Don’t Freak Out! Be Calm in 2016…

Here is my column in this week’s Greenville News.  Enjoy!  (And call your grandparents…they love you.)

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/story/opinion/contributors/2016/01/10/dont-freak-out-calm-2016/78362386/

A common theme in the emergency department is this one: ‘Doc, I freaked out and came straight to the ER!’ I wish I knew how many times someone has said something similar to me. ‘The baby had a fever so I freaked out.’ ‘I fell and got a big bruise and I was afraid I had a blood clot so I freaked out.’ ‘I saw a spider on my leg and I freaked out so here I am!’

I’ve wondered about this for a while now. I have a theory. I believe that some of the freaking out that leads people to the ER results from the absence of sufficient grandmothers and grandfathers. It isn’t that those dear folks aren’t out there doing their best. It’s that families are often mobile or broken, disconnected from all roots. So the collective calm and wisdom of the ages, often found in grandparents, is often difficult to obtain.

I remember any number of my childhood injuries consoled, bandaged and painted with Merthiolate by my grandmothers. What I don’t remember is anyone freaking out. Not even when I nearly impaled my foot on a makeshift spear whittled from a broom handle.

In addition to ‘the grandparent’ issue, we really don’t do a good job of teaching young people about sickness, injury or even health outside of birth-control; even though life involves far more than reproduction.

The medical world of freaking out, however, is a microcosm of a greater problem. We seem to be a nation that ‘freaks out.’ We freak out over weather, politics, culture, relationships, celebrities and whether or not our own social media posts or pictures are getting enough traction. We freak out when life is difficult and we freak out when we’re bored because life is so good. And when we freak out, we go looking for someone to keep us calm, cover our wounds and give us hope.

Maybe we freak out simply because we watch too much television, where every medical event is a screaming, chaotic blood-fest. Or it could be that we spend too much time on the Internet, where every insect bite is deadly and every bit of swelling is (of course) the sure-path to cancer. Sometimes we freak out because of what we put in our minds. A patient once told me, in tears, that he thought about death all day. It turns out his television viewing exclusively involved shows about murder.

On the other hand, perhaps it’s more than being educated (by school or grandma) about all the the things which should make us ‘freak out’ or not. Maybe it’s a matter of how to deal with anxiety and uncertainty in general. I have observed over the years that children from chaotic home-lives are much more anxious when we have to stitch their wounds, start IV’s, give them injections or any other stressful, frightening procedure. Those who come from homes filled with consistency and calm can often be managed with simple reassurance. It could be that calm was the most important salve applied by grandmothers.

I believe in preparing for crises. I became a physician in large part because I didn’t want to be powerless in the face of medical emergencies. I say we teach young people as much as we can to prepare them for life’s troubles, whether they involve open wounds or flat tires. Knowledge is power, as they say.

But I believe we can help the ‘freak out’ crisis with two other things. The first is by keeping families connected and involved, so that the young can see how adults handle stress. It’s important to model this for our kids, well into their 20s.

The second, however, is a little harder. I believe that everyone needs a belief system to bear them through hard times. As modern, technological and scientific as we have become, we have yet to escape our deep need for hope and meaning, for transcendence in the face of trouble. And yep, I’ll say it; for a God who will calm the storm or calm us in the storm and be waiting on the other side of it, in this life or the next.

Life is hard and scary. But there’s way too much freaking out. And with the right application of grandma, knowledge and God above, maybe we can spend 2016 with just a little less freaking out and a little more hope.

 

The Leap Physician Satisfaction System

This is my column from the November issue of Emergency Medicine News.  Observations on keeping physicians professionally satisfied, healthy and happy.

http://journals.lww.com/em-news/Fulltext/2015/11000/Life_in_Emergistan__The_Leap_Physician.7.aspx

The Leap Physician Satisfaction System

I have never been the director of any professional group. I have, however, been directed. As such, I have a few tips for those who are directors and administrators. I give you my ‘physician satisfaction system.’ It is arranged in no particular order.

In every physician break-room or lounge, there should be a wall for photos of girlfriends, boyfriends, children, spouses, parents, dogs, cats, horses, boats, new shotguns or whatever makes those doctors happy. Emphasis on children and spouses, boyfriends and girlfriends, moms and dads. See below.

Post this where physicians work. ‘If you have a husband or wife, please avoid having a girlfriend or boyfriend. It is unfair to your spouse and children. And it is very, very expensive, as hobbies go. You’re better off with a boat.’

In every physician break room there should be: 1) a recliner 2) a refrigerator with snacks and drinks 3) a television with cable 4) a computer with Internet and without the silly hospital fire-wall. Pay for it yourself if you must.

Know your doctors. The best way to do this is to talk to them. It’s tough to really talk on a shift. The best way to do this is away from work. A quarterly group dinner is a nice touch. Or simply, ‘hey, let’s go to lunch one day and catch up.’ You have to mean it though.

