That's the Spirit

I don't know how much longer I can stay awake. I started this evening with the determined resolve to catch the Big Guy in the act. All the stories said he would come, usually down the chimney, but lacking a chimney, I was certain he'd use one of the two doors in this little house. I wasn't allowed to stay up and wait in the living room where I'd be sure to see him as he made his grand entrance with his red suit, jelly belly, rosy cheeks and his toy sack filled to the brim slung over his shoulder. But I could lay in my bed all attentive, knowing just what a jiggling door handle sounded like. Surely a sleigh being pulled by 8 tiny reindeer couldn't make a whisper-quiet landing on the roof. I was ready to spring out of bed at the first sign of any noise out of the norm.

Did I just hear something? I'm not sure, but I think I drifted off there for just a second. I must stay awake. I must stay...wait a minute. If he notices we don't have a chimney, will he land in the yard instead? That means I won't hear him on the roof. And then there's the tree. It's not real. It's not even green. It's shiny aluminum. Does that matter? Will it make a difference? Will he see the metallic glow and miss the fact that it's a tree, and not a low-hanging disco ball?

Have I been good enough this year? It wasn't my fault that I was left behind that one time when we were going to town because I was dragging my feet when Mom said to "hurry up if you don't want to be left behind." And I didn't flip the bird to my teacher. That was my ring finger. I have a hard time believing that he could see my intent, but couldn't see which finger I threw up. And, of course I didn't mean to laugh and call my sister names. I thought we were playing reindeer games...

I wonder what I'll get this year? I remember the best toy from last year. It was a Steve Austin 14-inch Action Figure with bionic eye (miniature spy glass through his head), bionic hand grip action, with crystal radio backpack. The radio had an earpiece and a long wire with an alligator clip to clip onto something metal that touched the earth to ground the crystal. It actually worked! Sort of. I enjoyed that gift about as much as I did my Evel Knievel on a rip-cord motorcycle and G. I. Joe action figure with rotating wrist (for hand-held rotor blades).

I don't even know what time it is. All I know is I gotta pee, but I can't keep my eyes open any longer. I must fight sleep! I must stay awake! I know I can do...

I'm being shaken. The bedroom is lit with a glow from the morning sun and my brother wants me to wake up. It was then that I realized I had failed. I had fallen asleep and missed Santa. It was Christmas morning. There were presents at the foot of my bed and presents under the tree. The stockings were filled with nuts and fruits and candies and little toys. The presents on the bed were wrapped; the ones under the tree were not. The wrapped ones were from Mom; unwrapped, from Santa. What did I see under the tree? There was a Tonka truck, a Ford Bronco with a shop jack in the bed and a winch on the front bumper. There was more than enough room for Steve and Joe to ride, and perhaps a little room for Barbie in there as well.

It was a good Christmas. There was still that bit of belief in its magic. There was still the mystery and childlike wonder at the appearance of gifts where there were none before. There was the spirit of giving and, I won't lie, getting. There was just one thing...

As I sit here and type this memory of a magical morning from my distant youth, I know what that one thing was, even though I wasn't aware of it for quite some time. Christmas was always special. We were never loaded down with gifts. We got something we wanted and something we needed. It was a perfect balance. We were kids, and kids want things and need things. Kids want to believe what you tell them. You tell them that this magical dude flies around the world to all the good boys and girls delivering gifts, and, lo and behold, there's gifts under the tree, they're gonna believe you. But that one thing...

I remembered more from that night than I thought. Even in a deep sleep, the need to go to the bathroom has great waking power. I remember getting up. I remember opening my door slowly, trying not to make noise that would wake anyone up. I remember turning as I shut my door, and as I did, I barely saw a movement in the direction of my grandmother's (whom we all called "Mom") bedroom. And what I didn't notice until after I'd come back from the bathroom, were shadows of things under the tree. Of course, I didn't go to investigate, because I'd been told to stay in bed. Bathroom break exempted, of course.

I believe that was my last Christmas truly believing in Santa Claus. It wasn't this earth-shattering revelation; something I'd one day be telling a therapist as I reclined on a couch. It wasn't something that changed my childhood forever, claiming lies over truth that would cause emotional scars. And maybe it really wasn't a total disbelief in the Big Guy, but perhaps the seeds of doubt were planted with a simple fleeting glimpse in a dark room of someone I knew and loved. I knew the presents at the foot of my bed were from her. She told us so. But making us believe that there were presents that were not from her? I didn't see the harm in that.

