Years ago, one kid into our parenting journey, we took a cheap flight to visit Elaine’s family in Houston.

I’m not a huge fan of air travel. The trip to the airport alone drives me crazy enough, but everything that follows is a bit much: find a place to park the car, wait for the bus, wait in line to check in, wait in line for security, wait in line for the terminal train, wait at the terminal, wait in line to board, hope you get a good seat, hope someone big doesn’t sit next to you, wait to taxi, wait for takeoff clearance, blah blah, then do everyting in reverse when you land, all with a complementary bag of crackers and ¼ inch of leg room.

While waiting in the Houston terminal for our return, I slipped away for a quick trip to the restroom – one more thing I can’t stand about air travel. At the time, I hadn’t adjusted to parenting well, and the new church we had worked so hard to build wasn’t going well. Our marriage was struggling too. I’d say it was the worst chapter in our life together.

Nothing was right.

Anyway, in one of the worst moods I can remember, I walked into the bathroom, got a slap in the face from its familiar feng shui, paid my respects, and made my way for the door. As I washed up I had a brief moment of eye contact with the bathroom attendent, something I’d never seen in this place. He was a short, almost elderly man of Middle Eastern descent who had set his combs and towels on the counter with a reverent precision.

The place was holy so I left some money in his cup, then walked out, somewhat impacted. Though it was years ago, his aura has stuck with me to this day, frequently assaulting mine when I struggle to appreciate what I have.

To put it bluntly, because I don’t know how else to write this, he looked happy, so much so that I could feel it. You know what I mean – it’s impossible to be in the presence of happiness and not be somewhat aware of it especially if the two of you lock eyes. It’s a thing that us humans possess; not unike the way a dog can “smell” fear, we smell happy.

Anyway, I walked out of that bathroom wondering how its attendant, someone who had the worst job I could imagine, was happier than a guy who had so much more than I could’ve dreamed. Though my career had lost a couple of engines in mid flight, I had an amazing wife, my first kid, a house, a car, a house for my car, and as Lewis C.K. once said, was about to “ride a chair in the sky.”

Why was this guy so happy, and me so miserable?

As a middle-aged-American it was difficult to swim against the cultural currents that had left me focused on things I didn’t have. As a Christian male, and a would-be church planter/pastor in those days, it was impossible to lock eyes with career failure and simultaenously find peace in all the other good things that had befriended me.

Though things were lacking, disastrously so, I wasn’t unhappy because I lacked something required for happiness. I had refused to lock eyes with the great life that had been laid at my feet. I was too busy staring into the ugly face of everything that was missing.

He’s a jealous god, one that doesn’t tolerate competition, in constant demand of my worship. Every once in awhile he’ll give me what I want, only to demand more, leaving me in a perpetual state of emotional and spiritual poverty, hoping that the next carrot won’t be forever just out of reach.

But, cheesey and flannel-graphy as this will sound, there’s a different God to be worshipped, one that’s commanded me to give something that doesn’t come easy, especially for this American, would-be Jesus follower:

Thanks.

To do that, I have to unseat myself from the table of everything I’m hoping for, delightful as its unending bounty may seem, and repair to the dank scullery of my peanut butter and ice water life.

Thanks, God.

But when I’ve taken my mind out of the fantastic world of things that don’t exist, I can be present to the things that do. It’s a sacrifice to be sure, and requires great effort, but in those moments when I’ve managed, it makes room for something bigger, inciting me to spend my emotional and spiritual reserves on things that have nothing to do with disappointment, entitlement, anxiety, frustration, doubt, jealousy, etc.

I’ve lived on both ends of the $$$ spectrum, everywhere from rats in the wall (literally, seriously) to the nicest house I’ve ever lived in with plenty of sweet vacations and all the air travel I could hope for. Surprisingly, there’s been just as much happy in both extremes, and all points in between.

I can attest that it’s a waste of time to pine away for a situation that doesn’t exist.

It always forces me to turn a blind eye to everything else that does.

Weekly worship services are as fundamental to faith as just about anything else. For the past 30 years, it’s been a staple of my life as a Christian as I’ve grown to love the weekly celebration of God, life, and others in a way that simply can’t be found anywhere else in American culture.

During this pandemic however, we’ve been scrambling a bit as we try to find a way to make church work as COVID-19 cases soar through the roof, especially here in Denver, now heading for the cold winter months that will make outdoor services impossible.

A good many American Christians believe that there’s a bit of skullduggery in the CDC’s account of things, that the numbers don’t reflect what’s actually happening. To this cross section of us, the last thing we’ll tolerate is the government telling us what to do, especially with regards to how we articulate our faith when it comes time for corporate worship.

