My barber’s jokes are not too bad. At least they’re usually a step above Dad jokes. One of his latest: What do you do when you come to a fork in the road? Answer: Take it.
I didn’t get it right away, and I’m still not sure I do, but I always laugh at my barber’s jokes since he holds the clippers.
There was a time many years ago when I came to that fork in the road myself. Life had just given me a one-two punch in the heart. Ahead of me were some painful decisions. But right then the best plan looked like just giving up.
Dad was doing everything he could to help me. One day, as he watched me continue to lick my wounds in my man cave, he decided it was time for hard-core fatherly advice. He said the quickest way to get through my crisis was to force myself to quit focusing on my own pain and help somebody else. I guess he felt I’d been grieving long enough and it was time for some forward progress.
Wow, Dad, that’s some strong medicine! The last thing I wanted at that time was to be around other people, let alone help them. My Plan A, though, was to keep stewing in my own juices.
However, an opportunity to climb out of the stew presented itself only days later when I was invited to join a grief support group at the church I was attending. This was not just any support group. We were told that not only would we help each other get through our trials, we would eventually be given opportunities to comfort others outside the group with the comfort we had received.
Not till right now have I entertained the possibility that Dad had asked the leader of the group to invite me to join. This was exactly his antidote for my pain—in a double dose.
There were at least a dozen other people in the group. I knew they were going, or had been, through the fire themselves. I couldn’t help wondering how many had talked to their fathers as well. And how many came as close as I had to declining the invitation to the group.
Though over four decades have passed, the influence from the group on my life is still with me. But I’ll focus on just two of the comments made there that I remember clearly. They couldn’t be more different, but they worked together to help produce a better life.
I remember how the chairs were arranged and even what our leader was wearing when he said, “Each one of you can become bitter—or become better. It’s up to you.”
It was an epiphany to realize I was at that fork. Scales fell off my eyes. The only problem was I could now see how hard it was going to be to take the better way. And at the moment my tank was empty.
By this time in my life, I had mastered the art of sulking. Bad circumstances and disloyal people had caused my problems, I told myself every day. I had a right to the fast lane on the bitter highway.
I spent a week or two pondering his statement. If I took the better road, I would have to swallow my pride, sacrifice my rights, and surrender my life entirely to God. And I thought Route 80 had big tolls.
I kept waffling, considering the high road, but then diving quickly back into the stew.
I came into the fourth week of the group, however, whispering to myself, “I choose better” more often than I whispered “I choose bitter.” This was counter to my nature at that time, but I knew I was getting strength from above thanks to the prayers of a couple of faithful friends and my parents. I was still so devastated from this crisis I could barely offer any of my own prayers.
This session we were to learn the art of giving advice to each other, always a touchy subject. Our leader would school us on the correct way to share helpful words. Maybe even words someone did not want to hear. The motto was “Carefrontation, not confrontation.”
We perused a list of softball examples. One went something like this: “I like your blue shirt. But green might be an even better color on you.”
He called on members of the group to come up with their own examples. It sounded like we had it down.
Be kind, be thoughtful, be sensitive.
Then he paired us off to practice, coming up with our own original dialogue. Not my favorite part of any group activity, but I’d come this far already. I encouraged my partner to go first. I wasn’t necessarily trying to be polite; I just wanted to hear how she did it.
I was trying to relax…and then came the other comment that I still remember. “I’m not trying to be mean, but you really should be less uptight.”
I wasn’t ready for that one. There were so many things I didn’t like about her advice. First of all, the way she began: “I’m not trying to be mean, but…”
This lady seemed nice enough, until we partnered up. Maybe she was trying to help me. But I found it hard to listen to anything else while I braced myself for the mean part.
We had been told to avoid the word should. I might be OK if my pastor or doctor used it. But when she used it, I thought, It isn’t the mean part yet, but it could qualify as the pushy part.
I’ll admit I was uptight, as were most people who were coming to this group for help. But her advice only managed to tighten the screw an extra turn.
I can’t remember how I responded, but I’m 99% sure it wasn’t good. And my mind looped “I choose bitter” the rest of the day.
Like I said, I’m a sulker with thin skin. That could have been the day I quit the group. I really didn’t feel like going anyway. This could be my excuse.
Between meetings, though, I felt a strange mix of emotions. I was still mad at God, mad at my life situation, mad at the group. But at the same time I wanted to find a way in my heart to give my sharing partner the benefit of the doubt. Where did that come from?
I turned a corner, slow but sure, with that decision. I forced myself into a new attitude and I actually started working hard to become part of the group. I learned to give and receive comfort. Then one day, to my amazement, I even mustered enough energy to comfort a hurting soul outside of the group.
I actually was becoming less uptight. Though I couldn’t help but be a little relieved when I discovered we would rotate practice partners.
Dad was right again. Truly there is healing when we get the focus off of ourselves and onto others.
Not that I haven’t waffled many times over the years. With God’s help, though, I’m surrendering more of my life to him, and ironically becoming more and more free as I do.
Which goes to show that if you come to that fork, you can choose to take the better road instead of the bitter one. And really, I’m not trying to be mean.