Did I, when my kids were old enough to comprehend the concept of Christmas, let them believe as I once did? You bet I did. Did I, once they were old enough to decide on their own and begin to question, tell them the truth? Once again, yer darn tootin' I did. But just as my grandmother did, I left a little bit of mystery; a little bit of wonder to live on as a spirit of the season. There would always be one present that I had no clue where it had come from. And all of this was done with a wink and a nod. They knew, just as I did.

The spirit of Christmas isn't something that you unwrap on Christmas morning. It isn't a song you hear on the speakers over the din of frenzied shoppers looking for the perfect gift at the store. It isn't opening up the card at the company Christmas party and getting what you deem to be an insufficient bonus. It's the fact that you got one at all. It's singing along with the song you hear at the store. It's the feeling of being loved enough to have something given to you. It's giving to others and getting love in return.

This Christmas is going to be meager on both the giving and the getting of stuff. We all want stuff. I admit it. Not so much for me, but I like to give my kids things. They know how it is. They know that "Santa" is broke this year. Sure, there will be things under the replacement tree (fake ficus) and they know I try to give to them year-round. Me? If I want something, I just get it, if there's money to get it with. There are so many things I want...I had...that money can't buy. Those things slip through my fingers so easily.

This is something that I want my kids to know this Christmas day:

We may not have a tree, but I hope that you develop roots. Roots in good moral behavior. Roots in caring about other people. Roots in doing what you know is right in your heart.

There may not be lots of presents, but I will do my best to give you a future. A future where you can look back on your past and say, "I did my best." A future where faith holds promises for you. I'm not the best believer, and you know you're free to make your own choices in this matter, but example is a great teacher.

Giving. Loving. Family. Faith. To me, this is the spirit of this season. It's something we all need, and get too little of. Give some...get some.

Oh, and that Tonka truck I got that Christmas morning? I still have it.

Last Night

11:26.

That means it's really 11:16. Ten minute leeway on the morning alarms and all...

Sigh. I had been laying in bed for nearly two hours. I was really tired when I crawled under the sheet and double blankets that, at first were pulled up to my chin but are now currently pulled down mid-torso. I've heard the sounds of rain increase and then dwindle to a trickle. I've heard the sounds of the neighborhood dogs being joined by my dogs and a yipping handful of coyotes in a 2-mile radial display of canine operatics. And the cats...I've lost count of the laps they've run on the roof of this trailer. Only thing missing is the puppies whining to go outside, but that will occur at 2:00 a.m. with them refusing to leave the porch because of the rain, no matter how bad they have to go.

I hadn't felt good all day. Not bad enough to not go to work, but bad enough to not want to be there. Feeling like a fever, but not. Body aches that ibuprofen fixes right up. It's like I have Flu Lite. And as I lay here wondering why I'm not in dreamland, I also wonder if I dazily mistook DayQuil for NyQuil...

Slumber finally came upon me. I don't know when it came because I was laying on my back (a position that I rarely take in bed to sleep because the snoring soon wakes even myself up) and therefore couldn't see a clock. But before I slept, I thought. I thought about Christmas and how measly it is going to be this year. I was thinking that I can't afford the luxury of a tree, but I do have the fake ficus that can do the honor this year. Hey, it's a tree and it truly is ever green. Right?

I thought about how this year has been about 70/30 on the crappy/awesome ratio. April saw the demise of a relationship with someone I considered the second love of my life. Why the second? Because, come on, surely the mother of my kids was the first. That doesn't weaken the second love in the least. Nor does it put the first one on an unattainable pedestal. It's merely numerical...but still, I mourned that lost relationship for quite some time. Work? Well, it's work. It isn't perfect, but I love it now like I loved it when I first started.

Personal issues? I never said I was anything else than what I am. I am working on myself. I never said I was a good man. I only said I try.

Money? I don't even wanna talk about it, and that should speak volumes.

Dreams took me. I remember standing on a hillside looking over a valley below that was covered with ice and snow. A little road wove itself through that valley. The headlights of a car glistened off the icy road, disappearing behind sections of the road hidden by frost covered trees. As I stood there watching the lights come and go, I remember someone standing beside me. I don't know who it was, whether it was male or female, or even if the voice I heard speak was audible or in my head.

