"Oh, Bob!"

by Joanie Butman

I am not a golfer, but my husband is so I was subject to glimpses of the Ryder Cup last weekend. Personally, I don’t understand the fascination, but golf is widely popular so I must be missing something other than the ball, which I’ve never been able to hit.

Anyone who has played with my husband can attest to the fact that he has a unique habit of talking himself through each shot.

“Okay, Bob, you can do this.”"Swing nice and easy, lemon squeezie." “Hit it straight and long, Bobby.”  Or the infamous, “Oh, Bob!”

I’ve heard about it enough that when he returns, I need only ask, “Was it an ‘Oh, Bob!’ day?” Truthfully, I can tell immediately whether it was or not just by his demeanor. After last weekend, I can only imagine what the U.S. team was saying to themselves. It was definitely an “Oh, Bob!” weekend for them.

I don’t think Bob is unique in his running dialogue, though most of us don’t verbalize ours. There is an ongoing conversation in my head; and being Italian, it is frequently noted by hand gestures when the conversation gets particularly lively.  I’m no Sybil, but there is more than one voice in there.

There is the relentless, loquacious one that appears at night and refuses to stop making lists of things like people that need prayer, ideas for writing, or just things that need to be done. I quiet this one by keeping paper and pen by my bed so I can write the lists down and respond, “Okay, I got it. Now be quiet and let me sleep!”` It’s quite effective.

These voices take on many personas.

There is the comedian who sees the comic side of anything and everything and is not shy about pointing it out even if humor is totally inappropriate at the moment.

There is the writer who recognizes a story in the most ordinary of circumstance and always has at least two or three stories in various stages of development being written in her head.

There is the bashful encourager who whispers an occasional reassuring comment, but keeps pretty quiet for the most part.

There is the loud, irritating, disparaging voice belittling my efforts regardless of what I am doing. It takes enormous discipline and more than pen and paper to keep that demon at bay.

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Finally, there is the still small voice on Whom I can trust to always offer exactly what I need to hear at any given moment.

No wonder I can’t remember anything. It’s too crowded in there!

I attended a retreat once whose theme was “I am Accepted, I am Secure, I am Significant.” I’m not sure whether it was my comedic voice or my negative one that immediately chimed in, “Well, I guess that makes me an A.S.S.” Can you see what I’m up against?

Which voice I choose to listen to is one of the most important choices I make all day, every day. Eleanor Roosevelt’s quote, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent,” illustrates the importance of that choice. Often, it is the conscious decision of which voice I choose to allow to dominate my inner dialogue that sets the tone of the day.

I’m not ordinarily the jealous type, but I do envy people who have an inner conversation that actually encourages them – like Bob. Sure he has the occasional, “Oh, Bob!” but for the most part, he’s pretty nice to himself. At times, I might even say delusional. Mine are more self-flagellating and critical, and I don’t think I am alone in being my own worst enemy. Why can we be so generous in spirit to others, but are our own harshest critics? It’s an interesting phenomenon.

Without a doubt, there are times when my inner voice is doing a much-needed correction. It’s my moral compass getting me back on track. The trick is learning to discern the difference between constructive criticism and baseless negativity. Here is the yardstick that I was taught. The Holy Spirit convicts specifically. If the voice you’re hearing is speaking in generalities, it is definitely NOT to be trusted.

Any voice that takes something good and makes it seem bad or worthless (whether it is self-inflicted or by someone else) is NOT one you want replaying in your head. We don’t have control over what others say, but we can choose, as Mrs. Roosevelt astutely suggests, not to buy into someone else’s negativity.

Controlling your thoughts is an excellent discipline because whichever voice you allow to dominate your subconscious will determine the kind of person you become. If you worry excessively about things you can’t control, you will become a neurotic insomniac. If you brood over all the things wrong in your life, you will feel victimized. If you are consumed with vengeance, you will become bitter and angry. If you let your fears take over, you will see danger lurking around every corner.

The way I choose to censor my thoughts is by replacing any negative one that isn’t constructive with an encouraging verse or inspirational quote. I repeat it until the other thought vanishes. In Kathryn Stockett’s, The Help, Abileen Clark’s mantra “You is kind, you is smart, you is important” is a perfect example. She uses it as a constant reminder of her worth despite the extreme prejudice she must endure.

As a Christian, I use Bible verses and have a few favorites depending on the type of thoughts I’m struggling with, but the following is my standby:

“Whatever is true, whatever is noble,

whatever is right, whatever is pure,

whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable –

if anything is excellent or praiseworthy –

think about such things.