Remember that a married doctor is a unit. When there are important decisions to be made (into which you and your partners are allowed input) invite your doctors’ husbands and wives to give their opinions. You’ll be grateful for the wisdom a loving spouse brings to the table. And remember, nobody is more motivated to make the group money than a spouse with a mortgage to pay and babies to raise.

If you really want to score points, send a card or note to the group spouses now and then. Thank them for their service, their encouragement, their patience. Ask them how their family is doing. Remember that being married to a physician ain’t exactly a pony ride. Everybody needs a kind word.

Attend weddings, celebrate births, have anniversary parties. Visit the sick in your group. Send condolences. Mourn at funerals. Laugh and cry. If you take the time to know them, it won’t be hard. They’ll be family.

Lead…from…the…front. If your docs tell you nights are really hard, work a string of nights. If they tell you that someone on staff is really hard to consult, talk to that person yourself a few times. (Tell those difficult doctors to back off and play nice.) If everyone hates the EMR, do everything you can to make it work for them. Never ask your ‘troops’ to do something you won’t. Never, ever.

Be fiercely partisan towards your guys and gals.

Help your doctors develop long-term plans, including an exit strategy. Don’t talk about it, do it. We can’t all go into urgent care or academics, but we can plan for a slow, steady withdrawal as the years go by. Encourage wise decision making, especially in the young Jedi.

Develop a sabbatical. Encourage your doctors on sabbatical to travel, take a class, enjoy sleeping in their own beds. It may be the longest time they’ve slept all night with their husbands or wives consistently in years. It may be the first full reset of their circadian rhythm since medical school.

Watch your doctors closely. It’s easy to become overwhelmed, depressed, anxious. Help them through mistakes. Let them decompress. Let them be sad. Don’t chastise, teach. Find a local counselor in case they need to talk about that death, that tragedy, their personal demons. Doctors kill themselves sometimes. Try to keep it from happening.

Identify the strengths in your doctors. Some are born leaders; let them move in that direction. Some are brilliant clinicians, use that. Some are great with people. Let them mentor. Some have hobbies or interests that make them better physicians. Celebrate the unique individual gifts that every partner brings to the table. Now and then, use these to remind the hospital what a unique and valuable team you have.

Take pride in your group. A logo and t-shirt would be a nice point of pride. Brag about your doctors. Tell the local newspaper about them. Help them be invested in the community, treasured by the community.

Praise your partners, both to their faces and to others. Write down the good things they do for future letters of reference.

Give your team permission. Permission to succeed, permission to fail. Permission to try new things and sometimes, permission to leave it all behind.

On really busy nights, call in pizza from home. On terrible nights, come in and use your authority to make things happen more smoothly.

There are a lot of schedules, in a lot of ED’s, with holes in the schedule. If you don’t want your entire group to realize this, and leave, and then come back making more as locums than they did before, then be their advocate.

We have a hard job. But with the right leader, it can be wonderful even when it is hard. It’s up to you, directors, to set the tone. Good luck and Godspeed.

We Should Value Life Until The End. (My latest G-News column)

This is my column in today’s Greenville News.  I understand why people ‘want everything done’ when they’re old.

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/story/opinion/contributors/2015/11/15/we-should-value-life-until-end-ed-leap-thanksgiving-health-care-costs/75585450/

It’s a well known reality of health care economics that Americans spend a lot of money in the last year of life. I suppose that almost goes without saying, since serious illnesses and injuries that result in death are costly, at whatever age they occur. Being hit by a car and dying means you were hit by a car… in your last year of life. And that two weeks in ICU before you die is, obviously, expensive. But this truism is usually applied to Medicare dollars in the care of the elderly. This group often has protracted illnesses that require costly treatments, specialty care, hospitalizations and home-health; despite the fact that the improvements in outcome or length of life are often pretty limited.

When I was a young physician (younger…that’s better) I sometimes jumped on the band-wagon and wondered why everyone wanted so much for so little gain. I was always surprised when elderly patients didn’t want ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ orders, or other ‘advanced directives’ to limit care. I would sit with other young physicians and we would ask each other, ‘what does he hope to gain?’ Or of the family members ‘why don’t they just accept the inevitable?’

That was then. I have taken care of the elderly for my entire career. And over the past year, especially, I have worked in some communities with especially high numbers of senior citizens. That, coupled with the fact that I see things differently since I’m, well, less young, has given me new insight. So let’s re-frame the question. ‘Why don’t the elderly want to simply give up and die without a fight?’ To which the answer is, ‘they’ve lived long enough to know that every second is precious.’ Perhaps more importantly, they know that all of the people in their lives are precious.

I have watched elderly couples, 70s, 80s, 90s, and the way that they hold hands. The way they brush the hair from one another’s faces. I have heard them whisper ‘I’m here’ in the emergency room and ‘I love you,’ in the ICU. I recently listened as an older patient called his wife on the phone from the hospital. ‘How are you? Well you sound fantastic! I’m fine’ He encouraged her and comforted her, and wanted to simply hear her voice. They were anchors to one another in a treacherous, frightening world.

