Pax Plena

Tag: Faith

  • An Ode to the Rising Sun

     
    It’s a drop past 4pm here at Will Rogers Airport in Oklahoma City. As the canard goes, it’s not lost on me how ironic it is to name a state citadel of aviation after a man who died in a plane crash. 
     
    Airborne
     
    A few hours ago, I said goodbye to Gwyn, Clark and Fan after a bittersweet farewell in Walters with Dad, Mom, Papa, Andrea, Jacob, Garrett, Seth, Chelsey, and our sister Randi Lynn and her son Drey. I made this latest trip home to see exactly this set of people. If there’s anything one can count on at all in matters of Comanche culture, it’s the opportunity to see family when one comes home. 
     
    And so it is at the Comanche Homecoming Celebration, going strong some 63 years after its first incarnation welcoming home veterans following their service in the Korean War. 
     
    Last night, sitting at our camp, with a canopy of stars under the dark Oklahoma sky, I was able to sporadically reconnect with friends and family alike – some of whom I had not seen since the last time I attended the Comanche Homecoming Celebration in 2005. Soaking up the moment, I was pleased to chat with long-time family friend, Tom Kavanaugh, a former Anthropologist and Curator of Collections at the University of Indiana’s Mather Museum. Tom is nothing if not friendly and blessed with a keen sense of storytelling, wrought from forty-odd years of accumulating insights into the history and culture of the Comanche People. His knowledge and enthusiasm is infectious. 
     
    After listening a good while, I asked what someone with his experience would miss the most about the old days of the celebration and the old ways of doing things. True to form, Tom answered without hesitation, “I miss the people. They Keewainais (keh-why-nighs) who are no longer here but should be.”
     
    I didn’t have much of a reply. It’s sometimes hardest to respond when a person is so strikingly correct. 
     
    Later that night over cigars with my brother Lucas Davis of Houston, TX (a distinctly Comanche brother who shares neither my tribal identity nor even my ethnicity), I thought about the event and its ability to pull together so many people, from so many places, and allow them to be a family. 
     
    While I watched the crowds of people milling about the dusty creek bottom, I found that I couldn’t escape my conversation with Tom. A small place in my heart pinched at the thought of families and friends forever seared into my heart and mind – the ghosts of celebrations past who are forever sitting around the arena in Sultan Park. 
     
    My son Clark received a Comanche name earlier in the day, one of the principal reasons hastening my return home. Such events are rare in life, watching one’s firstborn and his ascent into the ranks of warriors past. Fortunately, Clark was well-served in his naming by family friend/relative and my personal mentor Bernard Kahrahrah – a former Chairman of the Comanche Tribe. After much prayer, Bernard gave Clark the name Thaiori (Thy-oh-rē), which translates to the sun is rising.
     
    Denver
     
    I didn’t realize this at the time, but Clark’s name gives me a great deal of solace as I struggle to make sense of life, and all of the changes and opportunities that lie ahead. I think that even when one becomes melancholic for the ghosts of the arena, perhaps it’s wise to follow their example and pray for the generations that are to come, rising like the sun in the east, calling us to embrace the future of a new day.  
     
    It’s always a good thing to come home – no matter how difficult it is to leave. 

  • Change and Home

    Changes

    Today finds me in the sterile confines of Denver International Airport en route to Oklahoma. After only a few days on the job at the University of Wyoming, I am traveling back to Walters for the annual Comanche Homecoming Celebration. 
    To be sure, I realize the benefits of air travel. I’ll be reunited with friends and family from near and far in a matter or hours, traversing great distances that even a car ride would take north of 14 hrs to compete. 
    And yet, flying is certainly an abominable way to travel. Just a few minutes ago, I was comfortably seated at the far end of seats near gate A49, when a middle-age woman sat uncomfortably close to me.

    True to form, she immediately popped open her laptop, fired up her cell phone, and began yelling into the receiver. In the course of ten minutes, I heard every detail about the new house she and her husband are purchasing, right down to the interest rate of the mortgage, and the need for her husband, David, to be very careful in making sure that all of the paperwork gets filed in a timely manner.
    Poor David. I suspect there will be hell to pay when she gets home. Seems he misplaced the documents amid the sea of folders in their home office.

    When I could no longer take listening to the details of a perfect stranger’s life, (keep in mind I had no choice in the matter), I moseyed toward the restroom for a brief pit stop prior to boarding.
    And even in that hallowed sanctum, I could hear a voice from the stall next to mine, barking complaints into his cell phone about the poor planning that went into the entire trip. Apparently, he wanted a direct flight to begin with and couldn’t countenance having a layover in Denver.

    All of which leads me to conclude that the golden age of air travel had to have been in the 60s and 70s, when flights were cheap, the cocktails flowed freely, and cell phones weren’t yet thought of.