This morning, Instead of talking about numbers, or quoting politicians, I thought it would be good to hear from the medical community here in Denver as they have a perspective and experience that few of us do. Earlier this week I contacted several friends who are practicing docs, working on the COVID front lines, by definition more qualified to talk about this than anyone else. Some of them are Christian, some are Jewish, some would consider themselves non-religious, but they are all in agreement on the following three aspects of pandemic/Christian life that we should listen to.

COVID is Real

In my opinion, hospitalization rates are the best way to check the numbers that we’re being fed. If the CDC’s case numbers go through the roof, hospitals would naturally begin to fill up. If not, we can call foul, and find some other place to get our data.

I recently took a walk with a resident friend of mine who had just come off a difficult ER rotation. “COVID is real,” he said, then expounded on the growing number of hospitalizations in his program and throughout the country. Every person I talked to this week is alarmed at the sheer numbers of people who are being admitted, COVID positive and symptomatic. Sadly, the hospitalization rate is mimicking the case rate as reported by the CDC. As case numbers grow, hospitalizations have followed, resulting in a growing death rate, one that we’re seeing here in Colorado.

According to everyone in this group, there’s no reason to doubt the numbers.

Two of my friends mentioned the issue of comorbidity, and how it’s used by non-medical folk to debunk the CDC’s reported numbers. It’s a fact that the majority of COVID victims also have underlying conditions – only a few deaths are unattended by other ailments. So, earlier this year, a claim began to circulate on social media that only 6% of the CDC’s COVID numbers are legit.

To the majority of medical professionals, my friends included, this is false. Comorbidities may contribute to a COVID death, but apart from COVID, they would have never been fatal. For example, if someone dies from COVID who’s also diabetic, it will most likely be coded a COVID death if the reporting physician determines that the victim’s problem with diabetes would have never been fatal apart from COVID.

Another problem that’s arisen as hospitals fill up is that there’s dwindling space to put folk who’ve just come out of surgery, in need of an extra night or two to recuperate. Many procedures are being put on hold because America is struggling to get on the same page with regards to this pandemic’s severity.

In sum, without exception, my M.D. friends are convinced that we have a problem, one that requires us to rethink any indoor activity, worship included.

Follow Orders

The Colorado Governor’s office regularly posts updates to whatever mandates, advice, or suggestions they might have regarding pandemic life. Currently, Denver and surrounding counties (Douglas, Jefferson, Arapaho, Boulder, etc.) have been flagged as “red” zones, due to the astronomical rise in case rates, with the following restrictions in place for communities of faith:

Level Red – Stay Home: Remote, virtual, or outdoor services strongly encouraged. In-person services may be held for groups of 10 people or fewer, excluding staff.

Many pastors and leaders in the Denver area are trying their best to follow the Governor’s instructions, while many others are choosing to go ahead with indoor worship this morning. These have tight restrictions to be sure, but are holding services in old, poorly ventilated spaces lacking proper filtration even in the newest of buildings, with little to no restrictions on how many people they’ll let in the building. It’s in these spaces that we’re placing our singing folk, on stage, unmasked, posing a greater risk of exposure regardless of how far removed they might be from others. One of my Jewish friends is flabbergasted by this.

A Christian friend reflected:

“I think people really have to ask why they are worshipping in person and whether it is something that as Christians we should really be doing. I don’t think it is considerate of their neighbors, at this point. They may be fine – but they may infect someone who may not be.”

Another shared this, with the following link:

“No to any indoor gatherings at this time. Isn’t that the current Denver mandate too? Staying home is the best thing we could do for everyone. Covid is everywhere out there right now.” https://english.elpais.com/…/a-room-a-bar-and-a-class…

Putting Others At Risk

Most of my friends believe that indoor worship services, or any indoor activities, save maybe a quick grocery store visit, are patently irresponsible. It’s interesting that my non-Christian M.D. friends seemed more compassionate about the need for sunday morning services that my Christian non-M.D. friends, but the entire group is anti-indoor-service, not only because it’s dangerous, but because it’s unfair.

I’m in agreement of course, married to an M.D. (not part of the above interview crowd), and concerned for her safety. We’re in a strange predicament where so many are crying out against alleged socialist agendas while simultaneously gathering indoors against government orders, putting themselves, everyone around them, and ultimately those who will be charged with their care, at risk.

But we’re not (mis)behaving like this because we don’t care. We’re tired, longing to return to life as usual. We’ve also been (mis)lead to believe that organizations like the CDC, WHO, Worldometer, The COVID Tracking Project, et al. have been tainted with some unholy spirit and are thus unreliable to varying degrees. Add to that the fact that so many of us don’t have any friends or relatives who’ve been adversly affected and you can understand why we’re a bit defiant.

