Touring

In mid-November, my friend, Tony, and I spent several days in Charleston, South Carolina. While looking at an historic home near the Battery one afternoon, we were warmly greeted by Rusty Denman and his wife, Lisa Ohler Denman. Our accents immediately outed us as tourists; theirs readily evidenced local roots.

Rusty was as gregarious—and graciously curious—as anyone I’ve met. Upon discovering that both Tony and I were born in Detroit, he shared details about the city that signaled more than passing acquaintance. As it happens, Rusty’s grandson is a student at the University of Michigan, where he’s a member of the crew team. Tony has two nieces at the school, both of whom are competitive swimmers. So, Rusty and Tony promised to facilitate an introduction (which occurred last month).

But another introduction—to the work of Lisa’s late father—has proven far more profound in light of my quest. The day after we met, Lisa sent me an e-mail. After noting that Rusty “knows more people than anybody but God,” and has a gift “for seeing and making connections,” she continued: 

America is a very big country, indeed—and yet it's a "small world after all.” I have this theory that connections are present all the time without us realizing it; it's only when we engage with each other that we become aware of them.

A good buddy of Rusty’s, Andrae Crouch, had a neat way of explaining something to me once. Drae is a singer-songwriter best known for that great song, "Oh Happy Day." Drae called one day, around the time that my dad was diagnosed with cancer. Drae said life is not always easy to understand. It's kind of like looking at the backside of a needlepoint, how there are all these loose threads and random-looking colors, knots and such, which don't really make much sense. But one day, God is gonna flip it over, and we'll see the marvelous tapestry he's been weaving together all along.

Dad was born in Brooklyn, went to Lehigh to be an engineer, then felt a call to the ministry. After Yale Divinity School, he went to Warren Wilson College—a unique liberal arts school in the mountains of western North Carolina. Dad ended up staying there for almost 40 years, as chair of the Department of Religion and Philosophy, teaching classes in poetry and autobiography. He was chaplain of the college, pastored its Presbyterian congregation, counseled the student body, coached the baseball team, and in his "spare" time played principal violin in the Asheville Symphony. He was a Renaissance guy who was always learning.  

Something about the way you write makes me think you'd really like a book he wrote, "Better Than Nice and Other Unconventional Prayers."   

It was the kind of invitation I’ve learned to take seriously—and to recognize as more than mere coincidence. I immediately ordered the book—which was waiting for me when I arrived in Minneapolis for Thanksgiving.

To put it mildly, Frederick Ohler’s prayers are both riveting and beautiful—unlike any I’ve seen or spoken. He eloquently captures the magnificence of the mundane—in a way that invites both believers and non-believers to see and appreciate the profound beauty of the world we share. Originally published in 1989, the book is still available through both Amazon and Barnes and Noble; I highly recommend it.

One of Ohler’s final prayers is called, “Tourist Eyes.” “We take it all for granted,” he writes, 

overlook what is right before our jaded eyes…

When familiarity evokes a yawn…

give us the chance

and the will

to see anew with tourist eyes…

all the wonderful sights

all the lovely people…

and as much of the glory as we can take.

What a wonderful approach to life! It's one of the hoped-for consequences of my journey.

Finding myself in unfamiliar places almost daily (often by myself), I’ve had little choice but to see through “tourist eyes”—especially on some less-than-hospitable roads. The trip has also enabled me to test a set of figurative “compass points”—ways of approaching both experiences and interactions. When I chart my course by them, the four—gratitude, wonder, empathy, humility—help preserve my tourist eyes.

By gratitude, I’m referring to a level of appreciation you would display if you knew that this was your last day of life. It’s a significantly heightened attention to the smallest of details—and more importantly, to each and every person you encounter (especially loved ones). Try spending a day as if there will be no tomorrow. It’s a sober experience—but one that can only make you more aware and thankful.

Wonder is the innocent delight best evidenced by young children. I envision my grandchildren each time I lifted them up to a Christmas tree over the holidays. It was as if they were seeing each light and ornament for the first time every time—even when the exercise was repeated several times an hour.

Empathy is the sincere opening of one’s eyes and heart to others—even and especially when those others seem different. I vividly recall the man I met in Washington, DC while passing out dinner on the street. He wanted me to see rather than serve him. He challenged me to see myself in him, and by extension, to recognize and acknowledge the very face of God.

Humility, rather than simply an absence of pride, is a practice of allowing the world to come to you. It’s the peaceful, pervading acceptance that “control” is but an illusion, and that our greatest gift (and most generous quality) is simply a genuine, attentive presence.

I wish I could say that I’m able to sport these lenses all the time. What I will say is that, like Frederick Ohler, I pray for tourist eyes—and a tourist heart as well. At home and on the road.

(St. Petersburg, FL)

PS. A new cinnamon bun has taken over the top spot: The Carlton Bakery in Carlton, Oregon, where the delicious, croissant-like pastry is called a “Pain du Matin.”

PPS. On January 14, I depart for a 16-day “detour” to Bali—so there won’t be any new posts until early February. Though Bali is not in America, I’m told the local culture is uniquely spiritual. So I’m still looking for God!