My son once reminded me of a saying, which I here paraphrase. ‘We die twice. Once when we breathe our last, and once when someone says our name for the last time.’ The elderly get this. They want to be with the people they love and to be remembered by them. And in particular, those with spouses hold on because that gray, infirm, frail woman or man whose hand they hold is the last repository of an absolute treasure trove of shared memories and stories. No one else knows the same subtle jokes, the same turns of phrase, the same looks that betray fear or joy. Nobody else remembers their trips to the beach or the way their children sounded when they splashed in the pool during vacation. Nobody else knows how to hold their hand just the right way. And no one else understands the importance of touching feet in bed under the sheets, or remembers their favorite restaurant now closed, or grasps the importance of that inexpensive ring worth more than a ten carat diamond.

Friends and children and grandchildren also hold such memories for the aged, or they hope to fill their descendents with those memories before they leave so that, for just a little longer, the stories will survive. They want their love, passion and experiences to remain, and not just in a box in a corner of an attic, that may or may not survive the purge when the house is sold.

The elderly want to fight death the same way we all do. Because life is incredible. And in fact, we should want them around. They have navigated many decades and many challenges. They have wisdom and they have perspective to spare and to share.

This Thanksgiving, if you want to really grasp the holiday, sit down with your older friends, uncles and aunts, grandparents and parents and ask them what they’re thankful for and what they love. (And watch the way they love.) Because odds are, you’ll learn something magnificent and hear some stories that deserve to be treasured.

Then, those ‘end of life’ expenses might suddenly make more sense.

My uncle Darrell Leap; a mensch among menschen…

My Uncle Darrell Ivan Leap recently passed on to glory.  Let me set the stage for you:  Darrell accomplished much in his 78 years on earth.  He was raised, with my father Keith and my uncle Karl, in rural West Virginia, on a small family farm.  From humble beginnings he became a well educated world traveler.  He served for a time in the US  Navy, doing oceanographic mapping of the Persian Gulf.  He was an expert in hydrogeology, ground water, and worked on some of the Nevada nuclear weapons test sites,analyzing the effects of blasts on underground water.  The Navy never left him, and he loved recounting stories of it.  He was  a professor emeritus of geology at Purdue University and a consultant to communities on the effects of toxic waste.  He sang in Bach Chorales, played the piano, composed and published music and always loved working with tools.  Appalachia never left him; so much so that in the end my dear aunt, his wife Myra, helped him take online tours of his hometown and environs. The following is the tribute I wrote for him. I was unable to attend his funeral.  (Unfortunately, emergency medicine is job where schedules are difficult to change.  More on that in another post.)  This was read by the pastor who gave the service.

 

I remember Uncle Darrell from very early in my childhood.  Darrell was a kind of mythic

figure to me.  He was always off on an adventure and he always brought interesting things back to show me

at Grandma Leap’s house, on Grapevine Road in Huntington, WV.  I still have Maracas and an African letter opener he

gave to me many years ago.  I recall a time when he came home and was completely exhausted from travel, but we stayed

up as long as he could keep his eyes open, putting together a model engine in the dim, small kitchen in

Grandma’s house.  He represented many things to me as a child:  courage, learning, the exotic and the

benefits of hard academic work.  ‘Take more math,’ was his endless mantra.  Sorry Darrell, it just didn’t

click.  More on that later.

 

One of my favorite things of all was to sit and listen, quietly, while my dad, Keith, Darrell and

Karl (of blessed memory as well) would sit and discuss their memories, or world events.  I just wanted

to be like them.  Strong and capable, men among men.  Menschen, in Yiddish; men of of honor and

integrity.  Together they ever inspired to greatness.

 

Fast forward and I was on summer break after my junior year in high school when Darrell took

me on a field trip with his geology students from Purdue.  He brought me to Indiana where we prepped

for the trip.  Then, for two wonderful weeks of 16-year-old freedom, I was among college students in

hotels and dorms, wandering alone around the wilds of Montana while they worked on projects and

I tried to avoid rattlesnakes, and ate Vienna Sausages alone on hillsides over rushing streams.  Heaven

must look a little like that; at least to a boy.

 

Life moved on.  Darrell married the love of his life, Myra, my treasured Aunt.  I found a girl,

Jan, and we were married.  Darrell and Myra were always welcoming to Jan as my wife, and to us as a

couple.  And when, in due course, children were born to us, they were always excited for our new

additions, always curious and encouraging.