And the peace of God,

which transcends all understanding,

will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.“

                                                                                Phillipians 4:7-8

Our thoughts, like our words, have the power to tear down or build up. They can devastate or elevate. The choice is always ours.

Compassionate Deception

by Joanie Butman

Before moving off the subject of truth, I thought it a good time to discuss moments when absolute honesty may not be the prudent choice. My friend introduced the concept of compassionate deception last year while discussing the challenges of caring for her mother. She explained, “Compassionate deception is when we give our Alzheimer ridden mother answers or explanations that may not be completely accurate but which cause her the least amount of anxiety, angst, fear, anger; and therefore, offer her more comfort and satisfaction. Basically, it is protecting someone from themselves and their own limitations.” As she described the practice, she saw my fascination and eagerness to adopt the concept and added this caveat, “You just have to be careful not to use it as an excuse to tell a bold-faced lie.” She must know me better than I thought!

No one can deny there are times when the truth is best left unsaid or at least tempered. For example, is there a husband alive who hasn’t been asked the dreaded, “Does this outfit make me look fat?” Depending on the situation, this is a perfect illustration of an occasion when compassionate deception might be a wise choice because if you haven’t figured it out by now, there is only one answer – and it’s not, “No, darling that outfit doesn’t make you look fat, but the extra ten pounds you’re carrying around does!” Compassionate deception calls for something like, “Honey, you would look good in anything you put on.” Notice how it avoids the question all together without actually answering it? Everyone wins. No harm, no foul.

Personally, I try not to ask this question for two reasons. First, if I have to ask, I already know the answer. Second, my husband is too literal. I learned my lesson a long time ago when I asked him if the pants I was wearing made my butt look big. Now, this was a really stupid thing to do as we were in a hotel about to leave for a party. There was no other outfit to change into. I thought I had trained him well. I thought he knew all the right responses. However, to my surprise he replied, “I wouldn’t worry about your butt, it’s your stomach that looks fat.” What was he doing? He was going off script! Was I prepared for this level of honestly? No, I just wanted the standard answer. It wasn’t Bob’s fault that he couldn’t assess the situation and somehow intuitively understand that honesty was the last thing I needed at that moment. I had no one to blame but myself, so I deserved to spend the entire night sucking in my gut so hard I could barely carry on a conversation. Of course, that was before the miracle of Spanx.

This is a harmless illustration, which I relate tongue-in-cheek; but there have been times when I’ve been asked for an honest answer, which I naively offered. I was not prepared for the backlash, which was swift and painful – as was my response to my husband I’m sure. I’m a little slow on the uptake but eventually, with the battle scars to prove it, learned the hard way to be wary when someone says, “Tell me the truth.” Now, images of Jack Nicholson immediately pop into my head. Can anyone forget his infamous testimony in A Few Good Men? “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!”

For the most part, I discovered many people only want to hear your “honest” opinion if it confirms their own. For that reason and for matters of self-preservation, I choose to implement compassionate deception - judiciously, of course, careful to remember my friend’s astute advice.  However, when it counts, the importance of speaking the truth can’t be overemphasized.

As difficult and uncomfortable as it often is, there are times when the truth is necessary no matter how painful or what the personal consequences might be for voicing it. Real relationships can’t exist without it. There are times (as my father-in-law pointed out) that it is best to choose to let the truth speak for itself. As Winston Churchill so eloquently stated, “The truth is incontrovertible. Malice may attack it, ignorance may deride it, but in the end, there it is. “

The cost for choosing to speak the truth will never be as high as the cost for choosing to compromise your principles. It is precisely at those times when the truth is going to cost you that your character is revealed. When you choose to speak the truth, people may not agree with you, they may not like you, but they will never wonder who you are or what you stand for – an interesting concept to ponder given the current political climate.

Finally, even the “Does this make me look fat?” question demands the hard truth sometimes – Spanx can only do so much! Experience has taught me not to ask the question unless:

1. I really do want an honest opinion.
2. There are other options available.
3. I am prepared to do something about it.

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Straight-Talking Grannies

by Joanie Butman

To those of you who read Butman’s Bomb last week, my father-in-law’s bomb-dropping days are far from over as he is infamous for his explosive cocktail hour comments – spontaneous combustion of a different sort. I’ve nicknamed his impromptu observations cherry bombs because they are usually served over drinks. They are his secret to igniting lively conversation and the incendiary device of choice for many people of a certain age. Before he handed me the manuscript I discussed last week, I toyed with the idea of writing a book called Cocktails with the Colonel highlighting the most memorable jaw-dropping Paulisms. But, as I am sure you are well aware, his is not a unique eccentricity. Age affords people a liberty to speak more frankly than the rest of us without consequence. Getting a free pass to say whatever is on your mind seems to be society’s compensation for the loss of so much else.

