Making things happen

... with integrity

Monday December 1, 2003 Volume V Number 49

rnest Hemingway won both the Pulitzer and the Nobel prizes.  A prolific writer, from pre-Second World War Europe on well into the nineteen fifties, he contributed to the sense of what is means to be an American.  He was independent.  Straightforward.  Cynical.  Romantic.  He understood the ebb and flow of history, but his characters were not the victims of some fate beyond their control.  He believed that the individual can impact the direction of the events of history. 

It wasn’t until later that he understood the power of his words on paper.  He was a story-teller. He was an American in Europe.  At first, he was on the payroll as a newspaper reporter, but then his novels gave him financial and personal independence.  He learned not so much from books and articles (though he was a prodigious reader), he learned from conversation.  He listened.  He logged the stories he heard.  He chased down the facts.  He developed characters that became archetypes of national and even global movements.

He was romantic on two levels. 

Married five times, his reputation as a womanizer would become legendary.  Colorful romance permeated his novels (creating memorable roles for Hollywood’s leading stars).  But his sense of romance transcended the relationship between a man and a woman.  Hemingway had a passionate romance with life itself.  He began covering a world hell-bent for war.  Communists clashed with the new Fascists in Europe as the world worked its way out of a crippling depression.  Marxism faded as new tyrants emerged, with the promise of prosperity and a domineering national pride.  Tactics were violent and cruel, and in Spain, Alphonso XIII was overthrown by rebels, the country disintegrated into a brutal civil war. 

Hemingway spoke to Spaniards in their native language.  He developed an understanding of the complexities of their lives and the war and the emerging threat of Germany’s expansionism.  He listened as commoners reacted to the insurgency, caught in the cross-fire, as Americans, Brits and Russians joined in the fight; a pre-curser to what inevitably became the Second World War.  Out of those conversations, he penned the novel that many would call his masterpiece, For Whom the Bell Tolls.

His title comes from an old poem written by John Donne, about the end of the sixteenth century.  An Anglican Priest and metaphysical poet, Donne’s musing on the tolling of the bell was a reflection on death itself.

I thought perhaps that Hemingway borrowed the phrase from Donne’s poem as a warning – no one knows the number of their days.  Our time is a gift, a gift that may be snatched at the most unanticipated moment, in the most unexpected way.  The poem warns – “send not to know for whom the bell tolls,” and then the eerie conclusion: “It tolls for thee.”  I always assumed this to be an admonition that my own life could be taken at any possible moment and best not to know.  Hemingway, a student of war, knows the randomness of the killing in battle.  He speaks of comrades who make a pact, requesting that their lives be taken in the event of a debilitating wound, even if it means being shot by a friend or worse, pre-planned, pre-rehearsed suicide.  Better dead that left behind to be tortured by the enemy.  And as his novel unfolds, and you grow attached to his characters, you know some will die, but whom?  When?  It adds to literary suspense.  For whom will the bell toll?

But this is a misunderstanding of Donne.  And Hemingway.

John Donne, the great preacher and orator and poet who held sway for decades at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, wrote “No man is an island, entire of himself.”  We are all connected, one to the other.  We may make up a whole continent, he said, but each of us, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, is a part of that whole. 

Each of us is defined in the context of others.  We play a role.  We enhance, contribute, support, assist, serve, complete, hold together – all in community.  And so, Donne proclaimed, “Each man’s death diminishes me.”  When one dies, all of us suffer loss.

Hemmingway understood Donne better than I did. 

When the bell tolls, announcing the death of another, perhaps even a stranger, it tolls not only for the deceased.  It tolls for me.

It’s not necessary to ask “For whom does the bell toll?”  According to Donne, it tolls for the questioner.  For you.  For me.  It is we who suffer the loss.

As Hemingway tells the story of a band of rag-tag misfits in hiding high in the rocky mountains of Spain, they are swept into the cross-fire of battle.  An American, Robert “Roberto” Jordan, believes in the cause of the Republic, and is willing to frustrate the enemy’s advance.  But ultimately, Hemingway, by his title, protests the out-of-control war in post-depression Europe.  Every character, whether he be a wandering gypsy or a polished Russian Commander, is diminished by the fighting and the killing.

For Hemingway, watching Europe’s treasures and people crumbling away to ash and dust under the crush of tanks and artillery fire and air strikes and grenades and fire-bombs, the bell tolled for us all.

And Hemingway’s stories drew us into the drama.

* * * * * *

Our Thanksgiving Day began with a video tape none of us will ever forget.  My brother’s son made a speech.  Caught on tape. 

Each year, we like to take time for open sharing.  The annual theme for the November Feast is… “I am thankful for…” and then the participant fills in the rest.