"Last night."

As soon as the words were spoken, the lights from the car vanished and I was no longer on the hillside. I was in the valley, in the woods. The snow was gone. Flowers were in bloom, trees had sprung forth leaves; new life was everywhere. And those words were still echoing in my head.

Then I awoke...

I had no clue what it meant. I have no idea what it means. I've had plenty of "last nights." Some I'd love to re-live, others I'd like to forget. But I can't do either. I thought that maybe, since I ended up in the woods with new life springing forth all around me, that perhaps a period of darkness was over; the last night of hurting; a last night of rejection; a last night of worry...all of that was coming to an end, replaced by the newness of something else.

There was something else I thought about before drifting off to sleep again. What if it meant it was my last night? What would I do if it was? I know one thing, first and foremost that I would do. Everyone I love would be fully aware that I love them. Those that I don't love as much? They would be made aware of that too. Would I change anything? If so, it wouldn't be much. Changing things always seems to come too late. It wouldn't make a difference anyway.

I've had hyper-realistic dreams or gut feelings before. Nothing's ever come from them, but when it happens, it seems so real, like it is something I can feel or at least do something about to either make it happen or prevent from happening. Perhaps this "last night" is a thought from deep within, a hope, a wish, a dream, a premonition of positivity and luck, from myself, to myself.

But then, perhaps it was just the nighttime flu medicine messing with my head...it's not as romantic, but it's much more believable. :-)

dr jn ltr

"Hey. I'm sorry, you're a really nice guy..."

Barely an hour after the family Thanksgiving feast and hardly two minutes after uttering the words, "I don't know what's going on," the ringtone that indicates an incoming text sang its muffled cry from my pocket. I had a hunch as to who it was from before I even pulled the phone out. But I really didn't expect what I read.

I had a feeling something was going sour for a few weeks. The time spent together had become less frequent and the quality of that time had not necessarily gone bad, but it had changed. The atmosphere was not as fluid; the little things had all but vanished. The texts that used to fill my phone's memory bank in a few days had dwindled down to texts that were merely responses to mine. Forget about incoming calls; those were non-existent.

"...and you deserve the best..."

Flames die out if they're not fed fuel. It takes more than just wanting a fire to have a fire. You've got to add to it something that will keep it going. It's got to have oxygen. It's got to have fuel; something to burn. A relationship is like that fire, hot and bright, where one person is the wood and the other is air, both adding to the mix to keep the fire going. Sure, sometimes external factors can hinder the flames, like water being poured on the coals, but if you take away either internal factor, poof...out it goes. You both have to contribute; you both have to put forth the effort it takes for combustion.

"...but I'm not happy being in a relationship with you..."

I should have seen this coming. In a way, I did have a premonition. After the times spent together became more infrequent, I would look forward to the next time together. This last time we were apart, it was just over a week since I'd seen her. Wouldn't that make you want to see someone after all that time? Wouldn't you be excited as that time drew nearer? I was. When I mentioned that I was so excited on the drive over that I almost had butterflies; like it was the first time all over again, the response I got was, "That's just weird."

Weird? Weird that I felt that excited about seeing someone who took my breath away? Weird that I wanted to see her again? I didn't get it. I still don't.

"...and I'm sorry, but I think it would be better if we just parted ways."

After a while, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome grows quite old. When I say "doing the same thing over and over" I mean put my heart into somebody. I mean try and find someone who fits with my complexities, matches my simple personality, shares my love of weird things, tolerates my imperfections and won't run at the first sign of strife. Every time it seems right, it seems to go wrong. It gets tiring.

"I'm just not feeling it anymore...you didn't do anything wrong..."

I do love technology. I love having the world in the palm of my hand or at the end of my tapping fingertips. It does make things easier, if faster equates with easier, that is. Type up a few words, hit send and your recipient gets those words seconds later. Wanna read a book? Download that. Wanna hear a favorite song? YouTube it. Movies? Comics? Research? Just reach out and take it. There is something to say about a handwritten letter, though. The words written by hand, in my mind, carry a bit of the person who wrote them, like the ink flowed from their fingers. Reading a book...I love flipping through the pages. Renting a movie from the nearest Redbox...there's adventure in finding the nearest one with movies you want to see, and I usually throw an errand into the whole trip.

