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for Marie
I plowed the earth,
turned over the soil as
was suggested to me,
yet it proved to bury nothing,
but in fact allowed certain
truths trapped in layers
to escape and rise like bubbles,
like balloons tethered to roots so deep
as to defy a successful sever.
-- rLp --
I’m so thankful Ramon Presson has written this book. I can only imagine the authentic hope and real help each person will receive through reading this book. It’s the kind of book we all need to read over and over! What a gift.
Pete Wilson
Author of Plan B
When Will My Life Not Suck is, in Ramon’s own words, “an exercise in perspective”. Walking with Paul, he ushers us into the presence of the Living God and confronts us with the truth: The birthplace of Authentic Hope is pain. Spiritual transformation is discovered in a journey of suffering, brokenness, and perseverance. When Life sucks…God is at work. Ramon opens the door. I beg you to walk through it with him.
Dewey Greene
Author of Painful Gifts
Sorry Mom! I know “suck” is an ugly word! But I just had to endorse this book. The insights in this book have personally helped me. I laughed out loud on some pages. And if I could have hugged a paragraph or two, I would have because I felt like Ramon understood me. Lots of writers can tell you what to do, Ramon shows you through his life what he does to live a vital life that doesn’t…um…well, you know! If you’ve ever had that uneasy feeling that you’re stuck in a life that’s just plain hard, you need this book. It will lift your spirits and challenge your perspective.
Jennifer Rothschild
Author of Self Talk, Soul Talk and Lessons I Learned in the Dark
Publisher Womensministry.net
--rLp --
This week I'm sharing some of the endorsements we've received for the book.
“Ramon speaks truth from a sincere heart that has been there. He understands and knows how to communicate living through it. You will laugh and cry … and you will be better for it. Ramon actually answers the question he asks”.
Doug Dees
Pastor and author of ReSymbol
"Ramon Presson weaves together his own life experiences with stories from contemporary culture to make the book of Philippians come alive. Ramon's goal is to remap our suffering, to see it through the lens of Paul's peculiar and libererating lens of the gospel."
Paul Miller
Author of A Praying Life and Love Walked Among Us
Director, seeJesus.net
Ramon Presson’s When Will My Life Not Suck? is that rare combination of authenticity, wit and Scripture-based wisdom. Dismissing the flimsy promises of the self-help industry, this book takes seriously the ugly fact that our lives simply don’t look in every season like a fairy tale ending—but that we also don’t need to stay forever in a place of disillusionment and discontent. When Will My Life Not Suck? manages to be both thoroughly funny and deeply serious—not to mention eminently practical in its step by step approach towards a life of meaning and purpose.
Joy Jordan-Lake, Ph.D., is a part-time professor at Belmont University and the author of five books, including Why Jesus Makes Me Nervous and Blue Hole Back Home.
--rLp--
Jupiter, like a diamond pendant
hangs around the neck of the harvest moon
in a low-cut black blouse.
-- rLp --
I am up this morning before the sun, before the
dew, before the morning glories’ yawn,
before the enterprising early bird,
before the worm
before the dawn clears its throat,
before the paper boy’s coffee, even before
a train whistle so far in the distance it could
be yesterday or tomorrow
before a cardinal leads the nest in an invocation, and
several delicious minutes before a barking collie
becomes the starter’s pistol
that begins the day.
-- rLp --
This week I'll share some of the endorsement quotes we've received for the book.
"Let's be honest. We've all asked this question - Ramon Presson just pushes the question out into the open, precisely where it needs to be. If you want to laugh and ponder and move closer toward life, you will find a friend in these pages”.
Winn Collier Author of Restless Faith and Holy Curiosity
“Presson as a pastor/counselor has had a front row seat to suffering. In his book, he goes to the mat with God over the “WHY” questions of life. He very cleverly gives the reader a truck load of cynic-resistant-nuggets of hope. Presson brilliantly redeems the ‘diary of why’ written on the fabric of our souls.
Jackie Kendall
Best-selling author/speaker
President, Power to Grow Ministries
“Presson calls them as he sees them, and delivers his calls with all the nuance of a realist. He wants to be happy. He wants his readers to learn how to be happy. Paul's letters to the Philippians written from prison were meant as a guide on what it means to be human and survive, emotionally intact. Presson shows remarkable clarity with astonishing humility and candor. A book that helps the reader onto a path designed to bring joy into their life”.
