she is? What hope does she have for the future? This question of identity, if anyone will ever see the real Treha, is our own struggle, our own journey. And the characters that seem “normal” around her discover that they have these same questions as well.
How you answer the questions of life, how you choose to respond to the circumstances surrounding you, helps determine your path. And it helps if you find one or two people along the way who can put aside their own agenda and simply do life with you.
This is the hope Treha brings to each reader. It’s something I pray you’ll discover in your own life, in Every Waking Moment.
I was sent the following video well after the book was written and edited,
but it shows perfectly what Treha is able to do.
A month ago my story, Every Waking Moment, was sent into the world. The picture on the cover is a profile of Treha. Some have asked, “Is that one of your daughters?” No. I won’t reveal the identity of the cover model, but the image is one I associate now with the “girl in my head.” The creation I dreamed up over several months.
Treha is wounded. She’s marginalized. She’s not “seen,” and this is the hard thing of releasing anything you love. You long for it to be seen and there’s so much competition and glitz and glitter in the world to look at rather than a plain Jane, an ordinary, struggling young woman with an amazing gift.
In the story, two young filmmakers stumble onto her. They try to capture her story, so the tale is told in linear fashion, but with bits and pieces of the film thrown in. For some, this is jarring. It doesn’t make sense. Others get it immediately and simply jump into the flow of the story and the clues revealed by the older people in Treha’s life. Bits and pieces of their own lives that commingle with hers.
Treha, and the reader by extension, has many questions about life. Where did she come from? Why is she the way she is? What hope does she have for the future? This question of identity, if anyone will ever see the real Treha, is our own struggle, our own journey. And the characters that seem “normal” around her discover that they have these same questions as well.
How you answer the questions of life, how you choose to respond to the circumstances surrounding you, helps determine your path. And it helps if you find one or two people along the way who can put aside their own agenda and simply do life with you.
This is the hope Treha brings to each reader. It’s something I pray you’ll discover in your own life, in Every Waking Moment.
I was sent the following video well after the book was written and edited,
but it shows perfectly what Treha is able to do.
A Guardian Angel Inspires a Nonverbal Woman With Dementia to Sing
Saturday, September 7, 2013
“Here’s your list of vocabulary words,” the teacher said.
The class groaned. But there was one kid in the room who could hardly contain his excitement. One kid who looked forward to this exercise in class almost as much as recess.
“Copy the words and then I want you to use them in a paragraph.”
The kid was me. And now I squirmed. I couldn’t wait to use the words in sentences. I was like a kid in a word-candy store.
“And Chris, don’t use them all in one sentence.”
Rats. She was on to me. I used most of the words in the first two sentences because a lot of them were throw-aways. Not as interesting. Then, I would use the rest to complete a story, some kind of rambling, child-induced, Swiss-Family-Robinson-knock-off of a paragraph that left me in stitches.
I did well at spelling because I could see the words. There was something inside that put them together. My friends had other abilities. Drawing. Math. Paste-eating. (I tried but 1967 was a bad year for paste and it turned me against Elmer’s.)
When I made it to high school and took typing, Ted Bias and I sat together, which was a big mistake for Ted because we laughed our way through asdf jkl;. The lazy brown dog jumps over whatever it wants to. When the teacher told us, “Type whatever you want to,” Ted and I looked at each other and the fingers flew. Monty Python quotes. Limmericks. Rhymes.
When she looked at our papers she never gave us the opportunity to write whatever we wanted again. She deemed it, “silly.”
When I was in Junior High, a teacher looked at some of my poems and stories and scowled. “Who are you trying to be, Dr. Seuss?”
Her words were an IED to my heart. She didn’t mean to shoot me down, but sometimes it doesn’t matter what you mean. What you say is enough.
So I learned punctuation and grammar. I wrote the inverted pyramid. Journalism. Structure and details and facts and getting it right. One spelling error was a letter grade.
Then, somewhere in my late 20s or 30s, something clicked. I looked at a blank page and knew something was missing. Not just words: my words. The words I’d stored up for years, the ones hanging around back there in fourth grade that I’d had so much fun writing.
Today I give you a new word. It’s a name. Treha. She’s part of a story I wrote about a girl yearning and longing to make sense of life. She has a gift. She has a story. It’s built by words just hanging around not doing anything until they met the empty pages.
I’ve tried not to use them all in one sentence.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Have you seen the old guy in the parking lot? He’s waiting
for his wife. He’s biding time. Letting life pass him by until he can pull up
to the front and let “the wife” in. I have not wanted to be that man. I have
not aspired to this endeavor. It has always looked a little sad to me. I'm not trying to be harsh here.
I’ve always felt my wife doesn’t want me to become that old
guy. She deserves more than a chauffeur in her twilight years.