But you know what's best? What carries the most weight and means more to me than any email, text or even a handwritten letter? What puts more meaning into this whole "tactile experience of life?" Face to face communication. Sure, it's easier to say something when you don't have to look them in the eye. It takes the pressure off, reduces the timidity or the awkwardness of speaking. I'm the first to admit that my hands speak better than my tongue ever could. But when it comes to getting your point across with something as important as say, removing yourself from someone's life or expressing your love, nothing's better; nothing's more personal than live, in-your-face interaction.

"I just know you're not the one for me."

As much as that stuck the knife right into my heart, at least it wasn't twisted while it was in there. Truth is so much better than lies. Explanation is so much better than being left wondering why; so much better that the end comes sooner than later when all signs point toward failure, no matter how much you want it to work. I'm strangely fine with it. No regrets, right?

I'm not mad. Just like I wish for myself the best in this life quest, I too wish the same for her. Just like I want someone to put up with me, I wish the same for her. Like I said, I'm not mad.

I only wish that it had happened to my face, not via text.

Common Wealth

"We all have riches. Some have them in money, but most have riches in talent, ideas, creativity, loving, caring, or wisdom." -Sara Teasdale

As I closed the checkbook on another bill-paying session, I noticed that the number of days left until the next payday was not equally proportionate to the final number in the check register. I get paid every 15 days, which means that there are 11 days to go. 11 days to curtail spending. 11 days to wonder where it all goes. 11 days to watch it go. In the end, it doesn't really matter. I always seem to make it, one way or another. Besides, I have more wealth than a positive cash flow.

I was talking to a friend a while back around the icy chill of a cold one or two or six. Chit-chat turned to small talk turned to random thoughts turned to deep conversation. I remember talking about a guy we both know who had run into some trouble and with whom we had fallen out of contact with. He was the type of guy who couldn't sit still. He couldn't get his mind off of business and the art of accumulating the almighty dollar long enough to enjoy conversation and the deep connection between friends. Even on a camping trip, when he said "No business this weekend" he was on his phone, trying to make money.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with making money. After all, it takes money to live, no matter where you are. Even those who "live off of the grid" had to buy things to get them there. Growing up, I never really knew how low the income level was at our house. We always seemed to have what we needed. And occasionally, what we wanted. But there was never a shortage on things that kids need; love from my grandmother, food on the table, the whole world in a 2-acre yard, education from schooling and from common sense, shoes and clothes, and whenever deemed necessary...a good ol' paddlin'.

There are things in our lives much more important than money. The love of your family and friends, good health, hobbies, and time spent with all the above, just to name a few. This guy just didn't get it. It came out in our conversation that our friend asked my buddy, "Aren't you worried about money? Don't you want wealth?" And the answer to his questions stunned him; he was blown away. My buddy told him exactly what I would have said. "I do have wealth. I have a wife and kids who love me. I have a job that pays the bills. I have my toys; my cars which are my hobbies. I am surrounded by friends who are always there for me and are always welcome in my home. I have all the wealth I need at the moment." This other guy didn't get it. He asked, "How do you get these things?" My friend answered, "It isn't something you get. It's just something you have. And all I know is that I have it."

I get it. In fact, I got it too. I have children that love me and I love them. I have a woman who has my heart and who means the world to me. I love her. I have a job that doesn't make me rich, but I consider it the best job I've ever had. I may not have a lot of material goods, but what I have is mine. I didn't "get" any of these common riches by buying them. I just have them. If I have to buy these things, it sure isn't bought with money. The down payment is kindness. The monthly payment is understanding. And the interest earned is love.

Too many people are concerned about their fat bank accounts without even caring about others who may be in dire need. They are too focused on the accumulation of their own wealth. It doesn't matter that there isn't a high-definition flat-panel television in my living room. I don't care that I drive a small economy car that was isn't flashy or could smoke you on the straightaway and that my other vehicle is one whose meager monthly payments ended while I still hadn't even grown my first facial hair. My house isn't much to look at or to brag about, but it is home. I get it. I got it. It's good. I share a common wealth with my friends and loved ones who also get it.

And that makes me rich beyond my wildest dreams.

For(n)ever

"Who would have thought forever could be severed by the sharp knife of a short life..." - The Band Perry

Forever is a very long time. Go ahead, start counting. Get back to me when you've reached the end...

