In Search of a Bigger Pie

Our recent county budget hearing highlighted that our lives, even here in Alleghany County, are becoming increasingly complicated and complex. A snare that is easy to step into is to think of those two terms as synonymous. Two recent examples shed light on how we can tease apart the intricacies between those problems that are complicated and those that are complex.

Developing our county budget is a complicated process. There are countless services that residents expect to be delivered and those services have to be funded at a sustainable level. Fortunately, we have skilled staff that can assess those needs, weigh them against projected revenue and then deliver a balanced budget. It is a complicated task but one that we can delegate to experts who can then deliver a finished product.

That budget hearing also revealed the complex side of the budget process. Representatives from groups that receive funds from the county budget spoke of the impact of the proposed reductions in their 2021-2022 appropriations. These groups make valuable contributions to the public safety, education, health and the economic growth of our county.  Ironically, these financial requests make up a small fraction of the county budget.  The county commissioners had to make difficult decisions concerning these proposals, all of which they recognize as valuable to our community. As someone said during those discussions, “The pie is only so big.”

Another example comes from the creative place-making (or community development) discussion hosted by Blue Ridge Energy and the Town of Sparta. As representatives from local industry, small businesses, educational institutions, agriculture, real estate and other community organizations came together over the course of the day, several issues or themes were consistently raised during our discussions. One was the need for more housing. As this need was more closely examined, the complexity of the issue became increasingly apparent. Given our limited resources, we discussed whether the focus should be on affordable housing for low income individuals; housing for young or senior adults; housing that meets the needs of families; housing for weekenders or second home owners; or housing for seasonal workers. Once again someone addressed the realization of limited resources with a familiar analogy, “The pie is only so big.” The facilitator responded, “Maybe you need a bigger pie.”

Determining how to carve up an existing pie is a complicated process – baking a bigger pie is complex. So where do we begin?

Visioning is the first step. The facilitator in the creative place-making workshop challenged the participants with the question, “If you could wave a magic wand, and resources were not an issue, what would you like to see happen in your community?” This is not “think outside the box” rhetoric. It is removing the box to think more broadly of the current and future needs of our town and county.

The second step is getting the right people in the room. Complex issues require that we develop or strengthen networks and relationships with existing teams or organizations.  It is vital that we include people in the conversation who can allow us to develop a 360 degree, three dimensional view of our challenges. This is an uncomfortable process because it forces us to hear from people with whom we may disagree. Complexity requires that we lean into this discomfort instead of pulling away into our comfortable echo chambers where we all sing the same songs.

Finally, if we are serious about baking a larger pie, we have to rid ourselves of a small pie mentality. It is true that our community faces many challenges around resources. Both examples provided here highlight those issues. But some seem to revel in, and even perpetuate, a “poor but proud” attitude. A continued, narrow focus on our resource challenges or shortcomings will keep our pie small with increasingly smaller pieces for everyone.

Perhaps, as we wave that magic wand, we can even dream so big as to envision ice cream with our pie.

Through the Fog and Snow

My closest friends know that I tend to describe life with a mixture of metaphors, analogies and similes. Whether that is a defense mechanism or just a product of my culture, those tools help me communicate how I experience the world. I find them especially helpful in defining my emotions.

As I travel through this season of grief, I’ve struggled to find words that adequately describe my emotional state. Adding to that difficulty is the fact those emotions can change with little notice. Within a short walk across the room, I can experience anger, sadness and a lingering denial of Amy’s death. 

One analogy I’ve used many times over the past months, when asked how I’m doing, is that it’s like I’m out in a snowstorm. The snow is blowing, forcing my head down; the clouds are low, hiding the horizon; and there is a ground fog that casts an eerie shadow across the landscape. The footing is slippery, and I feel as though I may fall with each step. But the scariest part is that I feel as if I closed my eyes and turned around twice, I could no longer find my way back home. It is an unsettling and disorienting state.  Yesterday, after an overnight snow, I saw a visual image of my analogy. Low clouds, heavy fog and 4-5 inches of snow. After a light lunch, I determined it was time to face the fog and go for a walk.

I made my way up the drive and turned toward Bullhead Mountain. About half way up, I met my neighbor who was plowing his drive. We talked for a half hour; a long rambling conversation about grief and death and Heaven and what it’s like to move on without a loved one. Then it was on up the road, following a set of tracks to the next home until they turned down the drive. From there, there were no more tracks other than those left by me.

I planned to walk up to a pasture opening, just before the trail turns up steeply to Bullhead. I had hoped for a panoramic photo from this elevated point, but the fog closed in, limiting visibility to a few feet in each direction. As I walked across the pasture a tall, leafless tree appeared from the fog, its branches encased in snow and ice, standing alone in the field. I felt a kinship with that tree.

