Author: kevshinn

My dad passed away 15 years ago today. And as regular practice on this blog, I repost the eulogy I wrote and read at his funeral.  It includes a story I’ve told countless times over the years.  And now that story is bearing fruit in the form of young fathers with their sons, telling me how the story has influenced how they parent.  I’m very thankful to my dad who valued wisdom over logic and reason, and had an ability to recognize value in the seemingly small and mundane things of day-to-day life

I repost this eulogy from time to time as a reminder to my regular readers, and an encouragement to those new visitors who have never read it before.

Thanks for reading.

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It took a while, as it does for most youth, to realize that the vistas of the world I was seeing was a direct result of the shoulders I was standing on. I thought in order to matter in the world, you had to go out and conquer it. But what I have learned from my dad, the man named Jack Shinn, I now believe that it’s just the opposite. You make a difference by simply letting the world come to you, and then offering blessing to each and every person that comes your way.

From time to time, I would make it back to Route 2 Box 162, sometimes bringing university students with me to visit the farm and experience the country life. Without exception, every person I brought there was greeted by my Dad with a hug and a kind word. Sometimes those students would later tell me how much that meant to them. Dad seemed to think that it may be the only hug they got, so he would offer it. It didn’t matter the color of their skin or how long their hair was, they got the same attention. You make a difference by letting the world come to you and offer blessing to each and every person that comes your way.

As I got older, this lesson became more and more evident. People would say to me how much they appreciated Dad’s smile or sense of humor or offering a piece of candy. They remarked how positive he always was, how willing he was to help out. In his latter years, he dealt with much physical pain, but you would only know it through the grimace on his face. He never complained about it and never allowed it to rule his spirit.

No summary, however, would be complete without the story I have told many, many times. It’s a story that encapsulates his life and what he valued most. It’s a story that happened when I was about 12 years old, but I didn’t hear it until nearly 20 years later. The story takes place at Route 2 Box 162 Bartlesville. With very few kids around my age, I had to learn how to entertain myself. Dad helped that effort by buying me a little Yamaha 80cc Dirt bike. That motorcycle provided me countless hours of fun. With 26 acres to my discretion, one would think that would be plenty of space for a 12 year old boy to ride. But for some reason, I decided to include the front and back lawn in that 26 acres. As you can imagine, motorcycle tires are not kind to growing grass, and it didn’t take long before a nice little path was worn around the front of the house, to the back of the house, then out to the pasture. Round and round I would go, living in my mind the adventure of being a world-champion racer, or being chased by bad guys.

This path was pretty unsightly, given that it was visible to everyone that passed on the road out front. One time a neighbor had stopped by to visit and he asked Dad this question. “Jack, how come you let your son tear up the yard like that? Why don’t you make him keep out in the pasture?”

Now this was a pretty logical question given the amount of land we owned, but my Dad’s wisdom sometimes defied logic. To know my Dad was to know what a deep reservoir he was. Even though he was a man of few words, he was also a man of countless thoughts and musings. In these past few days, I have read many of those thoughts recorded in the margins of his Bible.

I believe what set my Dad apart was his ability to look at his choices and side with that which was of most importance. In other words, he had his priorities right. He responded to the neighbor by saying. “The grass will come back” he said, “but the boy won’t.”

Now if you drive by Route 2 Box 162 today, you will see the grass has come back. The boy lives in Lincoln, Nebraska in a home of his own, with two kids of his own. He hopes to be the kind of man Jack Shinn was, a man who hopes that as the world comes to him, that he will offer blessing to each and every person that comes his way.

We will miss you, Dad

It’s amazing how a little item like a mask can be the source of such social division and outrage.  Yet I have a simple thought to consider this morning, on how we got to this point.

Take a look at your social media feed, especially Facebook and Twitter. Count the number of responses of kindness and understanding.

That probably didn’t take long.

Now count all the posts that dismiss someone, something or their behavior.

My guess is you would never run out of examples.

Here’s a few from my feed:

• Folks don’t care about anyone other than themselves.
• Americans are hicks and hayseeds and won’t listen to science and reason.
• The government is trying to take away freedom.
• Nobody is going to tell me what to do.
• People are just plain stupid.
• Why can’t you just wear the f****n mask!?!?

Somewhere missing in our social conversation is the art of disagreement. Holding a different opinion than my neighbor should be expected and at the least, like the old bumper sticker pronounced, tolerated. Disagreement is healthy and normal, or I should say, it should be.

A serious problem lies in the dismissive spirit through which disagreement is filtered. My response to any controversy is representative of both my personal bias about my ideas and my conviction of who you are as a person.  