You're back? OK, now think about this: When you were a child, waiting for something that you really wanted to happen was forever. Sitting in the doctor's office was forever. Looking forward to Christmas was forever. Waiting in line for your favorite roller coaster was forever. The ticking hands of the schoolroom clock which seemed to sometimes go in reverse was forever. Those same examples could work for an adult too. Except for adults, the concept of forever has a different kind of meaning. You know that forever in the small scale of the human mind is not forever, but forever is for as long as you live. Humans have the tendency to not fully comprehend what forever is. Compared to a star, our lives are mere seconds. Its lifespan is forever compared to that of humans.

As a child, waiting for the sun to sink below the horizon on a Saturday so the television that had been dormant for nearly 24 hours could awake was forever. Neither you nor I had the authority to determine when sundown occurred. No, that was determined by the Adventist Sundown Sundial that only parents saw or could read. On the other hand, Friday's sunset came a whole lot quicker, didn't it? As a child (yes, I was once small), sitting in church was forever. But from sitting there, I remember a story that dealt with the concept of forever. I remember the speaker's name clearly. The story was told by Steve Marshall via a VHS tape as a special feature in church. I remember his name because Steve Martin was pretty popular then and kids can get things confused from time to time. The story went sort of like this: Imagine a huge ball floating in space. Now envision a mosquito flying towards the ball. See it circles a few times, then takes off. It won't return for 1,000 years, so busy yourselves with something productive. When it does return, you watch as it gets closer and closer to then circle the ball again, then watch as it flies away for another 1,000 years. Just keep repeating this cycle without end...that's forever.

In the act of professing love, we use the word "forever" to express the length of time that the love will last. I've heard it before. I've said it before. It feels so good to be told that you will be loved forever. I know it's meant to be true when it's said. I know I mean it when I say it. But since my love won't live beyond my death, the reality is that forever is until my life is over. The only thing that will last beyond the grave will be the memories of my love and the results from loving. I don't know when my end will be, nor do I want to know, but I want know that I've done well; that someone is bettered because of my life.

You wanna know something? It really hurts when forever turns out to be for(n)ever. It hurts bad. I remember little sweet notes written by me and to me that even added time to the end of forever, as if doing so made forever even longer. And it did. It showed the promise of an effort being made to make it last longer than our humanity could ever fathom.

I hate starting all over. But even more so, I hate endings. The end of a book that I just can't seem to put down always leaves me wanting more. Back when I used to watch a whole lot more television then I do now, the end of a season, or worse yet, a series, was a reason to mourn. The end of a life; a friendship; a relationship. I know these things don't always last. Friends forget what it means to be a friend, lovers forget the cohesive properties of communication and what love did to bring them together, and emptiness is created when loved ones are taken from us.

We had another lesson in death and the uncertainty of forever the other night. My cat (and I call her my cat only because I feed her) who had disappeared for a while, showed up about a month ago with five kittens. Yes, I know she needs spayed. But to my credit, she was scheduled for just that when she vanished last time. And now she's gone again. But back to the lesson. When I let my dogs out of their fenced enclosure to run in the fenced-in yard, I make sure to put the kittens on the porch and put up the baby gate. But that doesn't guarantee that the kittens will stay on the porch. I had let the dogs out to run and had gone back inside to get their flea medication when I heard my biggest dog barking. I could tell by the bark that she had cornered a kitten. My son went running outside and I heard him start yelling at the dog. I knew it was bad when I got out there and in the twilight I could see the limp form hanging from her mouth. She had gotten the one that I liked the most; the only one I had named; the one with the stubbiest tail. I had named her a Cherokee name for "rabbit," tsi-s (pronounced "jee-s") because of that bobbed tail and they way she hopped as she ran. My son got the cat from the dog and took her to the porch. He was crying, I was mad, and my daughter was silent. It took quite some time to console my son, who kept asking, "Why, why, why?" over and over. But when he had calmed down, he got a plastic bag and put the kitten in it and deemed we should have a burial.

Side story: We also have birds; a green conure and two parakeets, male and female made he. One morning this last week, I took the cover off of the parakeet cage and the female was lying on the bottom of the cage. She had died in the night. My kids were at their mother's for the week, so I put the bird in a ziplock bag and stuck it in the freezer so they could see her before "disposal." Well, we still hadn't buried her, so my daughter thought it would be a good idea to bury it with the kitten. Enemies in life; partners in death.