 

As the children have grown into near adulthood, Darrell remained a figure who loomed large in

their lives.  He gave them his collected recollections and genealogical material, with which to anchor

themselves in time, place and history. And he always asked them about their interests, or was leading them

into his. We still have rock hammers and hand lenses he and Myra sent.  Darrell’s life, whether as Naval

officer, researcher on nuclear test sites or academic has always inspired my three sons and one

daughter.  I recall going over some photos once and our daughter Elysa said:  ‘Is there anything else

incredible he did you haven’t told me about?’  In fact, our youngest son, Elijah, has made it his life’s

work to exceed Darrell in mathematics, and has always been terrified that he wouldn’t be able to take

differential equations and thus at least match his great-uncle.  Darrell’s status as a professor emeritus

fills Elijah with awe, as an aspiring academic himself.  And don’t get me started on the harpsichord

Darrell built, which all of my children find fascinating, but especially our very musical son, Seth.  Sam,

Seth, Elijah and Elysa viewed their great-uncle Darrell as an inspiration and a joy, and always looked

forward to visits with him; he was a story teller, like all Appalachians, and he loved sharing them with

us.

 

Perhaps one of our best memories of Darrell was the time, several years ago, when we met

Myra and him at their cabin in Colorado.  It was a brief time of hikes and meals and board games,

when we slept in the cool mountain air after the generator shut off the power and there was perfect

darkness.  Maybe he liked to pretend he was a pioneer. We all certainly loved the experience.

Alas, you are here to honor him in has passage.  I am not, because my work in the emergency

room will not allow me to leave. I will blame Darrell for encouraging my academic life.  (You can

laugh now.)

 

When I told my first-born, Samuel, that Darrell had died, he texted back:  ‘Don’t worry Papa,

you’ll see him again.’  Indeed.  I am confident that I will see him in glory; but I will have to seek him

out among heavenly mountain rock faces, or in the choirs angelic, or as he walks along with Bach and

discusses music.  And he will be vibrant and whole as always.  And forever.

Uncle Darrell was a man among men.  And he lived life fully; the physical life, the life of the

mind, the life of family, the life of faith, and in his love for Myra, in the life of the heart.

I will miss him.  But I will look forward to our reunion. As I hope all of you will.

Thank you.

Edwin

Learning to Love Freedom

I have to admit that I’ve become a bit of a freedom junkie.  As a native West Virginian, there’s this desire, deep inside, to be unfettered.  When I was a child I expressed it by wandering all day long through the hills and valleys around my home.  No phone, of course, and no radio.  No way to contact, or be contacted by, anyone else.  I remember being about 13 or 14 when my dad let me go off into the woods with my single-barreled shotgun to hunt.  I never shot anything.  But I was free.

Later I was encumbered in some ways by college, medical school and residency.  But when my wife and I moved to South Carolina, and ended up in our rural, hilltop log-house, I rediscovered the deep inner peace of freedom.  Our family roams at will through the woods around our home, the state forest across the road.  On July 4th and New Year’s Eve we set off fireworks as long as we want.  On Halloween our bon-fire roars high as the tree-tops.

We throw clay-pigeons over the back yard and shoot them; we have lost untold arrows in the woods, and have behaved like barbarians for years, simply for the joy of doing what we wanted to do.  Our five dogs and three cats collude in our freedom, and have furry smiles as we sling dinner scraps over the back deck into their un-caged, happy mouths.

In 2005, my wife and I discovered a kind of liberty that we had never imagined.  We began to homeschool.  That adventure liberated us from the constraints of state-determined schedules, curricula and ideology.  It allowed us delicious, lavish time together, whether the kids were playing in the pool while rehearsing Latin declensions with my wife, or traveling to the Grand Canyon during the off-season.  We were unencumbered, and while the children learned much and learned well, we had precious little oversight to pester or constrain our wild, free time together, when we rolled about in our fragrant love for one another.  If we had known how it would be all along, we would have started homeschooling much earlier.

Two years ago, I found more freedom.  I took the plunge, left my partnership of 20 years and Jan and I started a small corporation, LeapMedicine.  I began working as an independent contractor.  I worked where, and when, I wanted.  I still do.  If I don’t want to work a holiday, I don’t.  If I want to work, I do.  If I work a shift and don’t like it, I don’t go back once my committed shifts are over.

There are costs to freedom.   It’s magnificent but unpredictable.  The cost of owning a business is sometimes daunting in America today, although I wish I had done it sooner.  There are others.  We recently tried to refinance our mortgage.  We discovered, to our chagrin, that large companies want people in communities of boxes.  You can refinance a house in a subdivision.  But a log house on a hilltop is unnerving to banks and lenders.  It isn’t the same as everyone else.  It’s less predictable, and understandably.  It may not sell.  Only so many people are comfortable away from the crowd, away from the comfort of commonality.

Indeed, we are nationally obsessed with being members of a herd.  Ask a kid in school if it’s OK to be different, the way every kid book with a quirky penguin and a sad skunk says it is.  It isn’t.  There’s a price, and it’s paid in bullying or marginalization.  Maybe it’s good training, because the same dynamic certainly exists in the world of adults.  Try saying the wrong thing, wearing the wrong emblem, believing in something unpopular, standing for a viewpoint on principle not popularity.