That’s why it’s important to listen, first and foremost, to the people who are on the front lines. They too might have nobody close who’s died from COVID, but they’ve seen its impact nonetheless, and are beyond concerned at our country’s inability to move forward carefully, responsibly, and in a way that looks out for the best interest of others.

Stay home, family. God is bigger than all of this, and has seen His children through much worse.

We’ll be OK.

Dad’s not dead, but I do hate the way we save our best words for people who’ll never hear them. Following will be redacted a bit before its public reading I’m sure, but for now, here are some reflections on one of the most important people I’ve ever met.

My father doesn’t have any stories about hanging out with his father, save, as a boy, getting yelled at for hacking into an old tree believed to house some ancient human remains, and an episode where they cleaned out the family’s septic tank together, with buckets.

I loved Grandpa. He was a kind, sweet person, but I don’t have any stories either, save the time he yelled at me for eating my french fries with a fork.

At some point in his own parenting journey, my dad decided to be different, and I have many stories to show for it, especially from my youth; building models together, wrestling, songs at bedtime, and hand-crafted wooden machine guns at Christmas. He took me camping one summer where I got sick from the heat and we had to come home because I was throwing up all over Oklahoma, but the memories of every other camping trip hold a special place for me.

There is a vast expanse between the way he was raised and the way he raised us, one that required a mountain of grit to traverse.

He’s one of the hardest working people I know, retired from a career in modeling/simulation that spanned decades. In the fall of 2008, St. Edward’s University, his alma mater, penned a brief snapshot of one of his career highlights:

Matt Landry ’62, of Colleyville, recieved the 2008 American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics Admiral Luis de Florez Flight Safety Award in August. The award is given annually for outstanding individual achievement in the application of flight simulation to aerospace training, research and development. Landry is the principal engineer for modeling, simulation, and labs at Lockheed Martin Aeronautics Co. 

Upon his retirement, instead of kicking back and taking it easy, he started a blog that reflects at length on the “Secular Side of God,” and “The Phenomenon of Love,” both heavily influenced by the oft condemned Jesuit priest and thinker, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, of whom dad has been a big fan since I can remember.

It’s a dense read, and the product of  roughly 1,000 books about God, science, sociology and humanity in general that he’s read over the past 5 years or so. It would come off better as a university course of study, but he doesn’t have the academic pedigree to teach in higher education because he spent most of his life kicking ass in his career. For now at least, it will have to live as a blog, hopefully transitioning into a book sometime soon.

He also on-boarded, post retirement, with a company in need of consultation for their proposed fighter/trainer aircraft build – a very cushy, well-paying gig with lots of travel and nerdy tech things.

The brother can’t sit still.

Now, he has grandchildren, one from China, the other two from Ethiopia. They call him “Yeh Yeh” (Mandarin for “father’s father”), which always comes off as “Yay Yay,” with multiple exclamation points at great volume. It’s hard to articulate how fiercely they love him, but they were loved first.

When they talk, he drops whatever he’s doing and listens, engages, asks questions. With him, they have a voice, a sense of weight they won’t find anywhere else, not even with me. It has endeared him to them, and them to themselves, because, as an oft condemned Jesuit priest/philosopher once said, “the most empowering relationships are those in which each partner lifts the other to a higher possession of their own being.”

Beyond the things of merit that he’s done with his life, there are two aspects of his person that stand out the most to me, two things I’ll never forget about him.

First, he’s like an iron ship plowing through an ice field. Whatever he sets his mind to, he accomplishes. He doesn’t complain, and I’ve never seen him play the victim. Ever. He simply moves forward, slowly and surely, regardless of what life throws in his lap. His career, his marriage to a spicy Southern gal, and his relationship with his children are all testimony to this, and I can assure you that we’ve all thrown a few challenges at him over the years.

Second, and most importantly, he’s my father. He occupies a space reserved for no one else, and when he passes, will leave a permanent absence for all of us. As that day draws near, I feel the reality of his loss, and the weight of his life more tangibly than I ever have.

It’s painful, but oddly full of joy as well.

Last night, we took the kids over to Yeh Yeh’s for one of Nai Nai’s (Mandarin for “father’s mother”) famous home cooked meals. While everyone was fussing around in the kitchen, I poured a drink and slipped into dad’s office to hang out and get some much needed quiet. As I looked around at his books, his awards, the memorabilia of his career as a simulation guru, a father, a father-in-law, a son, and a thinker, I lost it.

One day, not so far from now, he’ll be gone. I’ll have some great memories to hold on to, sure, but I will miss him dearly.

“We are one, after all, you and I, together we suffer, together exist, and forever will recreate each other.” ~ Teilhard de Chardin

Happy birthday, Dad.