Stellasue Lee Two-time nominee for the Pulitzer Prize in poetry
-- rLp --
Jane: “Lizzie, are you alright?”
Elizabeth: “How does one know?”
--- from Pride & Prejudice
A breeze is blowing here atop the hill, but
I must watch the direction
the branches bend, and the
angle that the leaves fall to
discern the wind’s course
because my skin
is such a poor compass
and the erratic flight
of butterflies is a contradiction
even on a still day.
--rLp--
I do wonder sometimes how close
to the falls I'm swimming and
just don't hear the roar, the water
draping over the edge
like a towel rack, me trying to touch the bottom
of a riverbed titled forward.
My gosh, what are you doing? Do you
not know how to read a book of poetry?
It’s not a newspaper for God’s sake;
you don’t just read a poem like it’s
an inked summary of a city council meeting or
the high school game that went into double-overtime.
You don’t read a poem and just move to the next one
like you were collecting eggs or
putting Christmas catalogues
in mailboxes on a postal route.
Yes, there are kind and friendly poems
on adjoining pages but
that doesn’t mean anything.
Gary Finke’s memory on page 158 and
Stellasue Lee’s grief on 159
have an ocean between them,
so don’t think for a moment that
you can just walk out the back door
of one poem and stroll
through the front door of another
as if they were neighbors and they liked you.
The poem you were reading a moment ago
is a labyrinth, and you
are foolish if you think
you’ve made it out yet.
The Collins poem you’ve already forgotten
was a delicate package--a package
within a package inside a package and you
unwrapped it with a chainsaw.
That gentle-looking Mary Oliver poem in your hand
is a bomb that threatens to blow up in
your lap and in your brain, so to detonate it
you sure as hell better know which
color wire to cut.
I almost received a free acupuncture treatment this morning…from a needle-nosed hummingbird. Note to self: Do NOT drink coffee from bright red University of Georgia mug on the back deck. This summer we set up an all-you-can-drink sugar water buffet in the backyard. Actually it’s just one feeder, but it is slightly smaller than a silo. If you’re not seeing any hummingbirds in your area it is because they’ve all moved to our yard where the rent is free and it’s Happy Hour at the bar all day. I think the hummers like our feeder better than the neighbor’s not just because ours is visible from 30,000 feet and the juice color is neon cherry that glows in the dark, but our hyper-sweet recipe makes pancake syrup taste weak by comparison. We probably should tone it down because several birds have become hyperglycemic and three of the nectar addicts are in rehab.
In watching (and ducking) the flurry of hummingbird activity from the wooden deck of the aircraft carrier I’ve observed some behavior that reminds me of children… and many adults, including myself. First, you can’t help but notice that hummingbirds are not just territorial, they are selfish and paranoid. I don’t know why the manufacturers put four tiny drinking portals on a hummingbird feeder, because there will NEVER be more than one bird bellying up to the bar at a time. That is because hummingbirds are also fighter pilots. Two hummingbirds and a feeder means an aerial battle at supersonic speeds that make Top Gun seem like Snoopy & the Red Baron.
Besides obviously needing a regular dose of Ritalin and a switch to decaf, hummingbirds must be lonely. I don’t see how they have any friends because it appears that every other hummingbird is seen as a rival or a thief. I’m trying to understand why hummingbirds are not in fact extinct from breeding problems, namely failure to breed. Constantly driving off potential mates would seem to be a major obstacle to parenthood. Yet given that hummingbirds continue to be born, something must be happening at night that I don’t know about. However, if leisurely lovemaking is premium pleasure, then hummingbirds must be the least satisfied of all God’s creation. But I digress…
What strikes me as humanesque about hummingbirds is their selfishness and lack of generosity. In Seven Habits of Highly Effective People Stephen Covey writes of the abundance mentality versus scarcity mentality. The abundance mentality is revealed when a person believes there are enough resources and success to share with others. The scarcity mentality is rooted in the belief that given a limited amount of resources, a person must hoard what they have and protect them from others. Children show either an abundance or scarcity mentality with their candy, but adults do so with their less tangible prizes such as opportunity, advancement, recognition, affirmation, applause, and praise. Give two boys identical wedges of pie and they will instinctively look to see who has the larger piece. Have you ever congratulated or affirmed one of your children and heard his sibling either minimize the accomplishment or point out one of his own praise-worthy deeds or qualities? A child will tend to imagine praise to be like a pie—a finite and limited (and highly valued) sphere, so he better get his share. I’ve observed one territorial hummer, his tank likely full, lighting on a nearby branch. But he cannot rest having enjoyed his portion because he is constantly warding off other shoppers as if saying, “No, I’m not thirsty, but you can’t have any regardless.”
