Jack of All Trades?

rom my column in today's Ashland Times-Gazette

When I was first dating Larry, I arrived at his family’s home to find his mother in tears. “What happened?” I asked. “Margaret died,” she replied. Not recognizing the name, I asked, “Who is that?” “She’s on my story” she answered. Myrtle was a soap opera fan, and she was broken-hearted because one of her characters had met her maker.

One of the more minor struggles of the pandemic is that I’ve been missing my stories. Since filming abruptly concluded in the spring of 2020, it’s taken many months for new episodes of weekly television shows to be produced. Finally, our friends are back. Larry and I are creatures of habit, so on Wednesday nights, we watch the Chicago shows, on Thursday the music of Law and Order SVU beckons us to the television, and on Tuesday nights at 9, we join millions in viewing “This Is Us.” Yes, we have become our parents, absent the nightly bowl of ice cream.

On “This is Us,” Jack Pearson told Rebecca that his dad used to call him “jack of all trades.” As a kid, Jack was pleased with the label, but he came to understood that his dad didn’t see that designation in a positive light, and the associated label, “master of none” became a burden Jack carried for years. I’ve been thinking about that in recent days. I follow a history professor on social media, and I am so in awe of her expertise. Heather Cox Richardson speaks about current events in thoughtful ways, weaving in the lessons of history with ease. Reconstruction, the New Deal, the Civil War, oh, and did I mention what Johnson did in 1965? How I wish I had her depth of knowledge and her expertise.

My high school friend Susan is a concert pianist in Sweden. I play hymns, and “Do You Want to Build a Snowman” from “Frozen” for my grandkids. Robert, another high school friend, is an accomplished surgeon. The closest I come to medical skills is the placement of Band-aids on skinned knees – with plenty of Nana kisses.

Obviously, our individual abilities depend on a variety of circumstances. Born with a genetic predisposition toward music, music is in the air in the home of a budding musician, and instruments offer the opportunity to explore the magical notes. Throw in parental provisions for weekly lessons and supervision of daily practice sessions, a willingness to give up other interests, a strong work ethic, a good dose of talent and an even greater dose of fortune, and maybe Carnegie Hall becomes a reality. Remove even one of those factors, and we’re playing in a garage band at age forty.

This is not a “feel sorry for me or tell me how talented I am” plea for affirmation. Nor am I wallowing in envy, for I try daily to heed Thomas Browne’s counsel: “Let age, not envy, draw wrinkles on thy cheeks.” Instead, I sit in awe of how uniquely different we each are, “fearfully and wonderfully made” as the Psalmist suggests.

The apostle Paul recognized the importance of bringing together people with a variety of gifts under the umbrella of faith. In I Corinthians 12, he compares this concept to the body, reminding us of this: “If the whole body were an eye, where would the hearing be? It the whole body were hearing, where would the sense of smell be?” Yes, Paul says, we each bring value to the body.

This principle extends to groups of all kinds, in families, workplaces, social media platforms, and communities. Like the villagers in Stone Soup, we offer what we have to each other, the gift of music, the ability to heal, the skill to weave historical stories into the reality of today. And like Jack Pearson, jack of all trades, we love our family fiercely, draw out greatness in each other, and cast dreams far into the future.

Richard Rohr suggests we discover places of sharing where hearts and bread can be broken and passed around, places where Band-aids heal, stories connect, and music brings joy. Whether our skill set runs deep or wide, it is enough to give what is in our hands.