Often, it’s the children who steal the show.  Perhaps there is nothing better for a parent than to hear a child express gratitude for a happy home; for warmth, shelter, nourishment, rest, affection, companionship, support.   What parent doesn’t set out to provide all of these?  While there may have been a time when we assumed all this to be a “given,” an entitlement, most of us eventually discover that none of these come easily.  It’s costly.  Requires discipline.  Hard work.  Tenacity.  Attention.  Determination.  Sacrifice.  Persistence.  Patience.  Endurance.  Self-control.  Stamina.  A sense of humor.  Good parents do not expect their children to understand.  That will come later.  But on Thanksgiving, some of the especially good kids will speak up, and in a simple, but sincere expression, they will say something from the heart, with a smile, and it’s enough to warm a Mommy’s heart and make even the toughest Daddy swallow hard.

And then the hugs follow.

It’s best not to wait a full year for a repeat performance.  These moments of affirmation are all too rare.  But they are so very healthy.

For my brother and sister-in-law, it was a long time coming.  But after a couple of trying years, granting my nephew enough rope to find his own way, they heard the words that can not be coerced.  They can’t be bought. 

It’s the sentiment that makes parenting perhaps the most significant work any human being can ever aspire to. 

Tim ventured out into the world as most of us do.  There are many options.  There is plenty of rejection.  Plenty of reasons to give up.  To give in.  Plenty of paths to walk… some leading to good places.  Some not. 

All Tim really wanted to do was play football.

The other stuff was secondary.

But Tim got himself side-tracked.

It wasn’t until a strong coach, who knew Tim’s great gifts, and needed him on the team, said no.  “No, Tim,” knowing some of the challenges he brought with him to that first week of practice, “you can’t play this year.”   That’s when Tim got the message.

He knew he needed to make changes.  He knew that no one else could do it for him.  He knew that he had to do it, not for his parents, but for himself.

In the context of some supportive friends and a positive learning environment, he started to rebuild his life.  He got healthy.  He cleaned up the finances.  He took whatever work he could get.  He learned to carry his part of the load.  He caught up on the course work, making up for grades that held back his academic progress.  He got serious about his study habits.  He learned to make and keep good friends.  And he learned to be a good friend.

The following year, that same coach invited him back.

It was the college’s best year in decades.  Tim was there.

At the final gathering of the team that season, some of the guys were invited to make a speech.  The purpose of the talks was to give some of the players a chance to verbalize what their experience on the team meant to them.  Verbalizing is not generally one of the gifts embraced by football players.  But Tim, who has become a rather articulate fellow, emerged as a leader on this team - not simply because of his playing ability or his imposing size, but because of his spirit.

He said he learned about life while playing on the football team.

Families of the players were invited to this final session.  My brother and his wife, and Tim’s two brothers and sister were all there.  Thankfully, one of them managed to hold a video camera steady for the entire talk.

As we gathered around the television set before dinner this year with the family we love, we listened in via videotape as Tim recounted his turn-about at a podium before a microphone in a crowded room. 

He thanked his team-mates, for their support and encouragement.  He thanked them for their inspiration – the guys who played at a level they never imagined possible; for their hard work and dedication and true grit, playing through pain, and never giving up.  He thanked his coaches – for their commitment to the team; not just to win games, but to turn these rag-tag college guys into a unified band of brothers.  Then he directly thanked the coach who was strong enough and tough enough to be honest: the coach who turned him away.  Tim choked with emotion as he spoke, looking his coach directly in the eye, and expressed his genuine appreciation for tough love.  And then he turned and openly thanked his family – his brothers and sister for their unconditional love.  To his Mom, he praised her for her persistent and effective prayers.  Through it all, he said, even in the darkest of days, he knew he had them.  And then to his Dad, he declared in front of the whole team, “Dad, someday I hope to be the quality man and Dad for my son that you have been for me.”

Not a dry eye in the house.

Certainly not mine.

We hit the pause button, turned off the volume, stood to our feet, held hands in a circle, and prayed a prayer of thanksgiving.

To the God who is faithful and true.

* * * * * * *

It’s Monday morning.  You are a leader.

Whatever it was that Ernest Hemingway searched for, well, apparently, he never found it.  His life came to an early, tragic end.  He had money and fame and women and friends and influence, he lived in exotic places and could have written so much more.  The bell tolled early for Hemingway, and when it did, it tolled for us, too.

My nephew Tim found something Hemingway didn’t.  Yes, Tim’s got a long road ahead.  But he’s got the right tools.  A solid foundation.  A network of support.  He graduates college this year.  What he’s learned can’t be taken away.

“No man is an island, entire to himself.”

And on this Monday morning that follows a long weekend, you’ve expressed your thanks as well.  Think about that list.  Rehearse it once again.

If you have parents who pray for you, say thanks for that.  Even if your parents didn’t pray, give your children that gift, won’t you?  You pray for them.

They’ll know.

It may take time.

It will matter.

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