And that is different than adults, how? Can you celebrate a co-worker’s success or recognition without jealousy? If an opportunity arises and you can either hoard the spotlight or share it which do you choose? What happens inside when you feel you didn’t receive all the credit and appreciation you think you deserved on a project whether that was organizing a non-profit fundraiser or collaborating with a sibling on Mom’s surprise party. One of my favorite quotes to remind me of the abundance mentality is one Ronald Reagan kept on his desk: “There is no limit to how far a man can go if he doesn’t mind who gets the credit.”
My writing mentor, Stellasue Lee, recently received her second Pulitzer Prize nomination. I am so happy for her and proud of her. Whether she wins the prize or not is irrelevant to me. She is a prize. So much of my renewed love of poetry and my development as a poet is due to her encouragement and instruction.
The link is to today's article in the Nashville newspaper.
My son is playing dodgeball on the playground
of his young heart, ducking and swerving
in order to be struck square by
the fickle affection of 7th grade girls.
Lily has loved him twice now,
the sequel shorter than the original
which was but a brochure.
He doesn’t understand the evolving and
revolving mind of the female, how to
jump on and jump off the merry-go-round
without being injured.
It reminds me of the trick we played on
one another in grammar school.
With our seesaw partner on the plank
lifted high in the thrilling air, we suddenly
dismounted which brought the mate
crashing to earth with a thud-clank.
I wish I could tell him girls will outgrow that,
but perhaps I should tell him that any time
his feet aren’t touching the ground
he should always keep his knees bent.
-- rLp --
(This is the final and completed poem from the post & exercise begun on Sept 1)
This is my obligatory poem of European travel sites
sprinkled throughout the piece
like les chaises sur la café trottoir.
My reading of other poets tells me
this is a required element
much like the salchow
in a figure skating competition or
including flairs and scissors on the pommel horse.
Should I begin by telling you about the faded pattern
of the curtains draping my breezy window overlooking
the Piazza Santa Croce
or should I tell you about Spain, about the
near-perfect seaside villa of Mazarron and
the school girl who giggled at my froth mustache
as I sipped my ristretto from the tiny porcelain
cup, the delicate handle no bigger
than the ear of a field mouse.
How tepid would your life seem
with its day at the lake and
burger cookout if I spoke of France,
if I went into even the very
minimum of details about making love in
the moon-drenched dunes of Villefranche, drunk,
though with class, on a bottle of Chateau Simard
which was purchased, intending only to toast
our broker and congratulate our good fortune in
finding such a quality camembert in the market.
Perhaps I should hurry and
tell you about Cologne and Frankfurt
before you lose interest, or pretend you are still
reading this while I paint you a picture of
a mundane moment in the Lanarkshires of Scotland.
Wait, don’t go; give me your address and
I’ll send you a postcard from Luxembourg with
a cube of commentary I know you’ll love.
And when you get my letter
handwritten in the Dublin pub
with a pen carved out of mahogany
by an artisan I ran over
with my moped outside Brussels ,
you won’t be surprised to learn that there
are no trailer parks in Venice.
-- rLp --
Flitting and flirting, two butterfly lovers
chase each other in a light-winged waltz
right into my windshield.
-- rLp --
I’ll nail my thesis to the church door
and hope the hammering itself
will wake them--the poet monks
who have kept vows of silence
while the noise of priestly
prose and sermonizing
fills the sanctuary like clanging smoke
and God, like a fly, skims a stained glass window
for a seam of slightest sky and escape
out into holy air.
-- rLp --
If you can hold on during the dark hours
many things will seem better with morning's light
and/or with butterscotch chips on it.
-- rLp --
When taunt in this kind of fury
I don’t want to write pretty poems
with the soft lead of a #2
pencil on lined paper
I want to spray the verse on
an unlined wall
so the letter tails drip paint
like blood from a cut lip,
Let me invade a classroom and scratch
a stanza with white chalk
on the blackboard while children
watch and cover their ears,
I want to carve the words in the flesh
of an oak on a downward slope of hill
with branches so far from the trunk
they’ll never find their way home.
