| No problem. Easiest Thing
in the World From the editor | by Tim Miejan Chris Hewitt, movie reviewer and staff writer for the St. Paul Pioneer-Press, interviewed Tom Hanks three months ago about his experience on the set of "The Ladykillers" with St. Louis Park natives Joel and Ethan Coen. Hanks told Hewitt that one of the Coens' lines in the film -- "No problem. Easiest thing in the world." -- became a catchphrase on the set. Since that Sunday morning in March, while eating breakfast and reading the paper as I'm prone to do, darned if that catchphrase didn't anchor itself into MY head. A tough deadline coming up with a lot to do in a short amount of time? "No problem. Easiest thing in the world." Too many bills and not enough money to make ends meet this month? "No problem. Easiest thing in the world." A difficult parent-to-teenager talk to arrange on taking responsibility? "No problem. Easiest thing in the world." It's a very powerful reminder of how often we tend to fret over and even fear things that arise in our lives and how, in retrospect, very seldom does our fear translate into reality. We think things are going to be much worse than they end up being. It was with that attitude in tow that I counseled my dad days before his open-heart surgery to replace a damaged aortic valve. I reminded him that surgeons today have vast experience in repairing the heart, and I asked him to consider how lucky he was to have the surgery done now compared to decades ago. I told him the doctors at Creighton University Medical Center in Omaha were top grade. I reminded him how everyone was supporting him, praying for him and even sending healing energies of Reiki to him. I encouraged him by saying he'd be back on his feet in no time. And while the phrase was echoing in my mind, I didn't say it to him. There are just some things in life that you don't put the words "easiest thing in the world" next to. One is open-heart surgery. Another is going into combat in Iraq. Nonetheless, the surgery went well and he's now recuperating for another month at my sister's home in Nebraska before he makes the trek back to his home and business near Oklahoma City. I called my dad on Father's Day, after having just spoken to him on the phone the day before, and he said something that struck me as quite profound: We've spoken with each other more in the past couple weeks than we have our whole lives. And we have. That happens when parents are divorced when the kids are young. That happens when kids take sides and don't want to relate to a parent they don't have an emotional bond with and hardly ever see. That happens when attitudes harden and, before you know it, it's so much easier to not talk to someone you hardly even know after all these years than to pick up the phone and say, "Hi." In my case, I hadn't spoken with my Dad for more than 20 years. I saw him after my high school graduation when he drove up to Nebraska and gave me a couple hundred dollars -- which I used to buy a silver 10-speed Raleigh bicycle -- and didn't see him again until a couple years ago when my brother and I made a drive down to Oklahoma to see him. During the two decades of silence between us, I made peace with myself, forgave him for his transgressions and forgave myself for mine. When we came face-to-face, it was a bit awkward, but I think it was something that we both wanted -- and needed -- to have happen. The reacquainting process has been "the easiest thing in the world," because as people, we're both older, he in his 60s and me in my 40s. We know there's not a lot of time left for us to share experiences together. A year or so ago, when my dad was hospitalized briefly in Oklahoma City, when he was forced to come to grips with the severity of his heart problem, he said the experience changed him. Perhaps that's what facing death does to a man. He said he began to think about things differently -- and you can tell that it's affected him. In the past year, he has been face-to-face twice with his two brothers, after years of separation because of grudges of some sort or another. Both were at his side when he came out of surgery this past week. It appears as if it's a kinder-and-gentler version of a daredevil of a man who once rode wheelies on motorcycles along Southern California freeways in his 20s, a man whose temper scared me when I was young. It's a kinder-and-gentler man who now speaks to me as if I matter. And when I hear him on the other end of the phone tell me that he loves me, I have to believe that the rest of the story will be the easiest thing in the world. Tim Miejan is editor of The EDGE. Contact him at (651) 578-8969, toll-free 1 (888) 776-5687 or e-mail editor@edgenews.com. Copyright © 2004 Tim Miejan |
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July 2004 |
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