I wear a mask when I go out in public.  I don’t like the conflicting reports I come across that challenge the science and research behind it’s effectiveness. I see the common sense in it and since I have other priorities, I’m not going to die on that battlefield. 

A mask is an easy thing for me to adopt, but a mask is not what piques my interest.  I want to know why you think the way you do about it. I want to know why it’s a big deal for you either way. It makes for a better conversation

When I listen to friends who are either pro or anti-mask, I pay attention to a common denominator on both sides. I almost always see a reaction of dismissiveness. It’s easy to put someone down with whom I disagree, call them a name and dismiss their point of view. I don’t have to engage them any further.  But when a person feels dismissed, they feel unseen and unheard. The human spirit does not do well when ignored.

To be an effective leader, I’ll never change anyone’s mind unless I make them feel heard, especially if we don’t agree.

Today we gather to remember Junarita Rachel May Shinn. 

She had a rather unique first name.

Many, many times, her name was misread or mispelled, and mistakenly pronounced “Juanita.” In my entire life, I never met another JUNARITA.  I doubt many people have. And wasn’t this woman as unique as her name?

Many of you knew her as the MAILADY, the moniker imprinted on her specialized Oklahoma license plate.  (Like this one.) She was the one who gave you a piece of candy if you came out to the mailbox to greet her. Some of you knew what time she would drive by and sat underneath that mailbox waiting for her, didn’t you?

The MAILADY knew which of her senior citizen patrons were shut in, and so instead of leaving the mail in the box, she would take it up to the house, which was against Post Office rules. But to the MAILADY, proper hospitality trumped the rules, as good country folk do.  

It was also common practice if someone wasn’t home to receive it, to leave a package that was too big for the mailbox with a nearby neighbor. And since she was also intuitively aware of which patrons weren’t getting along, she would know not to leave that parcel with a feuding neighbor, lest it end up in the trash.

Some of you knew her as Mama Shinn, the origin of which was a little embarrassing at the time, but I’m all grown up now, so I can tell the story.  I played Little League baseball in Ochelata. I was around 5th grade. I wasn’t very good but tried my best. During one game, as I was at bat, the pitcher threw the ball and hit me square in the left rib cage with a pitch. Immediately, the air was knocked out of me and I fell to the ground in pain. As only a mother could do, my mom rushed out of the stands and ran out to home plate to check on me.  I think it was Eddie Trottingwolf that reassured her, “He’s OK, Mama Shinn. He’s OK.”

To all my teammates, she was Mama Shinn from that day on.

Others know her simply as Miss June, the woman with the smile. I can’t tell you how many times people said to me, “your mama has the sweetest smile.” In her assisted living apartment, some of the staff would take their break in Miss June’s room, because she was an unusually pleasant resident and the staff just liked being around her.  

Sometimes when folk get old, they start losing things, like hair, hearing, memory. (I forget what else) But Miss June never lost her smile. 

I had the good fortune to be by Mom’s bedside in her final days, served by hospice in the home of my sister outside Springfield, MO. I watched her decline steadily. She lost her appetite. She eventually lost her mobility and was bedfast til the end.  But hospice teaches us that hearing is the last sense to go, so talk to her as you would any other person. And I did that.  After receiving the news of her decline, on Friday, I drove the six hours from Nebraska to be with her. As I arrived, I entered her room as she was sleeping. I leaned over the bedside, kissed her on the forehead and whispered, “I’m here, Mom. I’m here to be with you til its time to go.” She raised her eyebrows, squinted her closed eyes and..

She gave me that smile.

“My boy’s here…” she said.

I’ll never forget that moment.

She lost some things as she got old, but she held onto the important things that could never be taken away. Her smile. The kindness that produced it. Her faith that sustained it.

As a son, that is a precious gift. 

In the following days, she gave me an example that I want to emulate in my final days. Though she spent most of the time sleeping and was in obvious pain, she didn’t complain.  As I sat bedside, I felt uncomfortable and helpless as I watched her struggle to breathe. I prayed for her, asking God for mercy on her.

In the Gospel of Luke, when Jesus died, he spoke the words, “It is Finished.”  What is “it?” We are taught that through His dying on the Cross, all of death had been defeated.  So why did He leave it in place? If death is finished, why do we have to experience it? These were the thoughts interwoven in my mind, getting tangled with the sadness of being so close to my mom in her final hours.

Knowing that she could still hear, I played music for her on my phone; old hymns that she would remember.  We also listened to scripture readings, mainly selections in Isaiah and Romans 8.  

I’ve grown to enjoy listening to the Bible, because I take the passage in Hebrews 10 literally, “faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the Word of God.” As I listen, I often encounter His Spirit differently than if I were just to read the words on a page.

