Three Wise Men

Without apology for not having blogged, and with no shame for what I am anticipating might threaten to become one of those blogs that will seem to be an overcompensation for lack of consistent blogging output, I want to seize on this season of the church year (Epiphany, if I've not completely lost touch), to talk about three men, and to see what wisdom might be gained from them. For as the Magi certainly must have known, whatever wisdom we accrue in life does ourselves and others little good unless it is somehow shared, or simply given away. Our three wise men in this space are: Charles Schulz, Carl Karcher, and my Dad.

--I've been meaning to write about Charles Schulz for some time, ever since his biography came out last Fall. David Michaelis' "Schulz and Peanuts: A Biography," raised some eyebrows at the time because it detailed certain aspects of Schulz's life, principally his rather chilly relationship with his own children and his altogether too warm relationship with a woman not his wife. At the time the book was published I was steeping in realizations of my own humanity's mixture of darkness and light, and I took some consolation from reading that a biographer had taken an unflinching yet caring look at Schulz's life, with all of its faults and foibles, and everything had more or less come out all right in the end. Craig Schulz, Charles' oldest son, was quoted in Newsweek as saying of the book, "I guess we were expecting vanilla, but we got rocky road." I thought that maybe that comment could apply to Schulz's own expectation of his own life. I know that, for myself, while I never have really expected vanilla, I have had my share of rocky road!

Anyway, I'd like to mention two other comments from the Newsweek review. One is: "Like most artists, Schulz found grief more inspiring than happiness...". Hmmmm... This about the man who gave us both: "Good grief!" and "Happiness is a warm puppy!" Yet Michaelis documents how Schulz kept himself in a certain perpetual state of, well, creative resentment: "He knew that hurt, and the anger that sprang from it... was the taproot of his life's work." I don't think I have the "genius" to live that way...

Yet, as Schulz's sufferings, real and imagined, made their way through him onto the page, and into the lives of his characters, and from his characters into our lives, adversity and suffering itself became more than refined, almost redeemed. From what I've read of him, Schulz's attachments were not so much to other people, but rather to the redemptive relationships he had with his Peanuts characters. Newsweek said, "As it happened, he died on Feb. 13, 2000, the day before the final Sunday 'Peanuts' strip. As soon as 'Peanuts' ended, so did his life."

I have to say that Charles Schulz was the Wise Man who brings us Frankincense, not just because he was a devout evangelical Christian (who can forget "The Gospel According to Peanuts"?), but more because he wrestled with things spiritual, in his work, in his life.

--I happened to be thinking about Carl Karcher around the time of his recent death. Driving by a Carl's Jr., I remembered the time I met him. And then, in his obituary in the Times, there was a line that simply leaped out at me: "The boss ate several meals a week at his restaurants, and, wherever he went, he handed out coupons for free hamburgers, wrapped in a Scripture verse." This was certainly my experience of him.

I met Carl Karcher at the home of a couple of people who were my parishioners. The couple was having their 60th wedding anniversary party, as I recall, and since their family was large but their home quite, shall we say, modest, my family and I were among only a few friends who'd been invited. It was a privilege to be there! The host family was loving, and kind, and humble-- truly gentle people.

Into this mix Carl was invited. Into this mix he came, with his wife. He was warmly received, but he did not make himself at home. Instead, he worked the home like a politician works a room. He went from room to room, introducing himself, and shaking hands. AND: he gave everyone a coupon for a free hamburger and a Catholic devotional card!

I looked at him at the time, and thought him to be a man of extraordinary pomposity. I tried to balance this take with just the fact that there we were together, at the home of mutual friends... I did my best to let him make a good impression on me, but I was not very successful within myself.

The reason why Carl Karcher was there in my friend's home on that special day was omitted from him obituary. The obituary tells that he began his business in 1941, with a little cash and money he borrowed against his car. He bought a hot dog push cart that he set up near a Goodyear plant in South Central. He enjoyed some success, working hard, and invested in other hot dog carts.

What the obituary omits to say is that while he served in the Army in WWII, someone or someones else were pushing those carts. My friend, Louie, I was told, was asked by Carl, in effect to keep his business alive during the war years while he was away. This Louie did! So, when Carl came back after the war, he had the wherewithal waiting for him so he could open his first full-service restaurant in 1945. My friend, Louie, had held his place. My friend, Louie, had kept things going.

Carl Karcher's visit to Louie's house that night was because he hadn't forgotten what Louie had done for him. So it was that Louie felt graced to have this successful man in his home.

Why then was I so... hesitant to feel the same sense of gratitude? I've thought about it over the years and I've wondered, perhaps something that is as equally unfair as my initial judgment of him. And that is: I've wondered whether Carl ever was truly thankful for what Louie had done. I know. It seems unfair of me, maybe, even to suspect this of a man who hadn't forgotten what my friend had done, maybe almost 50 years earlier. All I know is that it is what I've wondered. And how I've based it on that one, only, first impression. And how Carl Karcher never sat down in Louie's house that night... How he "Karcher-ed" us-- and then left...

So Carl Karcher, I think, brings the gift of Gold. In contrast, my friend, Louie, along with his whole family, always brought the gift of love.

--Finally, a gift of Myrrh from my father:

Since my mother died, we have talked more often and more meaningfully, and I am enjoying my relationship with my father. I am going to tell this little story on him.

As many who know me--and him!-- know, my mother was in uncertain health for many years following ovarian cancer surgery in 2000. Over those years, my mother and father engaged in a nightly tug of war with God over her life. My mother would pray for God to take her; my father would pray for God to let her stay with him because he needed her so.

Now that she has indeed had her prayer answered, my Dad sometimes falls into fits of regret that he prayed as he did for as long as he did. It wasn't until her hospitalization last June that my Dad changed his prayers and asked God not to listen to him but to her. Sometimes my Dad punishes himself with thoughts of his selfishness-- he, who was beyond devoted to her for more than the 64 years they were married.

I have trouble listening to my Dad when he gets to feeling this way. So this is what I told him: I said, Dad, yes, you held onto Mom for a long time, and you would not let her go, even when she wanted to go. But then, you changed, and you worked to be ready for the day when God would take her home, away from you. And sure enough, that day came. And when it did, suddenly, really, you held her hand as she died-- and you let her go! You did not ask her not to go. You did not ask her to come back. You were ready, AND you were true: you let her go. Dad, I said, that was a very courageous thing to do, and you did it with integrity.

So we cried a little together and hugged each other over the phone... And I believe he was comforted.

And I am comforted to know that of wise men who bring frankincense and wise men who bring gold, the wise man who brought myrrh is my father. In acceptance of our mortality is the fountain of our vitality. And I am blessed.