Pain, because you can’t heal
if you don’t feel your scars,
relive forbidden memories, and
forgive yourself to give yourself
hope for tomorrow.
Art, because pain needs a place
to rest in peace, broken pieces
make masterpieces before
weary eyes. Be proud of this, be
witness of tomorrow.
Therapy, because dragons can’t
be slain in broad daylight. Daybreak
breaks silence once feared, now embraced
with hope, with witness, with a brave heart—
freedom in tomorrow.
Not God the Father, but Saint Joseph. He’s not mentioned in the scriptures after Jesus was a kid, so sometime before Jesus turned 30 Joseph passed away.
Though the Son of God probably had a more comprehensive grasp of what happened after death, his dad still died. It was hard for him, as it’s hard for all of us when we lose somebody. But losing someone so central to your life while you’re so young…
Jesus cries with you. That’s kind of the whole point—a God who experiences what we do and strengthens us when we’re weak. Jesus died for our sins so we wouldn’t have to, but that doesn’t mean people don’t still die. They do.
Christ is with us in the mourning after a fall and the morning as we arise. He is a God who knows us and loves us because of it.
Dear Darryl,
I’ve been wanting to write this for a while but never did. It got to a point where I put this off for so long that I didn’t think I needed to write it anymore – I thought the things you taught me were already cemented in my knowing. Then I tried to remember what I was initially going to write: “What I Learned from Darryl Grumling.” Only I couldn’t remember what I learned. Now I know I have to write this.
Darryl, I really miss you. I miss you more now than I ever did when you were here. I never appreciated you for who you were, the kind, gentle soul that so blessed my life. I never gave your presence the presence you needed in return.
It took me a while before I put it together, but I probably spent more time with you over the 3 years I knew you than I ever have spent with my Grammy and Grandpa. We probably had more conversations than I’ve had with some of my closest friends. And you’ve probably shared more stories with me than I’ve heard from any of my roommates over the years.
It’s funny how time passes and moves. I’ll be honest, sometimes I wasn’t in the proper headspace for your stories. You would start talking to me about PJP golf or Daniel Boone baseball and I was too focussed on myself to care. I would think to myself how annoying your stories were and how you didn’t get the hint that I wasn’t interested. But you were interested. You cared deeply about these stories and the people in them.
I didn’t get it at the time. Now I think I understand it better. You were telling stories that deserved to be told. You were a small town high school sports writer. You loved high school sports, not because they were the most outstanding athletic events in the world, but because they were about small town kids making their dreams come true. You would name drop high school students nobody has ever heard about like they were household names.
Darryl, you spotlighted kids that nobody else cared to spotlight. You made people feel welcome, you made people feel important, and you made people feel like they were winners. You wrote stories about winners that wouldn’t have been told had you not been here.
You told stories that deserved to be told.
A strange thing happened to me when you passed. I feel like I became more closed off. I was so emotional that I was unbearable, so I started to wrap my emotions up. I feel like in recent months I’ve become somewhat narcissistic. I appear nice on the outside but really have a pretty negative view of others, of myself, and of the world.
Then I think about you. I think back to how much you loved the work you did, how much you needed to tell these stories that nobody else was telling. You weren’t just a sportswriter — you were a friend to those kids. You gave them the recognition they deserved. You gave them the hope they needed to keep playing. You made them feel like they mattered to more people than just their families.
You became their family.
Darryl, I hope to do work half as passionately as you one day. I hope to tell stories with half as much zeal, passion, and conviction as you. I hope to shine the light on others, even when I’m not too happy with myself. I hope to do work that matters for people who care, just like you did.
There are a few things I learned from you, and I want to numerate them here in a list. This isn’t everything I’ve learned from you, but the biggest points.
1. Sing others’ songs until they remember the words
I heard this saying from Aubrey Marcus as he was referencing the channel Paul Selig. Darryl, you were just about my biggest fan. You always praised my accomplishments and made me remember the great things I did. You called me “Mr. PJP,” and “The Homecoming King,” and “The Trackstar.” You made me feel loved and like I was worthy of praise. You reminded me of who I was until I remembered for myself. I want to be this person for others. I want to lift others up when I’m not having the best day. I want to make others feel good when I feel lousy. I want to be for others what you were for me. And when I’m not recognized for the good work I do, I want to remember that you’re still in my corner, cheering me on. I will always be an all star to you.
2. Be present and listen
Darryl, I wasn’t always interested in your stories, but you were always interested in all of us. Us caddies are not the most exciting bunch, but you made us the heroes we always wished we were. I wish I paid more attention to your stories. I wish I didn’t wish I was somewhere else. I wish I just listened without judgement, I wish I asked more questions, and I wish I got to know you better. I wish I heard your cries for storytelling, for health, for friendship. What I wouldn’t give to hear one more Darryl Grumling story.
3. Celebrate every moment
There were so many days where you got to work and told me a story about something small that happened on your loop yesterday. Somebody hit it from 175 yards out to within 5 feet, somebody made a monster put on 12, or somebody drove the ball 300 yards. You were so excited for other people and you celebrated for them. I want to be the person who cheers on the success of others, not envies their success. You helped me see the value in showing others love regardless of where I’m at in my life. Just show love and the rest will fall into place.
Darryl, you left this world too soon. I wish I reached out more, I wish I offered you some more tangible health advice, and I wish I was more present in your presence. I still think about you all the time, especially when I’m at Stonewall. I hear your voice talking to me when I’m walking across four and on the fourteen fairway. Your spirit was not lost in your death.
It was a sad day when I attended your funeral. I really, really missed you. I still really, really miss you. We were friends, and even though I didn’t show it I really did love you. You were like my fun uncle who was always in my corner, who always had my back. You were in so many people’s corners over the years. You cheered so many people on. You made so many people feel like they belonged.