On one evening, I kept Romans 8 on repeat, listening quietly over and over. On one pass through, as the narrator came to verse 16, the Spirit drew my attention inward:

Therefore, since we are His children, that makes us heirs, beneficiaries set to inherit—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ. It is this relationship that gives us the opportunity to share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory.

I paused the audio. 

Share in His sufferings? 

In that quiet moment, His Spirit reassured me, “She is sharing in my sufferings.”

Would you care to join us?”

As is common when I sense the presence of the Lord, I began to weep. Not out of sorrow this time, but out of worship and amazement.  

At that moment, I had gained a new perspective on what I was witnessing in my mom’s cancer-ridden body in the back corner bedroom of my sister’s house. More than waiting to get it over with, more than enduring through the passing of my mom, I saw that she was in the midst of a fellowship with Jesus because of that suffering.

The famous passage of Psalm 23 affirms this appointment, 

He prepares a table for me in the presence of my enemies

I love this picture because I’m a chef by trade. I find my joy in setting a table. For me, preparing a table is more than just putting food on a plate. Preparing a table means anticipating my guests that will sit at that table. It means knowing what will bring them delight. It means preparing to surprise them.  It means going above and beyond their expectations with an experience they did not envision.

Even as death was waiting for the Number of Her days to be complete, Death does not get to disturb fellowship with Jesus. And Jesus doesn’t get up and leave until we’re finished. He prepares the table and even stays to clean up afterward.

At that very instant, I saw I was invited to His table. I was included to join in, to share in Jesus’ sufferings. He was welcoming me into fellowship and a union with Him amid the pain of sorrow. Because He, too, had experienced death, the worst death of all by carrying the sins of the world.  Which means He knows what it means to hurt.  He understands what I am feeling, and asks if I would like to join Him.

I know from recent experience the importance of grieving loss.  I lost my wife of nearly 30 years to cancer last November.  Death is painful. We hurt today because we lost a mother, a grandmother, a sister, a dear friend.  I would encourage you, don’t bypass the pain too quickly.  Jesus wants to fellowship with you. He knows that our loss of Mom, Ms June, Mama Shinn, hurts because her life mattered to us. We honor it by sitting at Jesus’ table, not by hurrying to get over it. He knows that our tears are not just expected. They are necessary.

We need not fear grief because it is temporary.  Sorrow comes to pass. Joy comes to stay.

As a writer, I enjoy seeing how others use words to communicate.  I’ve finally learned to stop comparing my writing to someone else who I admire or appreciate. There is no reason for me to try and sound like Seth Godin or Tyler Huckabee. The world already has their voice. I need to figure out how to sound more like me and try to keep getting better at it. 

One place where I find the writing fascinating is on the bathroom wall.  I don’t write on them myself, but I read with interest the messages and always ponder why they chose to write what they did.

I imagine some dude, his junk in one hand, a sharpie in the other, mustering up the drunken courage to pen his main message for all who come behind him to read. Here is his chance to communicate to a captive audience. What nugget of truth does he choose in the 30 seconds he has?

F**K TRUMP

C’mon dude. That’s all you got? That’s the best you can do? That’s what you want to tell the world?

Yeah, I thought so.

I sure hope it stops there in the bathroom stall.

Any message that begins with the F-word should be received with caution.  Anger won’t produce Hope. Rage only leads to more destruction.  Don’t become like the one you despise.

Here we are, on the cusp of some very historic events that could lead to some profound social changes. And many people, especially young people, all over the world, feel a message boiling in their soul. Now is your time to write it for all to read. And I sure hope it’s more than “F**K TRUMP.”

There will be a lot of that out there, but that message isn’t worthy of anyone’s time. Any message other than one of Hope will eventually fade. Anything preached out of anger will burn out quickly. Cynicism be damned. Write a better word. Tell a better story. Create a better future.

Make room. And don’t hold back.

As any gardener knows, leave a patch of ground bare and you’ve just sent out an invitation for weeds to grow there.

Mother Earth is a modest lady.  She doesn’t like to be uncovered for very long. Her favorite color is green.

But she doesn’t pick out her own clothes. Nature will pick them for her.

But so can I.

The prophet Isaiah spoke of the nettle and the thornbush as her covering.  Effective in shading Mother Earth from the sun, but not desirable to dwell among or look at. He also referred to the two plants giving way to the myrtle and cypress.  The latter are both beautiful and beneficial for everyone involved.

I want to plant a garden with myrtle and cypress.  But if I leave my ground alone and don’t tend to it, I’ll end up with nettle and thorns.