As I stood staring at that lone tree, the clouds seemed to thin for just a moment. The sky lightened briefly as if to remind me that there is sunshine just above and beyond those clouds, and that the snow and fog are temporal.

Winter is a strange season here at the foot of Bullhead Mountain. Bitterly cold weeks are interspersed with spring-like days. Clouds are blown away to reveal the bluest skies of the year. The snow rarely stays long before it is spirited away. Mysteriously, as time passes, there are more warm days and fewer cold ones and less snow and northern winds are replaced by southern breezes. 

Then, daffodils begin to bloom.

An Old Commandment for a New Year

For many of us the start of the new year is a time of new beginnings and resolutions to change behaviors. Perhaps it is better described as a time of new intentions or the resumption of failed ones from previous years. I have kept a journal for 25 years and each year I write a recap of the old year and list my intentions for the new one. Unfortunately, the intentions list is virtually the same every year. I find it nearly impossible to change.

2020 was a challenging year and one I’m glad to see in the rearview mirror. Covid 19 caused us to continually adapt and balance the public safety concerns of our communities with the economic and emotional health of the individuals that make up those communities. It has been difficult to strike the balance between what’s best for us collectively with the fear of losing our individual freedoms. I feel safe in saying that we all felt, feared or sensed loss in 2020.

For my family, our loss was real and tangible. Coming in waves roughly 2-3 months apart we lost a brother-in-law to cancer, my brother was diagnosed with ALS, we cancelled a much anticipated family vacation to Yellowstone, my daughter and her family moved 7 ½ hours away, and my wife, Amy, died after contracting Covid. It was an inexplicably hard year for us.

As I was repeatedly knocked off my feet by those cascading tragedies, I began to feel further and further from God. I use the word “feel” intentionally. I embrace the promise that “I [God] will never leave nor forsake you (Hebrews 13:5).” But what I knew to be true and what I felt in those turbulent months were vastly different. This fueled the sensation of being untethered and free-floating with no sense of direction. So, for New Year’s Day I decided to forgo the traditional southern meal of black-eyed peas, pork and greens to instead fast to see if God had a word for me as I began 2021.

On the morning of January 1^st in place of breakfast, I began reading the Gospel of John. Immediately I was struck with the words “In him [Jesus] was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it (John 1: 4-5).” I read on through the first five chapters before going on with my day. Throughout the day those words, “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it” rolled repeatedly around in my head.

I made it through most of the day without being especially hungry, but that evening there was a gnawing in my stomach. My head ached from a lack of caffeine. The sun set and evening news came on, both reminding me that it was time for supper. I turned back to the Gospel of John.

In chapter 13, as Jesus was talking with His disciples he said, “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another (John 13: 34-35).” It was as though I heard those words for the first time! I prayed, “So is that it God - my charge moving into 2021? Love other people? What does this kind of Biblical love look like? How can I show this kind of love when my heart is broken and I can barely breathe?” Then I realized that I had heard this communicated for weeks and shown what this kind of love looks like in action.

Leading up to the holidays, a missionary working with predominantly Muslim refugees spoke at our church. He shared that many Muslims are converting to Christianity. He said that he always asks, “What brought you to Jesus,” and they say, “We saw Him in the love shown to us by Christians.”  Then, in the week after Christmas, Ben Gatton shared his thoughts on choosing love for the new year in a blog post for Hope Fellowship Church. Ben wrote:

“…love is often a choice isn't it? When we choose to live in God's love and center our lives around it, we can live in compassion for others and see them as God does. Love connects us to God's children and reminds us that we too are children of God. Love compels us to serve, to listen, to care, to grow.”

Finally, in late December I was serendipitously introduced to the writings of Canadian pastor/author/blogger Tim Challies while visiting my daughter. His son died suddenly in November at age 20. Challies has written frankly about his grief journey here and here. In a January 4th post (just days after I received the imperative to love one another) Challies quoted author J.R. Miller:

“Grief should always make us better and give us new skill and power. It should make our heart softer, our spirit kindlier, our touch more gentle; it should teach us its holy lessons, and we should learn them, and then go on, with sorrow’s sacred ordination upon us, to new love and better service.”

As I follow Ben’s example of “choosing love,” a love fueled by a grief that has given me “new skill and power,” I have two questions for you, my friends and family:

Will you hold me accountable when I don’t act in a loving manner? I give anyone who reads this license to challenge my actions or speech with the question – “Is this coming from a place of love?” 

Second, will you commit to love as well? Will you set aside political bickering, debates about Covid restrictions, and rambling theological arguments to choose instead to love one another in spite of our differences? I’m not asking that you compromise your beliefs or values. We can still be firm in our convictions while showing love - a love that is improbable, unlikely and maybe impossible in a worldly sense.

 “By this all people will know you are my disciples...” The words of Jesus.