Bullying just takes different forms; like social media campaigns, or lawsuits.  Being marginalized means ridicule by a professor, lack of promotion by a boss, firing by a corporation.  America, the land of the free, doesn’t really like freedom these days.  Freedom means you might hurt someone’s feelings, crush their fragile self-esteem, say something shocking.  Freedom of ideas is a beautiful dream, but the kids on the adult playground of modern thought are like the bullies from our childhood, dressed up in suits, with law degrees and political offices; and with the same fragile sense of self the old bullies had.  But they have more power to punish the free, more power to torment the outlier.  Fortunately, truly free people relish their freedom so much that they become hardened to the ways of bullies and go on living in joy and liberty.

I set out to write this as an homage to homeschooling.  But as so often happens, I discovered that homeschooling, and even business ownership, are merely some of the sweet fruits of an attitude, of a decision, to be free.  It was what made America, once upon a time, a great country.  It’s what real Americans long for, live for and are willing to defend and die to preserve.

I hope that my children, and their children and all the rest can remain free.  I hope that they can thumb their collective noses at those who silence, subjugate, manipulate and ridicule those who just want to live and be left alone.  I hope they take their children on trips and walk away from unnecessary constraints.  I hope that they forge new ways to be free and remake this nation.

Freedom.  Take every step necessary to preserve yours, and your children’s.  Because once it is surrendered it does not return easily.

And once enjoyed, perhaps the most addictive thing in all the world.

Marriage is a work of art and a labor of love.

This column is dedicated to my lovely wife Jan, as tomorrow is our 25th Anniversary!

 

When we look at beautiful houses, or breathtaking historical structures like the Pyramids or the Mt. Rushmore, we are in awe of the craftsmanship, the beauty. Sometimes it seems that they simply fell from the sky, magnificent as they are, and suddenly occupied the spaces before us. It is inconceivable that the field, the mountain, the lot was once empty, once the domain of small creatures and weeds. It is unimaginable that the thing that rises before our eyes was once stone sleeping in the arms of the mountain, wrenched free by untold thousands; or that the lovely shapes of a beautiful home are made by wood that grew in the forest and was assembled in noise, and dust and sweat by builders.

Just so, when I look at older couples, I am in awe. I meet them all the time. ‘We’ve been married 55 years doctor! It has been a great life so far!’ They touch their hands together, smile and dote. The movements of their eyes, the laughter, the instant grasp of communication, it all seems so natural. As if, from the moment they met, the connection was made. The carousel switched on and springing to life in the darkness, full of music and color.

We forget that there were times when those charming people struggled. When he thought she was crazy, and she thought he was lazy and all of their parents wrung their hands in worry and folded them in prayer for the young couple. There were times when they had no money and others when they had no time. And there was sickness and struggle and exhaustion as surely as there was health and joy and adventure. A marriage is an edifice that rises up with great, and endless, effort. The construction of one entity from two is no small thing, and while the words are said as covenant, the building process may last a lifetime, even if it looks perfect to the casual passerby.

This week is our anniversary, Jan’s and mine together. On May 26, 1990, we were young and in love, we were nervous and excited and we walked down the church aisle. She was one year out of graduate school and I was one week out of medical school. We were a little crazy and a little thrilled. Before us lay a move to a new city, and the beginning of new jobs for both. We were, to use the above analogy, an empty field, full of building materials. It was for God, and our own love and effort, to make the structure; to make a family, a temple of good things, a unity to care for one another and survive and thrive in the world.

Anyone who knew us well during those early days would say that the construction was, at times, a messy business. There was romance and argument, conflict and communion. There were days and nights apart due to work and there were amazing trips together which united us. Like a house rising from the dust, we took shape. Later, in time, the house was ‘in the dry,’ and it was a matter of decorating and beautifying the marriage; the comfortable, well furnished rooms with trust and comfort and hope and laughter, and then to bring children and turn them loose inside it.

Our marriage has lasted this quarter century and grown better and more beautiful every single day. I would not trade it for anything, nor her for anyone. We belong together. We have become, in every way, our perfect match. (A thing, young couples, that is seldom discovered but usually made.) Oh, we still have work to do. A room to add, a wall to paint, a rough edge to sand. But all in all, the whole thing is simply magnificent. Time and effort, God and devotion will do that.

And to anyone out there wondering why they don’t have it yet, I say this: don’t put down the tools until you’re satisfied. Keep learning and growing and adding and building. And before you know it, you’ll step back and realize that the marriage you built looks perfect to everyone else. And you can smile at each other because you know that there are secret flaws. But that they don’t matter a bit because even they help hold the thing together, stick and stone, heart and soul.

So happy anniversary to my Wild Irish Rose! Thank you working with me all these years to get it right.

Grandparents raising grandchildren. (My column in today’s Greenville News.)