    Even so, it’s nice to be going home. I’m enjoying my new job in Laramie and excited for our future there. But the allure of home in Walters is never far from my mind. Change is afoot in my life. But Walters, I suspect, will always be my true north – no matter how far south I have to travel to get there.

  • Secular Thoughts and Sacred Conclusions

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    It’s a quiet morning here on the farm. My Wife, Son, and Grandfather have all made the trek down the road and up the steep hill to church. I’ve opted for a somewhat less holy morning of coffee and Emails. Not nearly as uplifting but we all have our spiritual needs I suppose. 

    Despite my morning of zen, a lot has happened in the past few weeks. Most recently, my baby sister graduated from high school, thereby ensuring my parents an empty nest if they ever permit her to leave. For now, her college plans include attending the local university and commuting from home at their insistence. 

    For my friends and colleagues not from Southwest Oklahoma, the graduation ceremony itself would have been somewhat of a surprise. Like the one hundred and five Walters High School Commencement ceremonies before it, my sister’s graduation was punctuated by very public references to God and Jesus with one precocious valedictorian going so far as to share the gospel from rostrum, complete with pastoral inflections and Biblical passages. Naturally, he was a preacher’s kid – the scion of the First Baptist Church minister no less. As if this weren’t enough, the baccalaureate service was also prominently advertised, directly opposite the graduation agenda on the official programs issued by the school. It was enough to make even this God-fearing agnostic’s head swirl. Suffice it to say, Jefferson’s wall of separation between church and state is in a bit of disrepair around here. 

    On the other hand, such a melding of faith and state wasn’t all bad. After a spirited debate with the powers that be, my sister managed to secure permission to wear an Eagle plume feather from her mortar board. Granted, the permission didn’t not come readily or perhaps even willingly, but we were all pleased nonetheless that the situation didn’t escalate. Last year, a Native American high school senior from Alabama was fined $1000 for her exercise of religious expression. The matter would have been especially ironic given the overt displays of religious expression throughout the ceremony. Perhaps the event will mark a new era of religious pluralism here in sleepy Walters, OK?

    First Amendment questions aside, being home has been rather nice in other ways. We returned to America unexpectedly at the conclusion of my contract with the University of Waikato at the end of March. Fundraising had been a perennial problem for my employer, the University Waikato’s new Indigenous Governance Centre. But as you can see in the photo above, we returned to warm temps and mild summer evenings that provide ample time for walks down the narrow lane leading to our house. I enjoyed similar walks with my Son in New Zealand, but the area around our flat didn’t have the quiet, peaceful environs we enjoy here in the country. In a way, the biggest benefit to being home is how simple it really is. 

    While I poked a bit of fun earlier at the overt religiosity here in the veritable buckle of the Bible Belt, there is something to be said for the stability and simplicity of life gleaned from the faith that guides most people around here – a faith I once had. This is particularly true when one considers the relative chaos that seems to pervade everything else.

    Consider that in just the past week alone, people much more tech savvy than myself have said that the security infrastructure of our computers and computer systems is “held together with the IT equivalent of baling wire.” Similarly smart people have questioned whether the crisis in the Ukraine could lead to another World War. And not long ago, closer to home, our State so thoroughly botched the execution of a man that he died of a heart-attack some twenty minutes after state officials halted the entire process.

    Given such a comedy of errors, it’s nice to have a place that’s insulated from the madness – if only for a short while. But more on that to come.

  • Our Christmas as Immigrants

    It’s 9:40AM on Christmas Eve here in Hamilton. We are seated in the surprisingly spacious waiting room of the Hillcrest Medical Centre. It’s a relatively small operation boasting some eleven doctors and two grumpy receptionists. The room is far from full so Gwyn is feeding Clark a banana.

    Despite the inauspicious locale, all is well for our small brood. But with homeward and Christmas thoughts aplenty, I can’t help but recall the fact that the Savior of the world was born as an undocumented alien far from home. Given the special relationship between Jesus and immigrants, it occurs to me that we are doing something today that only a family of immigrants would do.

    We are here today waiting to collect my medical records so that we can process our visa application before the Immigration Office closes at Noon for the New Year.

    And we haven’t much time.

    9:42AM

    Naturally, the receptionist seemed a bit annoyed when I indicated that we would rather wait for our records than “pop in” later to pick them up. The Kiwi way of doing things, and the social good form, is to let things go for another day. “It’ll get done” is the mantra. No rush. But for us niceties aren’t an option. Time is of the essence. A late offer letter from my University, coupled with the need to have my passport renewed, have all conspired against us in retrieving the medical records we initiated for processing with this clinic nearly three months ago.

    The receptionist, managing a busy office, wasn’t terribly interested in our story. Her glare was sufficient to communicate her thoughts on our situation. Which is a bit odd in retrospect since we were instructed by her colleague to follow the present course of action (viz., to drop off our records yesterday and collect them today). Good to see communication struggles occur in every relationship – even among colleagues.