I ache to etch something in rock I
can’t say aloud in present company,
maybe tattoo a verse the length of
my forearm which is a probably just
a piece of driftwood in your eyes.
Give me a sheet of sandpaper
and a nail and I’ll wax eloquently
in the grit,
and then I’ll wipe
the sweat of my brow with it,
breathe deep, shower, and
get back to writing pretty poetry
on lined paper.
-- rLp --
My current newspaper column
By now you’ve heard of Steven Slater, the former JetBlue flight attendant who has become a folk hero of sorts. Several weeks ago Slater quit his job which is nothing unique or noteworthy, but how he did it has garnered plenty of attention. The irritated flight attendant used the cabin intercom to cuss out a rude passenger before grabbing a few beers from the beverage cart and exiting via the plane’s inflatable emergency chute. If that were just a scene in film I’d laugh and cheer the guy, but it wasn’t an actor and the plane was real as were the greatly inconvenienced passengers.
A part of us can identify with a worker who is “fed up” and in some ways we admire the courage of one who throws caution to the wind and walks off the job with a variation of “Take This Job and Shove It” on his lips. How many times would we have liked to or wish we could now? But as Shumley Boteach wrote in WashingtonPost.com, “When did we elevate whiny brats to hero status? While the nation fawns over this ill-tempered quitter, hundreds of thousands of young Americans are putting their lives on the line in Iraq and Afghanistan, enduring pressures that a spoiled child like Slater can scarcely comprehend. Where are their fans? What does it really say about American culture that we worship those who crack under pressure more than those who handle it with courage and strength?”
In my last column I offered the following distinction between frustration and anger. Frustration is the response to a blocked goal or desire. Anger is the response to a perceived injustice or wrong. Anger in itself is not a sin. The Apostle Paul said, “Be angry and sin not…” How do we do that?
I have found the Anger Ladder in the writing of Dr. Ross Campbell to be helpful. It was originally published in his book How to Really Love Your Teenager but it speaks to the healthy/productive vs. unhealthy/destructive expressions of anger at any age. I commend it to you for your reading and consideration.
If I may I’d like to just point out a few tendencies that I see in many couples that actually escalate the anger and makes for very ineffective conflict resolution.
There are a number of ways we respond when we are angry, primarily in the reflexive ways which come most naturally to us. But hear me clearly: your relationship cannot afford for you simply to do what comes naturally to you. If you and I simply do what comes naturally to us in our relationships we will do damage. Almost all relational growth means doing something that feels unnatural, especially at first.
-- rLp --
This will be a work in progress. I will return to this post daily to edit and add to the poem. In the last few years I've noticed that many elite poets feel inclined to let us know that they have traveled in Europe and wandered far from the tour bus --a tourist passing themselves off as a local by describing obscure sites and throwing in random terms to demonstrate their mastery of the native language. While I have been to London & Paris I've never actually step foot in the places of my upcoming poetic pilgrimage. But why should that stop me from faking my first-hand knowledge and impressing my States-bound readers?
This is my obligatory poem with European travel sites
sprinkled throughout the piece
like les chaises sur la café trottoir.
My reading of other poets tells me
this is a required element
much like the salchow in a figure skating competition or
including flairs and scissors on the pommel horse.
Should I begin by telling you about the faded pattern
of the curtains draping my breezy window overlooking
the Piazza San Marco…
or should I tell you about Spain, about the
near-perfect seaside villa of Mazarron and
the school girl who giggled at my froth mustache
as I sipped my ristretto from the tiny porcelain
cup, the delicate handle no bigger
than the ear of a field mouse...
How tepid would your life seem
with its day at the lake and
burger cookout if I spoke of France,
if I went into even the very minimum of details
about making love on a picnic blanket
in the moon-drenched dunes
of Villefranche, drunk, though with class,
on a bottle of Chateau Simard
which was purchased, intending only to toast
ourselves and congratulate our good fortune in
finding such a quality camembert in the market...
-- rLp --
Gary Chapman: Love Talks for Families (Lovetalks Flip Books)
Ramon Presson, John Underwood & James Harnish: 365 Meditations For Men By Men (365 Meditations)
Ramon Presson: When Will My Life Not Suck? Authentic Hope for the Disillusioned
