I recently heard it put something like this: Men would rather stand shoulder-to-shoulder, together watching the ripples formed by fishing lures cast into a lake. Or cram snacks as they watch a football game on the big screen.
Women, however, would rather be face-to-face, recounting together their experiences of the day, of the week, of the year—-events and times that men cannot even recall whether they were alive.
Many men have a remarkable ability to remain flat. Flat, when occupied with sports. Flat, when relating the events of their workday. Flat when asked to tend to the trash. Flat while silently sorting fleeting thoughts. Like a flounder on the ocean floor, they possess such flatness as to blend in with their surroundings, given away only by their unblinking eyes.
When a woman takes a selfie next to a picture of a giant, flat man, she gains an advantage. For that moment, she can imagine the man in the picture as something that he is not: that he is not flat.
Door Number One was not my choice. Mom and Dad opened that one, my birth launching me into this world. Door Number One was all shock and some dismay.
Door Number Two was all about me. It was about my independence from those Door Number One parents. I chose my friends, dreamed impossible futures, fell in love, and found a career—actually, several of them. Later, I discovered it was also about others—my kids, my aging parents, and my friends. Lots of responsibilities and lots of decisions.
Door Number Four is the last door—the end of the trail and the beginning of the greater, Eternal Trail. A life well-lived finds its peace in God, beyond Door Number Four.
Wait a minute. Back up. I skipped Door Number Three. Door Number Three is the journey connecting Door Number Two with Door Number Four. It’s the door of today. It’s the door of now. It’s the door that lets in the neighbors. It’s the door that stoops to serve, and stands to acknowledge. It’s the door of endless, life-injecting possibilities.
At each morning’s dawn, Door Number Three awaits my choices, allowing each day to become an expectation-filled, God-pleasing pursuit.
Recently, I’ve noticed that my Yellow Zone has been shrinking. Not overnight, but there’s been a long, slow withdrawal from the Yellow Zone. The Yellow Zone lies between the Green Zone and the Red Zone, as a sort of virtual buffer.
To help explain, let me introduce the Green Zone. It’s all the stuff that is enjoyable to me: the kinds of activities that I like, the people whom I find agreeable with my perspective, the brands I like, and the values I endorse. I’m comfortable here, in the Green Zone.
At the opposite end is the Red Zone. It holds everything that I know is wrong and that I find despicable: murder, thievery, dirty streets, phone solicitations, many politicians, and everything that is evil and vile.
The Yellow Zone is reserved for everything else. Things that are perfectly acceptable. Things that don’t deserve judgment. Perceptions that aren’t important. Words spoken in ignorance. Unintended actions. The Yellow Zone is a place of comfort.
The recent events are troubling, but true. Recently, my Yellow Zone has been shrinking, even as my Red Zone is noticeably bloating. More and more stuff is migrating towards the Red Zone because more and more things are aggravating me. “Why did he say it that way?” “Doesn’t she know better?” “They always act that way!”
I wasn’t always this way: over-correcting, under-appreciating, judging, strangling the tiniest, most unimportant and innocent details. Doggone it, I have the right to be Right, and to be sure that They know it!
But life in the ever-smaller, constricted Yellow Zone is now becoming miserable. The life of quick reactions, self-righteousness and hyper-criticism is pushing everything into the Red Zone. With so much leaving, It’s getting lonely in the Yellow Zone.
But now I’ve had enough of the Red Zone! Now I’m going back to the Yellow Zone. I’m going to renovate it. I’m going to make it more liveable, less conflicting, less judgmental. I’m going to put leaden weights all around the perimeter so the edges don’t roll in.
Then I’m going to set up some easy chairs smack dab in the middle of the Yellow Zone. I’ll send out invitations.
The Yellow Zone should now be big enough for us all.
Neon signs are made of tubes which can be bent to create graphic images or letters. When electricity runs through them, their light can create bold statements.
They may direct us to explore a used auto dealership’s well-worn wheels where we could hope to stumble across a treasure. Or, imagine the red outline of a cross, beneath it, in gaudy, bold fluorescent turquoise, “Jesus Saves”. Down the alley, we may spy a flashing pink arrow directing toward a dim stairwell; a suggestive woman’s profile beckons downward.
When we were young, our parents tried their best to bend and shape our lives. They hoped to turn our lives, like neon light tubes, into things of beauty. Like all parents with young children, they were amateurs in this light-bending child-rearing project. At some point, they were done. It was up to us to add and shape more beauty into our lives.
Some people are good at doing this. In my old yearbooks, I can show you pictures of those who have done really well for themselves. Their lives are artisan work, really–a neon light panoply of synchronized flashing images in a tasteful palette of colors.
In a small classroom in a dingy part of town, I teach academic skills to folks who have felony records. They haven’t done so well. Their neon light tubes have become twisted, flashing feebly and erratically. A lot of restorative work is required.
In this world of relative luminescence, most of us are somewhere between these extremes. We may lack the peacock-beautiful neon displays of on-off, on-off, with flashing hues of purple and gold that some lives seem to exhibit. But neither are we in total tube-broken neon disrepair. Between these extremes, we have a few lighting flickers here and there, weak spots in need of repair.
Those flashing neon signs–they are intended to provide compelling and directive messages.
I am reminded of a song we sang as children. It goes like this: “This little NEON light of mine, I’m going to let it shine…”
Radio studios used to house vast libraries of vinyl 33-1/3 RPM records, whose shallow, delicate grooves stored arrangements of voices and instruments in precious acoustic tracks. Archived melody and poetry of ambitious musicians lived in these studios, in records all lined up next to each other in vertical symmetry. These musical neighbors all waited patiently for their moment of release to radio’s air waves. These were the fruits—vinyl or even CD’s—of musical dreamweavers.
Not so much any more. Today, Nashville’s Acme Radio’s entire musical library of digital recordings might fill a portable drive not much larger than a ubiquitous cell phone. Technology seems to push both musical storage and musical performers in a quick-change-is-good lifestyle.
In today’s ephemeral digital world, the names and faces of celebrities struggle to briefly stay relevant. Soon the parade moves on to an ever-newer performer, whose fame may be destined to dissolve even faster.
Well-earned achievements may pass quickly in this flash-to-flame life. Deep within, some of us may long for that which lasts longer than a spectacular but fleeting solar eclipse.
The thing that stands out in contrast in this fleeting world is something that stands firm, maintains excellence, and speaks truth. A voice that cries in the wilderness might just set our hearts aright one more time.