Darryl, I know your life probably wasn’t what you dreamed it could be. But you came into my life when I needed you to be there. You made me feel like I am worthy of love, like I am doing a good job, and like I belonged. Thank you for being such a good human being and for being yourself. Not everybody accepted you, but not everybody matters. You made people feel like they matter, and that’s what counts.
I will never hear “no dice” or “the rat race” or “Slim Quick” without thinking of you. Thank you for showing me what it means to be a friend, even when I wasn’t the best friend for you.
You will always be with me.
With love,
Mr. PJP
July 11, 2020
I’ve been writing a book since July, only to find out yesterday that my concept was off base. It was okay, but not what it could be. There’s an opportunity to share more of Dennis’s work with the world, so that’s what I’m going to pursue. It just means I have to scrap almost everything I currently have.
It’s time to take what’s useful, keep learning, and start from scratch. This time, I’m making the book so that his work can enter the world, not mine.
Here’s to new beginnings. Nunc coepi.
While on a run a few weeks ago, I saw a massive Christmas tree on a flatbed outside the Art Museum. It was a golden opportunity. I approached the driver, who was out of the truck securing the tree. I asked him where the tree was from, how big it is, and what his name was. The tree was from Yule Tree Farms in the Finger Lakes, was 47 feet tall, and the driver’s name was Tom. The tree would be set up by City Hall.
I had planned on telling this story to my biology students today as an introduction to ecology. But today was also the Philly Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony, and Channel 6ABC Live Steamed the tree the whole day. So at the beginning of class I asked if anybody lived near Center City. One student was a 15 minute walk from the tree.
I asked if he wanted to logoff Zoom, walk to the tree, and wave to the live streaming camera. I offered extra credit. After some encouragement from his classmates, he obliged.
25 minutes later, I shared my screen to the live action shot of the tree. There was my student, waving to all-virtual his classmates through a different camera. We were all filled with joy. Up close and personal, he said the tree was, “bigger than he thought it would be.” It was a magical moment, one for the ages.
In the throes of this tumultuous year, there is still hope. There is still joy. Just keep being curious and keep asking, “What if?”
An email sent to my biology students this morning:
Hey Team,
I hope you enjoyed your break, got some rest, and spent some time with loved ones. I’m touching base to share a brief thought on projects.
Look. You’re probably not going to feel inspired to create projects in December. I get it. There’s holiday festivities, Hallmark movies to be watched, and, of course, covid.
At the same time, this class is an opportunity. Projects aren’t just for creating something–they’re for shaping you into who you could be. I wish I had the chance to create projects in high school. Looking back, it would have made a big difference in how I approached the rest of my high school and college education.
Projects help you bring something into the world that didn’t exist before. But projects have deadlines. 8 of you didn’t submit #lightning-project-5 on time. 7 of you have yet to submit it, now almost 1 week late.
As a young professional, I’m still making projects every week. I have a personal commitment that goes like this: “I don’t miss deadlines.”
If you tuned into the Prayer Service this morning, you saw a project I created. That’s right, good ole Mr. Lemma made a project. This was shared with the whole school, on a Zoom webinar. In real time. The deadline was 7:50am. I didn’t miss it, because professionals don’t miss deadlines. Here’s the link in case you didn’t catch it: https://youtu.be/9xp5sMfEgx0
Professionals do the hard work whether they feel inspired or not, whether there’s cookies to be baked or not. Don’t let this class go to waste. Doing these projects is more important than you think.
For real though, I’m excited to see you all tomorrow. Enjoy your final day of rest!
Cheers,
Mr. L
is when you get exactly what you want. No desire is left unmet, no expectation unfulfilled. You call the shots, you make the rules, and you determine the entirety of how your life ends up.
But that sounds pretty good. So why is it hell?
Because you remove the possibility of the unexpected. The unforeseen and unplanned for is where we learn about the harsh but beautiful reality of the world. A photograph without contrast is white, and a painting with every color is black.
Not everything will go as planned. There will be stumbles and you will fall out of rhythm. In these moments is the chance for grace.
Rejecting what you did not intend is isolation from the source.
Writing a book is hard, but not for the reasons you think. Words come fairly easy for me, and the time to write, though sometimes scarce, is easy to create than you’d think.
What’s hard is recognizing the book will never be complete. There will always be more to say (especially when writing I biographical essay, as I am). And there will always be a better way to say what I choose to say. No matter what shape the book takes when finished, it could always be better.
But who’s the “perfect” for? Can the reader only gain something from your book if it’s perfect? Or is the perfect for you, because you’re afraid of what they’ll say if it isn’t as good as it could be?
If my book has a purpose and my prose carries a sentiment, it may just be good enough.
Perfect is for me, and it’s limiting.
Good enough is for my readers, and it creates possibility.
Animals
Baseball
Cartoons
Dragon flies
Entropy
Faith
Grounding
Health Indigenous People
Jesuits
Kindness of others
Lemma family!
Mission
New Things
Ocean
Prayer
Quality time
Running
Students 🙂
Time
Understanding
Vultures
Writing
X-Ray technology
Yesterday
Zoology
We are unique in our awareness. No other being on earth can see the world like we see it. Nothing else can realize it’s place in the grandeur that is creation.
But this awareness is a choice. In every moment we have a choice between awareness and ignorance, between waking up and staying asleep.
I’m ignorant of many things. I’m trying to wake up. Not to be “woke” but to be “awake.”
There’s freedom in this choice. I will use my freedom to choose awareness, paying attention, and presence, here and now. I can’t afford the alternative, and neither can those I seek to serve.