Consequently, I needed to broaden the scope of my focus group. Hence, my idea for a new reality show, Straight Talking Grannies. It will be a combination of Kids Say the Darndest Things and Mr. Magoo, a cartoon character from my youth. For those of you who don’t remember the lovable Mr. Magoo, he is a “short-statured retiree who gets into a series of comical situations as a result of his nearsightedness, compounded by his stubborn refusal to admit the problem.” Sounds eerily familiar to many folks I know, though nearsightedness is the least of their problems. However, a refusal to accept the limitations that come with age appears to be universal.

Anyone with aging parents or who are aging themselves (sometimes both as in my case) will testify to the hilarious moments that occur in the daily course of life. Even at 54 I am already showing signs of what’s to come as I recently tried to change the TV channel with the cordless phone. In my defense, it was dark and there were too many devices strewn on the table. Still, I have a long way to go, I hope, before I find myself attempting to heat my coffee in a hotel safe as my mother did thinking it was the microwave. She only realized her mistake when she couldn’t get it out. Housekeeping must have wondered what was so special about that cup of coffee that the previous guest felt it needed protecting.

Visits with my parents often feel like one long game of telephone and just as much fun. There are always as least three conversations going on concurrently: the one I think I’m having, the one my dad is having and the one my mom is having – but we are all talking to each other. It’s like a senior Mad Lib, where non sequiturs reign supreme, and any screening mechanism has long been forgotten or ignored. How we manage to continue this concurrent conversation and arrive at some semblance of communication is nothing short of miraculous. Let’s just say, we laugh a lot.

In reality, there is nothing funny about aging, and choosing to keep your joy and sense of humor while facing the myriad of issues that ensue is definitely a challenge. But is there really another option? Yes, I’ve seen it and wouldn’t recommend it. There are plenty of curmudgeons around to illustrate the downside of NOT choosing to age gracefully.

On the other hand, I met two Golden Girls this summer that I want to emulate if I am lucky enough to reach old age. Turning into Dunkin Doughnuts one morning, I was forced to wait while they slo-o-o-o-wly crept past the front of my car. I watched them shuffle along, occasionally asking for directions, and wondered where they could be headed. When I came out, they hadn’t made much progress. My curiosity piqued, I pulled over and asked if they needed a ride. If they could have, they would have jumped for joy – they blessed me instead. I got them in the car and threw their walkers in the back. They informed me they were going to town – a long walk for an able-bodied person, a death march for these two. One couldn’t see, the other could barely hear, and neither could walk so well, BUT I loved their spirit of adventure. As they reminded me, at their age, every day is an adventure. They had taken the train (assuming it would leave them off in the center of town) to have lunch by the ocean. Just two girlfriends out for some shopping and lunch. I got so attached to these adorable ladies in our short ride, I offered to pick them up and bring them home. “Nonsense, we’ll figure it out. We always do. Just point us in the right direction.” As my Texan friend would say, “Bless their hearts.” Now, they could have walked right into the ocean for all I know, but I didn’t see anything in the police blotter; and yes, I checked.

We’re all headed in the same direction. It isn’t our choice as to when we leave – only how we choose to arrive: sliding into home with a smile on your face or kicking and screaming with your fists shaking at the indignity of it all. Easy for me to say as I am not living it yet. I agree, but I hope when the time comes I can still choose to find a dose of humor and joy in every day regardless of my failing mind and body.

Oh, and one more thing, I’m keeping notes on some things I want to get off my chest for my senior blog – stay tuned.

Author's Note: Following is response from my mom I thought you'd enjoy. "Loved it Joan. Just one mistake. I never did realize it until days later when our companions on the trip to Ireland were talking about how great the electric teapots were, and I complained that I didn't have an electric teapot; but the microwave didn't work. In unison, the others said "What microwave? They don't have microwaves in the hotels here!" Never having had anything so valuable that I had to use a safe, I never realized what it was! "

Road Signs

by Joanie Butman

This is the first week I have been in one place for more than three days at a stretch in months. I can already feel normalcy returning. Like I mentioned last week, a good portion of my summer was spent in the car. It seemed I was always just arriving or just leaving but never in any one place long enough to just be. As monotonous as all that driving was, long rides give you plenty of time to think. While reading endless bumper stickers, euros, vanity plates and the ever-present college decals, I began to wonder why everyone feels so compelled to advertise. I’ve always been told I wear my heart on my sleeve, but I’ve never felt the impulse to carry it over to my car. Not to mention with a surname like mine, vanity plates are definitely out of the question. Think of Seinfeld’s “Assman” episode.