    But, as I mentioned, our situation today reminds me somewhat of Christ’s birth because the same predicaments that led Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem have led me and Gwyn and Clark to the clinic – inane policies of government they were obliged to follow – no matter how very pregnant Mary was.

    In the end, they were as much victims of circumstances as we are today. I suspect they were met with similarly unsympathetic stares when making their pleas for lodging.

    “Sorry, not much else I can do,” the receptionist says. And so we wait.

    10:00AM

    I’ve seen my doctor just now. As luck would have it, inexplicably, he never bothered to complete the forms of my medical exam. Different system here I guess. “Thought you didn’t need it completed.” And then the dreaded words, “Can’t possibly get it done before Noon.”

    To be fair, his workload is swamped today, but after a bit of cajoling, I manage to secure a commitment to do what he can in light of our timeframe. “No Doctor, we don’t mind the wait.” The Doc means well, but it’s clear he’d rather not process many more of these immigration exams, doubtless preferring his usual lot of patients.

    “Can’t promise anything. But I’ll try to get it done before lunch.” He adds.

    It’s strange to be in such a position of utter dependence upon the competence (and at this point sheer will) of others. I’m quite nearly inclined to say that we are dependent upon the kindness of others, but I’m not sure that competence qualifies as a kindness for medical professionals. Back home, we might call this simply a duty of care.

    The relation of this to Christmas is that Mary and Joseph were in a similar fix – not that we are in any other way comparable to the parents of the Christ. Even so, I can understand, now, the pressure they must have felt. The urgent need to find someone, anyone, willing to accommodate them. And the crushing feeling of being turned away.

    10:30AM

    Clark has grown fussy so Gwyn is taking him for a walk. The receptionist is taking morning tea back to the doctors. Patients and records be damned. In New Zealand, nothing thwarts morning tea.We have only an hour and a half now to make the trek downtown to the Immigration Office. Unlike “The Hunger Games,” the odds do not seem to be in our favor.

    I suppose things could be worse. We could be awaiting news of a serious illness or saying good-bye to a loved one. Fortunately, we’re all healthy if not a bit sleep deprived. Still, it’s time to begin preparing for a less than ideal outcome.

    I like to think of how Mary reached a point of meditation and zen about her own situation which was certainly more dire than ours.

    Mary came from limited means. Surely rearing a son would be a challenge under any circumstance for her. This was doubtless made even more complicated given her engagement to Joseph, what with carrying a child that was not his and all. I suppose this might be a bit chauvinistic, but no matter how tremendous the blessing, a man still likes to know that it’s his child in his wife’s belly.

    This makes her response to the Angel’s news of her pregnancy all the more striking. Then again, as we are learning today, what can you do when events are out of your control but ponder them? (Luke 2.19).

    10:45AM

    Talk about snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. Only moments ago the Doctor came out, tight-lipped, wordlessly handing me a large envelope with the completed paperwork for my visa application. I no more had time to thank him than he turned away, back to the grind. His bedside manner leaves something to be desired. But it’s hard to quibble with a guy who delivers.

    I don’t know that there’s a Christmas correlation for this outcome. Seems a bit different than having to birth a child in a manger. Given the two, we’re faring much better today. For my part, I’m just relieved things seem to have turned out alright. Perhaps that’s how Mary and Joseph felt, just thankful for a bit of shelter and some privacy.

    10:55AM

    I called a cab for Gwyn to drive her to the Immigration Office. By God, this just might work. As if on cue, the cab arrived in a matter of minutes. I’m inordinately thankful as I watch her pull away from the curb. Clark’s tiny hand does a small wave. We’ve been teaching him that, which makes me proud. Normally we’d all take the bus. But as the muse says, “ain’t nobody got time for that.”

    11:10AM

    Gwyn called just now. Our paperwork was delivered with 50 minutes to spare.

    It’s a small one. But I’ll count it a Christmas miracle all the same.

    11:45AM

    To celebrate our good fortune, we had a Christmas Eve lunch at the lone Mexican taqueria in Hamilton, New Zealand. It’s conveniently located in the food court at the Centre Place Mall.

    I had a burrito and a Diet Coke. The salsa was mild. The meat was shredded, and rather good.

  • A Prayer on a Rainy Day


    A prayer/poem I wrote while enjoying the rains here in the Waikato. 

    Dear God –

    Today, I’m thankful for rain. For cool summer showers and lawns that resemble seas of green.

    For lunches shared with ducks and for countries where a beer for lunch isn’t terribly scandalous.

    My heart is also thankful for technology and for the diversity of this life that it allows me to connect with. Even more than that, I am thankful for the complexity of people – else life would be rather boring.

    I am thankful for moral autonomy and human agency. I am glad for shades of gray and for the purity of my young son – who, for now, lives only in the white.

    I am thankful to be alive at this moment in time despite how similar life is to the rain I am enjoying – falling like a droplet from the heavens, only to disappear into this terrestrial plane.

    Amen.