A tale of a lost driver's license, Social InSecurity, and getting to know a Saint

Hey, it's just Tuesday, and it's been "a Week."

While hoofing it at Fashion Place Mall in Sandy, Utah last week, I managed to lose my driver's license.

I was all set to brave the lines at the Utah Drivers License Division today, but was spared when mall security notified me they had it. Just needed picture I.D. to reclaim it (passport), which I did . . . and then did three miles in the labyrinthine aisles, since I was there anyway.

On Monday, I had to go into the Social Security Office downtown Salt Lake City. I had been approved for Medicare before the May Tribune Surprise (mass layoffs), and had then applied for retirement benefits a couple weeks ago.

LifeLock thought that was strange, and raised a red flag over possible identity theft. So, I made an appointment online, only to find out the local office had no record of that . . . but after an hour's wait, got sent to another office where a polite (?) young feller cleared it all up . . . even told me I had an extra month coming, since my last day of work had been that dire second Monday in May.


Things worked out. The cynics among my friends will just have to indulgently smile when I say I credit prayer . . . for the outcome, or at very least for the peace I've had. (Live with it).

So, before the go-the-mall-and-recover-the-driver's license trip, I went to early morning men's meeting at Sts. Peter & Paul, where Fr. Justin shared a presentation on St. John Maximovitch (https://orthodoxwiki.org/John_(Maximovitch)_the_Wonderworker), a.k.a. St. John of Shanghai and San Francisco.

That's him, in the photo to the left.

His icon has a prominent place in SPPOC's nave, and I always smile when I enter and venerate him, and other saints. What an amazing, selfless, heroic and, yes, miraculous life he gave for God and humankind.

While the miraculous aspects of St. John continue to this day, with his relics and intercession credited for healings spiritual and physical alike, for me it is his actions -- on behalf of thousands of orphaned children, refugees, the poor in spirit and life -- that inspires me most.

Sixty-five trips 'round the Sun: A mere flickering of a celestial neuron does not a life make

I've now completed 65 orbits of this planet around Sol. Not even a blink of the Creator's eye (if the Creator was truly male, female, corporeal or even concerned with "Time.") 

Scripture tells us He (a concession, human pronouns being so limited, after all) does care about those rotations made by his creations, from the so-called pinacle, humankind, to even the smallest sparrow. 

But consider, the Earth, current assumptions purport, has made approximately 4.5 billion-plus (give or take a paltry 500 million) trips around our class G, yellow dwarf star. So, not even the blink of the Deity's eye, this lifetime of mine, in purely statistical terms. . . indeed, if God has something like neurons within His eternal, limitless intelligence, 65 years might be a fraction of one celestial neuron firing (or mis-firing?) 

Too, too much to take in? OK, how about the perspective of mere mortality? 

The World Health Organization says males, on average, live to nearly 84 years of age in Japan (No. 1). In the good old U.S.A., despite having the "best" (and most expensive) health care in the world, it's a shade over 79 (31st on the planet). In Sierra Leone, it's barely 50. 

But how to measure the worth of a lifetime? That has always been the question. My father turns 96 in July, yet he is legally blind, with severe hearing loss, and cognitively disabled. My mother, 90, is in end-stage Alzheimer's. 

So, how does 96, or 90, in such cases compare to that fellow in Sierra Leone who probably still works hard, helps raise his children's children, and has clan and family and village to center him?

When you consider the differences, why measure life in terms of whether an aged American can count (if he or she is indeed able to remember how to count) one or two dozen more trips around Old Sol than our brother in Sierra Leone?

Rather than years, seems to me, we should count each day -- how we have loved, embraced and helped others, whether we stood in awe in a forest clearing, watching the sun shimmer on the limbed canopy above, the breeze teasing the leaves as it cools our wet brows, and as the sun warms us.

One moment like that, my family and friends, is a glimpse of eternity. . . and a humbling reminder of our tiny, however treasured by our Maker, place in it all.

And, if we are blessed to rise again in the morning, begin to count again, if you are so inclined.

But really, every day should begin with this: "Well, this is '1', once more."

Layoff. 'Reduction in Force.' 'Right-sizing.' Whatever you call it, it's still gonna hurt

 

My last feature package for the Salt Lake Tribune before the May 14 layoffs, on hospital chaplains, has gone worldwide thanks to AP (a long ago employer). Spotted in Europe and Korea, etc.

A bittersweet thing, though I hang on to the idea that at least I went out doing my best work. Connected to that story, however, was an offer made by one of the chaplains I interviewed to provide me with "grief counseling." 

What? But now, almost three weeks out, I get it. The stages of grief in suddenly, unexpectedly losing a job are indeed similar in some respects to loss of a loved one. (

1) Denial, as in erecting an emotional buffer, downplaying the impact of the loss on one's finances and self-esteem. I did that, filling my initial days to appointments to arrange 401k rollovers, Medicare coverage, a ton of long-neglected domestic repairs and tasks, just to feel like I was accomplishing . . . something.

(2) Anger. This didn't last long, actually, but it was there for a while, and when one hears how well those last articles were accepted, it validates self-worth, sure, but also elevates the question, "Then why?"

The answer, honestly, has to be "Why not?" especially when it's not all about you, after all, and realizing that 33 other great people are asking the same questions.

(3) Bargaining. Well, there was none of that, since no alternatives were provided . . . unless scrambling to fill the now-empty hours with other work -- any work -- counts; I actually did that, filled out the employment forms, took training, and then realized I just could not be happy in the offered position -- truly, a square peg/round hole situation.

(4) Depression. Didn't really come until earlier this week, culminating with the pits on Wednesday.

Long story short(er), you give yourself time to process, once you realize this is your new reality . . . and, despite how it feels, you now must explore the long-dormant other values of life, allow faith, introspection and learning to re-invent, or resurrect your long shelved dreams and interests.

(5) And so comes Acceptance. As a former editor of mine used to say, ad nauseum, "It is what it is."

In both the loss of a loved one, or of a job that so defined you for decades, you must eventually bury the dead.

Truly, it stinks, but that's OK. Once in the hallowed ground of memory, suitably mourned and honored, you take your eyes off the freshly turned earth and walk toward the sun.

It will get better; there is more of life ahead, and you will, eventually, find ways to embrace the freedom.

For me, that means more time to pursue a part-time avocation, now as a vocation: freelance writing and editing. I've co- or ghost-written a dozen books and hundreds of articles over the last couple decades through my DBA, MimsMedia; I hope to do many more.