This is my column in today’s Greenville News.  Have a wonderful evening.

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/story/opinion/contributors/2015/04/25/ed-leap-grandparents-find-youth-raising-children/26332523/

They say that there may be children, born now, who could live to be 1000 years old. Can you fathom that? Some humans could continue to live for what would be well more than ten current lifetimes. We aren’t there yet. But this isn’t so far out of the possible. Some medical researchers are already talking about resuscitating those who die up to five hours after death. It involves special technologies that aren’t widespread, but it’s on the horizon.

Of course, if humans could live that long, who would we allow to do it? Would we choose only the best and the brightest, or the rich? Would we favor the genetically gifted? Would we, instead, grant fantastically long lives only to those willing to travel to other worlds through centuries of the blackness of space, spreading humanity to the far reaches of the galaxy?

Personally, there are some I would choose. For instance, if we could reverse the ravages of disease, if we could suddenly undo the physical and mental ravages endured by untold millions from injury, disease and inheritance, I would offer it first to them. I would pick those who spent lifetimes in wheelchairs, in hospital beds, unable to enjoy the wonders of this world except vicariously. Who better to spend 700 or 900 more years, walking, talking, working, loving? Who could enjoy it more thoroughly than those with the incredible perspective of liberated prisoners?

But another group comes to mind. And that would be the amazing, and dedicated, grandparents who are currently spending their old age raising their grandchildren. I see them all the time in the emergency departments where I work. For whatever reason, their children cannot (or will not) raise their own sons and daughters. And for reasons of love and devotion, of duty and mercy, grandparents fill the void.

Some are young grandparents; raising children again in their forties or fifties is not easy, but the memories are fresh. They still have much of the strength of years recently past. Others, however, are 60, 70 or more. Ordinarily, they would slow down and rest. They would take what little retirement they had saved and visit family, friends or places they always dreamed of seeing. Instead, out of absolute passion for the children of their children, they circle back around once more and start fresh.

They fight for custody, they change the diapers, feed and bathe the children. They take them to school, clothe them, care for them in their sickness. They help them with homework and take them on vacation. They protect them and indulge them. Sometimes, the original family is reinstated with time, or after troubles have passed, jail terms have been completed. Many times, however, grandparents are the only parents children will ever know.

If I could, I would grace these people with fresh youth. I would reset their cells, renew their joints, freshen sick hearts and lungs, build new muscle, eradicate the risk of death from cancer. I would fit them for the task ahead; for running in parks and swimming in rivers, for wrestling and jumping on trampolines. I would give them the strength they need to keep working to support their grandsons and granddaughters, the strength they desire to have fresh, unmitigated passion and capacity once more.

And then, when they had done that precious, monumental task, when they had modeled parenting and protected and cared for their descendents, I would let them start all over. I would reset them so that they could go to school again, try new careers, travel to new places. I would give them the ability to continue on in health, joyous in the knowledge that they did what was necessary, what was vital, for their vulnerable grandchildren. It’s a long way off, no doubt. But I can dream.

Just like I dream of a world where all children are safe in families. Where no child is abandoned or lost, ignored or wounded or left to his own insufficient devices. The grandparents I see who are raising their grandchildren have the same dream, and are willing to sacrifice to see it come true. And from what I’ve seen, simply being with their grandchildren is a kind of rebirth and extension, by necessity, of a bit of their own youth.

If I could give them 1000 years, I would. But it appears that for most, raising those children in safety is all the reward they really want.

Society circles back on sexual freedom.

 So is it still the sexual revolution or what?   

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/story/opinion/contributors/2015/02/07/society-circles-back-sexual-freedom/23011375/

A few months ago there was an interesting You-Tube video in which a young woman walked all over New York for a day, followed by a friend with a hidden camera. She was the recipient of a lot of ‘cat-calls’ and other inappropriate behavior. The video showed that men are often base, and sometimes scary, in the way they view, and react to, women. Nobody wants to be harassed or made uncomfortable by anyone’s comments. ‘Hey baby!’ is not an appropriate alternative to ‘good day.’   Here’s the link if you’re interested. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b1XGPvbWn0A

One of the latest issues facing interactions between the sexes has occurred on college campuses, which are now struggling with the issue of ‘positive consent’ as a way to protect against sexual assault.  https://www.insidehighered.com/news/2014/10/17/colleges-across-country-adopting-affirmative-consent-sexual-assault-policies.  That is, to be legitimate, a sexual encounter between students cannot involve alcohol and has to be approved at every step along the way with ‘positive consent.’ How this is to be defined is the stuff of much head-scratching. Does it require that a form be filled out and filed? An Office of Sexual Liaison? A video-taped statement?

While this seems to me a bit ‘over the top,’ I don’t mean in any way to diminish concerns about sexual assault. While sexual assault rates are falling, any sexual assault is a terrible crime, and one too many.