For entertainment I concocted a little game in which I tried to determine how much I could learn about a person from what they displayed on their car. Typically, I could discover how many children they had, their gender, the schools they attend and their IQ. Pets got equal billing. I can also learn the places they like to visit, the state in which they live, political preferences, religious beliefs, sports affiliations, hobbies and occasionally, their occupation. Their choice of vehicle also says something about them as does the speed at which they drive and in which lane. That’s more than I get at most cocktail parties. All this without ever meeting the driver. In fact, by this point I’ve already decided as to whether I’d even want to meet them.

It brought to mind an interesting conversation I had recently. I sat down to dinner with someone who looked at my necklace and stunned me with his directness, though I shouldn’t be surprised as it wasn’t the first time nor will it be the last. I’m glad too because it has led to some fascinating discussions. Let me preface this with the caveat that the cross I was wearing was the not the size of something you’d see on P. Diddy. I thought it was pretty innocuous. In fact, I didn’t think about it at all for that matter. Anyway, it began:

“Does wearing that cross make you think you’re better than me?”

This was before our drinks were even served. Of course, I then had to change my order to something stronger than seltzer. I had a feeling this was going to be a long evening. With that taken care of, I answered:

“No. Does it make you think that I think that I’m better than you?” 

“Yes.”

Surprised by his candor and uncharacteristic brevity, I replied, “Hmm. Interesting. I’ve always thought the complete opposite. I wear it as a constant reminder that I’m not. I’ve always considered the cross of Christ as the great equalizer. Jesus died for everyone, and His grace is given freely to all. Our salvation doesn’t depend on what we do but on what He did. Christ doesn’t judge us in comparison to others and neither should we. However, with all that said, I would say that it does define me much like your uniform did when you were in the service. There is a value system attached to that symbol. That doesn’t mean everyone who wears one lives up to it 100% of the time any more than a uniform guarantees a quality of conduct commensurate with what it represents.”

Luckily, at that point the waitress arrived to take our dinner order. Divine intervention for sure. The conversation ended there, but I should have added that I would hope my Christianity would be defined more by my actions than by my choice of jewelry or bumper sticker for that matter. We may not all display them around our necks or on our cars, but we all wear our beliefs on our sleeve to some extent because they should be obvious by how we live our life, how we choose to project ourselves to the world.

Despite the awkwardness of the exchange – or maybe because of it – that discussion stuck with me for a number of reasons. 

1. It made me reflect more deeply on exactly what the cross means to me.
2. It revealed a non-Christian’s perspective, which I never would have known, imagined or appreciated.
3. It made me wonder about why people can wear all kinds of crazy labels on their cars, their t-shirts, and even on their bodies; but it seems that only when there is a Christian message do people get offended. Why does tolerance not extend to the majority if, in fact, we are one? Could it be that other non-Christians share the perspective my dinner partner had in response to my necklace? I’m not sure.

Trust me, some of those bumper stickers I read this summer were more than I wanted to know about anyone and definitely more offensive than my necklace. My son and I were driving to New Hampshire last week on a one-lane road. We were a captive audience to this statement, “I’m not your b*&%@!” I’m being delicate as it was spelled out on the bumper sticker. Thinking this was some sort of new slang, I asked my son, “What the heck is that supposed to mean?” Confused because it couldn’t have been more obvious to him, he answered, “That she’s not your b*&%@. What did you think it meant?”  That’s about as deep as it gets with a 16-yr-old boy regardless of the length of the ride. There were plenty of others I wouldn’t even repeat, but I did see two that were excellent messages regardless of your beliefs.

Lastly, the most important effect that conversation had is that every time I choose to wear that necklace now, it is with a renewed appreciation for what it represents and with enormous gratitude that it isn’t my behavior that my eternity rests on but Christ’s.

Which brings me back to last week’s topic of balance. By this time of year, I am so off balance that my behavior is not living up to any outward sign of my beliefs. I would NEVER put one of those fish stickers on my car because after all those hours on the road this summer, my tolerance for other drivers is nonexistent, and I wouldn’t want to be out there contradicting myself for the world to see.  In fact, I haven’t worn that necklace recently either – probably for the same reason.

Thankfully, with a week of my new Life After Labor Day routine under my belt, I am beginning to regain an inner peace that was sadly lacking this summer, and Bob is already down one notch on his belt. My Easy Silence workout isn’t helping my midriff much, but I am definitely lighter in spirit, which helps me remember that "When God measures your worth, He puts a tape measure around your heart not your waist." And in that case, big is definitely better.