Age dulls the senses and makes you oblivious to fashion. You
wear black socks with sandals because it’s more important how you feel than how
you look. You don’t care how you look. You don’t care how others younger than
you perceive you because they’re not coming to your funeral anyway.
I was sitting in the parking lot of Walgreens the other day
and realized I had become that old guy. I had my Cincinnati Reds hat on and
gray hair was sticking out in unseemly ways. I need a haircut, but pulling the hat
down makes me presentable. White shirt, red shorts, black socks.
The dog was with us. We’d taken the dog to the Farmer’s
Market. Big mistake. He was too excited to contain, so we put him in the car
and listened to him yap while we picked out carrots and broccoli. And then, on
the way home, my wife said, “Could you take me by Walgreens?”
“What do you need?”
I thought she’d say she needed Epsom salts or hydrogen
peroxide or Advil. A prescription, maybe. She sent me there the other day for
100% juice, any kind, she said. Didn’t matter the sugar content. So I walked up
and down the aisles and finally found the juice and then called to make sure
she really meant it.
Just like old guys will do. I’ve not only become the old guy
in the car waiting in the parking lot, I’m the old guy who goes on a mission
but has to call to make sure he’s getting the right thing.
“I want to take a picture of toothpaste for my blog,” she
said.
I was supposed to accept this and just keep driving. I knew
it in my gut. Don’t even look at her. Don’t smile or laugh. This is what I said
“I do” to more than thirty years ago, driving to Walgreens to take a picture of
toothpaste.
And I did. And I didn’t smile or laugh or question, I just
drove and parked and sat there like those other old guys I’ve seen.
This has been my view. Again, not to be harsh or judgmental, but I've seen them as young and vibrant and at some point they give up. People point and they walk. Like sheep, they listen for “the voice”
and they obey, herding themselves into respectable pens. And they listen to
ball games on the radio in the parking lot. At least that's what I do.
I have bucked this for years. I’ve followed my wife into Stein
Mart and Hobby Lobby and Pier 1, acting as if I’m supposed to be there. Milling
around candy displays and lusting at the stack of Milky Ways I know I shouldn’t
have because of what it will do to my digestive system. Or standing over the cast-off items at Ross, thinking I
might actually want to watch 50 episodes of some old TV show I saw in reruns as
a child or that the sandals with built-in socks would get me noticed.
“I’m ready,” she said one day, standing with her purse and
bags. Looking at me. Willing me to leave. Calling like a siren. Years ago I
would ask to be lashed to the main mast to see if I could resist the voices.
Now, I just shuffle off behind her and carry the bags.
It was in the Walgreens parking lot when I understood why
men wind up in the car, in the driver’s seat, with the dog, waiting. I saw it
clearly. And I realized I was wrong about them. I had NOT become a man without a purpose, I had become a man with a different purpose. Sitting at Walgreen’s made me realize these guys are the smart ones. They can’t hear the same frequencies as younger people and
they have to look over their glasses to actually see things. But they are hearing frequencies of the heart. They're seeing beyond themselves.
Perhaps instead of driving his wife out of duty or to avoid
guilt, he actually WANTED to be there. Perhaps he wanted to do this because
after all the years of everything revolving around him and his needs and
desires and wants and vision, he understands, finally, that life is
really not all about him. At least, not JUST about him. It’s about him and her become an “us” or a "we."
So if you see me in the car, in some parking lot, weep not
for me. I’m not really waiting. I’m saying “I do” at the speed of idle.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
My pal, Jim Whitmer, wrote and included the photo below. He and his wife, Mary, met Jerry 46 years ago this fall. Jim writes:
We were all in a major photo shoot for Campus Life Magazine that was published in Feb. '68 - the lead article was about the "pressures" on a youth worker - and I was supposed to represent the stereotypical youth worker. The attached 2-page photo spread show me (in the goofy cardigan sweater, with Mary hanging on me.) But I've noted one of the important "extras" on the set. He was known as "Moose" Jenkins back then, and the magazine actually called him that in the credits of the models.
We've been friends with Jerry ever since. Just a little "history" for you.
Respond to this and tell me what famous actor or literary character you think Jerry resembled 45 years ago.
We were all in a major photo shoot for Campus Life Magazine that was published in Feb. '68 - the lead article was about the "pressures" on a youth worker - and I was supposed to represent the stereotypical youth worker. The attached 2-page photo spread show me (in the goofy cardigan sweater, with Mary hanging on me.) But I've noted one of the important "extras" on the set. He was known as "Moose" Jenkins back then, and the magazine actually called him that in the credits of the models.
We've been friends with Jerry ever since. Just a little "history" for you.
Respond to this and tell me what famous actor or literary character you think Jerry resembled 45 years ago.
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