Both of the above illustrate what an interesting place we’ve arrived at in our culture. The sexual revolution of the 1960s informed America that old-fashioned sexual mores were out-dated and ridiculous. That sexual encounters were not things to be ashamed of, and that attempts to limit sexual expression were repressive. The oral contraceptive propelled the movement forward and the counter-culture gave us constant lessons that sex was no big deal. Women were as sexually free as men.

Suddenly there was sex without consequence, sex without commitment, sex without fear of pregnancy, sexual diseases all treatable with Penicillin (or so we thought)? It was, indeed, a brave new world. And those who said, ‘you know, this is immoral, unsafe behavior that will have bad consequences’ were laughed out of the discussion as narrow-minded, old-fashioned fundamentalists.

Now it appears that we’re circling back around. Men shouldn’t view women sexually. (Except in music videos or on television or in pornography or lingerie catalogs, etc.). And men shouldn’t talk to women in a way that suggests any sexual content. In fact, in many workplaces, a simple compliment like ‘that’s a nice dress,’ or ‘you look lovely,’ can be construed as sexual harassment. And men, and women, who were told that free sexual expression was the only way to live free of backwards religiosity are now told that they need an explicit ‘yes I want to do this’ from holding hands to home run.

There are great ironies afoot. We live in a society that glorifies every form of sexual expression from silky romance to leather-clad bondage; a society that sexualizes everything, from children’s Halloween costumes to fast-food ads. A time when sexual slavery is epidemic. Yet, in the midst of that, we find ourselves struggling with the harsh reality of objectification; with the pain of being used (or abused) and discarded. And we find men and women sometimes looking back and longing for a measure of respect and propriety that sees them as more than body parts.

But the other irony is that Christianity, often deemed morally antiquated, has always taught us to treat others with caution when it comes to sex. That we were not to look lustfully on others. (Which rather precludes cat-calls, I think.) It told us that we were not to enjoy another person sexually unless we were willing to commit to them exclusively in a covenant of marriage; a kind of holy positive consent, if you will. That we were to set boundaries on the incredibly powerful and wonderful thing that sexuality is. Even St. Paul said for men to treat younger women in the church as sisters, ‘with purity.’

We appear to have moved forward only to find ourselves backwards all over again. Maybe we’ll have to recover something from the past to make any progress. And so that all of our children can grow up to be treated with love and respect, rather than being used, abused and discarded.

 

 

The Best Way to Learn Tolerance? Raise a Teenager.

Here’s my latest at the Huffington Post!

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/edwin-leap-md/the-best-way-to-learn-tolerance-raise-a-teenager_b_6149546.html

 

If you want to understand tolerance, it’s helpful to have teenagers. I have four of them. Four wonderful, brilliant, engaging creatures brought to this earth by their mother and me. They are entertaining, they are well-read, they are courteous and insightful. And they are each, at times, surly, self-centered, lazy and stubborn. (You know; like every human ever born on this earth.)

I would give my life for any one of my children if they needed. I would stop a bullet, stand in front of a train or give them a kidney. I believe I’ve already demonstrated my love by watching ‘ironic’ sit-comes with them for hours on end.

But sometimes, well sometimes, they drive me absolutely crazy. And never more than when they think they know everything. Which is pretty much every, single day. It’s a huge conflict because their mother and I, in fact, know everything.

Not a week goes by that they do not remind their parents about another social injustice in the treatment of women or minorities, another philosophical quandary (are chickens sentient and if so, what about factory farming?) or the latest research suggesting video games are good for mind, body and soul (and give you a shiny coat as well). They quote statistics on global climate change, they argue with one another about licensing parenthood. And they seem to go out of their way to pick ‘hot-button’ topics to challenge the apparently irrelevant education and moral authority of their parents. In our house, ‘because I said so’ is a long lost trump-card.

This is particularly interesting because my wife and I are what you might call ‘conservative.’ Or what others would no doubt call ‘right-wing, Bible-thumping, Southern nut-jobs.’ In the colloquial, that is. And it’s even more interesting because our children were home-schooled. (I know! Can you believe it?)

Our children were raised in the Baptist church, in the sultry, Confederate Flag waving ‘Buckle of the Bible Belt’ (where damned progressives would go for eternal torment if they believed in such things). Our four kids, stewed for years in all things Southern, are each deeply concerned about their pet causes, among which are included social justice, renewable energy, global climate change, animal rights, fairness, equality, racism and feminism.

So as you might guess, we disagree on certain issues from time to time. But here’s the remarkable thing. Their mother and I may not always share their opinions, but we don’t love them one iota less. Nor do they love us less! Dinner conversations are always fascinating. We all learn from one another. They lift their Baby Boomer parents to new ways of viewing old problems. And hopefully (can you hear me Lord?) we anchor them in traditions and truths that have remained relevant for thousands of years and hundreds of generations of their ancestors.