As I watch these exciting days unfold, count me as one of the hopeful. I believe I am witnessing something new, as was told to Isaiah.  It was also assumed that many would not be aware of it. There are many looking for something familiar. I feel like I am watching the start of a river beginning to flow in the desert. Something brand new.

In the bourgeoning call for the ground to be stripped of the entangled weeds of injustice, inequality and ineffective social systems, I see a good thing, but with an important mandate. Just like tearing out an overgrown vine that has a grip on the entire fenceline, it will be crucial to plant something desirable in its place. If we don’t, something else will creep in and take over by default. 

It’s not enough to rely on just the vote to make change. You can vote out the one you despise, but what will the replacement look like? Holding the “anyone will be better than the one we have now” position is not driven by wisdom. 

Amid all the cacophony and chaos, I hear the heart behind the calls for actions like defunding the police. It’s one thing to clear the ground. But that’s not enough. it’s even more important to move in and plant according to a plan, tended and watered by passionate leaders that aren’t fueled by rage and motivated by merely tearing out the old.

As an intuitive person who has easy access to read his emotions, I have to purposefully limit the amount of news and social media that wants to invade my space.  It’s primarily due to the escalating level of anger that is dark, pervasive, and yet so inviting.

Anger is a necessary, primal emotion.  But if one isn’t careful, the heart can gravitate toward the seductive invitation that anger offers. For some, anger is the easiest and safest emotion to experience and express.  Peace and Joy require Vulnerability, which is not necessary with anger.

Anger is like fire.  It needs fuel to keep it burning.  Add enough propellant and the flames of anger roar into a raging inferno. And rage will consume anything in its path.

Your friend on Facebook knows this. You know the one, daily posting links that invite you into their rage.  It doesn’t have to be about race.  It can be social, political or religious.  They are always upset about something. If you agree, you like their posts and find place and solace in the anger.  But eventually their anger might wear you down, and you click “unfriend.”

The fires of anger need to be constantly stoked. And social media is a perfect place to easily find firewood. But Justice will never prevail under an angry flame.

Anger might start the fire, but all Good Works will eventually need a different fuel to burn long.

That’s where Love needs to be piled on. Love will burn long, steady and hot without destroying all in its path. Love doesn’t flare up into an uncontrollable blaze like rage.

Love has a noble outcome. But rage can easily burn it down.

There is no need to judge what is fueling the current protests.  This movement to address racial injustice will eventually judge itself.  If it is driven by anger, the energy will eventually wear off as the participants vent their rage in destruction and wait for another crisis to stoke the fire. Love will burn long after the all angry protesters have given up.

Watch. Engage. Listen. Understand. March. Protest. Give. Speak. Do all in Love, not anger.

True Justice will prevail when Love gets ignited and starts to burn.  

I watched the video of mistreatment of George Floyd that led to his death.  Afterward, I sat quietly. I pondered this question:

What can I do?

I felt so powerless sitting in my sadness, as I am sure many others felt. What can I do to stop this kind of treatment of fellow human beings?

I turn to the one thing I understand: My Voice.

It is always my desire to use My Voice to help you hear Someone Else.  I continually hope that by writing my story from my perspective, it might give my reader the words to understand their own. 

How can this apply to matters of race? I’m white. Where I grew up, I didn’t know an African-American until I went to college. In my rural upbringing, there were no neighbors, no classmates of color. What can I possibly say that might be of some consolation or bring legitimate hope?

There is much I don’t understand about race. But there is one thing I feel makes the most sense to me, and this is the issue toward which I choose to direct my words. 

Anger has gotten the best of us.

Racism is fueled by anger. And so is every other kind of judgement against another person that puts one in the role of superiority over another. 

Watching the video of the mistreatment of George Floyd produces anger.  It should make anyone mad. George Floyd was a fellow human being. No one deserves that treatment. Anger is the right initial response.

But it can’t be the motive for seeking justice.

Nearly every book on parenting advised me as a young father to never discipline in anger.  It was advice I wish I had heeded more often.  If my anger was not productive in coaxing a 3 year old to change behavior, how much less effective in changing a grown adult?

Anger is like a warning light on the dashboard of a car.  It signals when something is wrong. To ignore it is not helpful. I need to pay attention to anger.

Anger is a soldier in my personal Army of Action. I should never allow it to be in command. I listen to its briefing. I take into consideration what it feels. But Love needs to always be in charge. There is no greater commandment.

George Floyd’s death makes me mad.  But if I am not wise, it will also make me just like the cop that stood on his neck.

Anger killed a man. Let’s don’t let it kill another because it was left unmitigated.

There is a better way forward.