Resigned to Mediocrity

I have never been exceptional at anything. I look back over my childhood at attempts at sports, band, UIL contest participation, etc. When I view these ventures, I realize how mediocre that I actually was, and I suppose, to some extent, remain to be. It’s not as though I view it, necessarily, with some malcontent.  Rather I see it as an observation of the inevitable verity.

I remember my attempts at little league baseball. In Pampa, Texas, the whole program is sponsored by the Optimist club. (I know given the topic, for me pessimist would likely be a better moniker.) I was the catcher in Tee-ball! I was given the responsibility of watching from behind the tee to make sure that somehow a hit off of a tee didn't go foul. Also, when you’re dealing with five and six-year olds, there aren't a whole lot of attempts at beating the ball home from third. "Catcher" in tee-ball is the position they give the kid that they have to play because the rules require it. I was that kid. I was the one who was only on the field because the rules of the club required that I play at least some portion of the game.

I moved into the higher leagues, and the trend remained true. I remember I was chosen as bat-boy at the all-star game because I had “good hustle” and "made every practice.” In case you’re wondering, this was a nice way of saying I stunk at the game, but I did deserve some recognition for either ignoring this fact or being to dumb to know it. During the regular season, I played right field, of course. Right field in little-league, like catcher in Tee-ball, is where they stick the kid whose forced onto the field by the “rules”. My attempts at basketball, tennis, swimming, and even FFA (yes you read it right, FFA, I couldn’t even show hogs effectively), were not unlike my initial experience playing baseball with the Optimists.



I was speaking with my Brother-in-law recently concerning our childhood, and even some of our current interests. In doing so, we reminisced over our time in the Pampa High School Band. Josh, who is quite talented both in the musical and theatrical arts, even studying the latter at Texas Tech, served as the drum major his junior and senior year. I on the other hand, was the only trombone player to graduate in 1998. When the next school year started, Mr. Collins, the director, in his first speech to the Trombones of that year said “Well at least we didn’t loose anything.” I will gladly admit that I was not the best of trombone players, and I don’t doubt that there really was nothing missing after I left. The reality of this truth is only underscored by the director’s observation.

I even now look at my own attempts at playing the guitar. I can string a few chords together, and finger pick a little. Yet, I’m nowhere near the player that most people would be after playing for four years. I’ll not be playing in any Willie Nelson tribute bands anytime soon. And, I don’t play by ear at all.

I don’t recount these things with an attempt to encourage sadness, or beg for condolence. I don’t want either. It’s just that there comes a time when one needs to embrace reality. I’ve never been outstanding at anything. In general I’ve been average, sometimes a little above, sometimes a little below, but average just the same.

As I noted, it’s not so much a complaint but rather an embracing of the clear corporality and tangibility of such truth.

To help in illustrating my point, consider the following poem entitled “Something and Nothing” written by Sophie Hannah:

Something and Nothing

If you had known how little
you would have had to give
to drum into this brittle
hope the desire to live

would you have changed the venue,
your greeting or your tone
or planned things better when you
knew we’d have hours alone

and if you heard a hollow
voice spit these ill-advised
questions, would nothing follow?
I wouldn’t be surprised.
(First published in Poetry Review, Winter 2004/2005)


Hannah, seems to capture quite well my sentiment. Even given the chance at better preparation, and if given the knowledge of needed questions, I probably wouldn’t have changed any of it. I doubt I would possess the ability to make those changes.

So what’s the reason? is it all mentality? Are some people mediocre because we repress or depress the inklings of greatness? Or, is it that most people must be average in order to provide a bell curve for life?
I openly accept the fact that I don’t inspire great confidence in people. I  know that my life will not be recorded in history textbooks as one who changed the course of the world. I resign myself to the knowledge that someday I will die, and what will be left of me on this earth is the memories of those who knew me. Then, within 100 years , I will simply be a name on a family tree and a fading inscription on an old gravestone somewhere. I suppose that should bother me, but for some reason, it doesn't.

"Hearts, Like Muffled Drums, Beating Funeral Marches to the Grave"

I have spent the last few days in contemplation of death. Not as some morbid pre-occupation, but rather because of recent events. Of course the observance of Memorial day and the images of the headstones row by row lining the graves of those who paid the ultimate price to advance the cause of liberty and in defense of this nation has drawn my thoughts in that direction. Also, it was 2 years ago that my grandmother and my uncle passed away on consecutive days. It brings to mind an old poem written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow entitled “A Psalm of Life.” So much of his sentiment in the verse can have direct bearing to my feeling. Consider its words now.

A Psalm of Life
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.


I recall with some sadness my relationship with my grandmother. I was by no means the model grandchild. It’s not that I did things necessarily to “shame” the family (I suppose that job was left to my cousins).  I just lived in general procrastination and dalliance of what I should have done in relation to her. As an example, some months after her death I found some Mothers Day cards in my desk that I took the time to fill out, yet never sent. I always intended to call, but always put it off. Things like that characterize the relationship that I had with my grandmother. If I have learned one thing in regard to such an attitude it would be to act now! All of the things I should have said or done have lost their place. They hang eternally on the wall of “what I should have done.” In Longfellow’s words “Act, - act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead!” There is no time to change what you should have done once the chance is gone.

Longfellow also wrote “Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!” When I think of my uncle Gary, I cannot help but bear in my his  character. I’m reminded of the song “That He Didn’t Have to Be” sung by Brad Paisley. When my uncle met my aunt, she was single with two daughters and a widowed mother who all needed something. Uncle Gary was it! He filled a huge hole in the Jones family. Yet with his passing, the gaping maw once again is there only this time it’s larger. He was an excellent provider, a model husband, a good father, and a son-in-law that was more like a son. He left behind an example for me in my own life that I often do not live up to. It was after him that our second son was named.



Yet while these things, always ensconced in my mind, make their way to my consciousness.,  the preparation of a funeral sermon has also driven my ponderings. I came to Conroe in August, 2009 while Amber and I vacationed in Houston to visit friends. Little did I know that that vacation would lead me to  the work that I do with the Woodland Hills church. During that visit I made the acquaintance of a tall stately looking gentleman whose wife had relatives in Dumas (I live there at the time). The memory of this handsome couple, James and Lou Ann Webb, remained in my mind. When we moved here, it came to my attention that James suffered from heart issues. Yet in my visits with him it seemed not to worry him. Though his issues were ever pressing, he did not allow them to daunt his smile or optimism. He passed from this life on June first. He was a faithful member of the church here, and his absence from the assemblies will be sorely missed. The time I have spent looking over his godly life is indeed reflective of Longfellow’s words:

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.


To contemplate death from time to time, I am quite sure, is natural to us all. To think of the legacy, or perhaps lack thereof , that we will leave behind can be a breathtaking and even fearsome task. What will others remember of me? Will others remember me, or will I simply be a name on a headstone and in a family tree that is forgotten within a hundred years? Even further still, what will happen to me? Do I have an immortal soul? Longfellow expressed the following sentiment that serves as an fitting conclusion.

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.