I am so proud of them. I see in their eyes, and hear in their passionate words, the fire I first saw in their mother when we met in college. Their mother, who still has a t-shirt from the first Earth Day, and who was aggrieved to be born too late for Woodstock. Their mother who learned to tolerate a staid, gun-loving, tradition following Republican, who became their father. I became more like her and she became more like me. We ‘tolerated’ each other so well we ended up with four children in about seven years. And they’re like both of us. We all tolerate one another in abject, breathless, unquestioning love.

This is how it works. We can banter about the word ‘tolerance’ if we want. But it’s too easily a weapon of suppression. Tolerance is the word we now use to say ‘you have to agree with my views.’ However, as one sees with teenagers, tolerance in truth means to disagree, but to respect. And in it’s highest, most beautiful incarnation, to disagree and yet love.

We all change over time. I don’t know exactly how my kids will end up; where they will lie in the political, moral and spiritual spectrum of the future. But I know that even when we disagree, I’m proud of the people they have become through this wonderful mixture of reading, listening, arguing and discussing. (And no small amount of parental prayer.)

The thing is, if a bunch of rural home-schooled kids can grow into the kind of people who can endure the views of their parents without screaming, and if those parents can face the emotional and intellectual wanderings and pilgrimages of their children without shipping them off to boarding school, then there’s hope for a world of tolerance. As long as we understand that tolerance doesn’t have to mean agreement. But it does have to mean love.

Don’t trivialize marriage

My column in today’s Greenville News concerns marriage, and its joy, importance and gravity.  Whatever you believe about marriage, please take it seriously.

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/story/opinion/contributors/2014/11/01/ed-leap-trivialize-marriage/18266191/

Last month, beneath the low clouds of a cool October sunset, my brother and his fiancee were wed. The wedding took place at Lindsay Plantation, in Taylors, SC. Friends and family sat in folding chairs, in the lush green grass of a hill-top, while a violinist played softly, the sound carried on such faint wind as there was. Nature itself seemed to pause and watch with bated breath.

Our father performed the ceremony, which was brief but beautiful as traditional and personal vows were exchanged, along with rings. There was laughter during the sacrament of marriage, and there was also the solemnity of covenant.

And then, as there should always be, there was a party. Theirs was beneath great chandeliers in the former horse barn, open on each end so that cool air could flow through and caress the well-dressed, if slightly over-heated, guests as we ate, talked and danced the evening away. I spun Jan around the floor a while, reminded in the flush of emotion why I love her so much, and have for so long. Our four children were there also and visited with family from far away. I believe that young people should view holy things from time to time. They should be reminded that these things matter immensely.

It was just the way a wedding should be. A reminder of both gravity and levity. A promise and a joke. A prayer and a dance. And all of it witnessed and supported by those who love them both. Everyone should have such a wedding. No drama; all joy and light and hope. I think it was good because they both know that the wedding is simply the gateway. It’s the marriage that matters.

Nevertheless, we live in a world in conflict over marriage. Who should be allowed to marry? Who should do it? What defines it? What preserves and what destroys it? These are terribly important questions. But I won’t attempt to answer them; not now. It’s likely you can guess my personal beliefs, but that isn’t my point.

What I will do is this. I’ll make a plea. Whatever you, dear reader, believe about marriage don’t trivialize it. Don’t use it as a weapon or a form of theater. Never make it small or insignificant.

Whatever you believe about marriage, or who should marry, please, please make your marriage a bond that has consequence. Make it a thing of absolute commitment, with no wavering. Never say ‘we’ll try it and see how it goes.’ Any such thought is simply a path for escape; a way to let insignificant issues drive a wedge wider and wider between you and yours.

Whatever we end up believing about marriage, as a culture, I hope that we remember that it is a force for stability; a pillar on which civilization is balanced. The less certain it is, the more precarious that balance.

Whatever we believe about it, never forget that the children of a union, born or adopted, count on that marriage. It is their safe haven, the kingdom that is a family. And divorce is a civil war, a bloody revolution, a wild-fire. And the children may never full recover, whether they were young or old when the cataclysm occurred.

No matter our definition of marriage, it cannot be a thing entered, or abandoned, lightly, as if it were the prom or a drive in the country. It must have what I saw in my brother’s wedding. It must have promises taken seriously and laughter and joy taken even more seriously. It must be a feather as heavy as a stone.

Jesus used the metaphor of marriage extensively, and referred to the Church as ‘The Bride of Christ,’ and to himself as ‘the Bridegroom.’ This was no small thing, no casual use of language. His love was demonstrated in his sacrifice for all who would be his bride, in full expectation that she would be devoted to him wholly.

At Stephanie and Stephen’s wedding, there was great happiness all around. And I thought, for a minute, that if this was a prequel for heaven, some people might be in grave danger of not enjoying heaven at all.

Because to grasp the staggering joy of the covenant requires recognition of both the weight of the promise and the levity of the party. Our culture has to keep both in mind if marriages, and weddings, are to continue to be the things of absolute value they were intended to be.