So that's what we did. We had a nighttime funeral for a kitten and bird, marked grave and all. I dug the hole, Trey held the deceased animals and a flashlight while I dug, and he was the one to place them in the hole. A burial for the dead is a release for the living to cherish memories given to us from the dead. These memories last forever. The death of a pet...that is also forever.

Not being allowed to listen to the rock and/or roll music as a kid and spending a summer living with relatives exposed me to a lot of country music. I don't hate it; I just really don't like it. Being exposed to it against my will might have swayed my tastes a bit, but there were some that grew on me. One song by Randy Travis says...

"You may think that I'm talking foolish
You've heard that I'm wild and I'm free
You may wonder how I can promise you now
This love, that I feel for you, always will be

You're not just time that I'm killing
I'm no longer one of those guys
As sure as I live this love that I give
Is gonna be yours until the day that I die – oh, baby

I'm gonna love you forever, forever and ever, amen
As long as old men sit and talk about the weather
As long as old women sit and talk about old men
If you wonder how long I'll be faithful
I'll be happy to tell you again
I'm gonna love you forever and ever, forever and ever, amen

They say that time takes it's toll on a body
Makes the young girls brown hair turn grey
But honey, I don't care, I ain't in love with your hair
And if it all fell out, well, I'd love you anyway

They say that time can play tricks on a memory, make people forget things they knew
Well, it's easy to see it's happening to me I've already forgotten every woman but you – oh, darling

I'm gonna love you forever, forever and ever, amen
As long as old men sit and talk about the weather
As long as old women sit and talk about old men.
If you wonder how long I'll be faithful well, just listen to how this song ends I'm gonna love you forever and ever, forever and ever, amen
I'm gonna love you forever and ever, forever and ever, forever and ever, forever and ever, amen."
-Forever and Ever, Amen

Did I just quote you Randy Travis? You bet I did.

My writing is for me. The things I have to say are for my benefit. It's in my head, I gotta get it out, and using my hands to speak is much easier than using my tongue. I put it out there for the world to see, but it is mine. I can say things that I hope might help others, but it is for me. I can pour it all out and get advice and give advice, but it is mine. I can pointedly talk to you with my heart open wide, but it is for my healing. I can speak directly to you...

I don't know if you read the stuff I write. I only can hope you do. I want you to know something. When I said that I would always love you, that I would love you forever, that was without conditions. It wasn't "I will love you forever, unless..." Nor was it "I will always love you, but..." It wasn't "I'll love you forever if..." It was "I will love you until my last breath. I will love you until my heart no longer beats and my body turns to dust. I will love you forever. Period."

Christianity has taught me that there is a future forever. I believe and look forward to it. Humanity has taught me that life is a cycle, nothing is certain, and hurts will happen. Both have taught me that love does have a fighting chance, forgiveness comes without conditions, drudgery or grudgery, and prayer goes hand in hand with hope and faith. This I truly believe, and will believe.

Forever.

Road Work

Whoa! My little Mazda didn't know what was coming. The water crossing the road was wide, but not very deep, so I didn't even see it until I was right on it. By then it was too late to slow down much and the result was a huge splash and a little hydroplane action. The car was never out of control, but it was enough to make my hands increase their grip on the wheel and my posterior increase its grip on the seat.

It's been raining forever. We've been in the grip of flood warnings for days, it seems, so the amount of water crossing to the other side was not surprising. What was surprising was how I could barely see the water crossing the road. I know they have been paving sections of road in my area, you see, and the moving water matched the black surface.

I made it through that and I continued on. It is dark on the road that leads to home. But I travel it every day so I know the turns and bear in mind that turkeys or deer or even coyotes can cross at any minute. None of that tonight, but as I rounded a corner that I know well, water was crossing and I did hit something that was loud and made my car bounce a bit. I had no idea what it was, but vowed to investigate the next day.

On my way to work, I did just that. Like I said, they have been paving sections of road near me. I don't get their method. I mean, I see no rhyme nor reason in the pave job. Patches here and there, the entire left side of the whole road, missing section in front of my driveway? Parts of the road have sections that are a good inch or so taller than the other parts. The place where I "hit something?" It was in a place where some paving had been done, and the force of water crossing the road was so great it had peeled the new pavement up, buckled parts of it, and slid most of the new layer into the ditch. You know where tectonic plates push up against each other and you get mountains? That's what I hit. The first thing that came to mind was this: the foundation had not been prepared for a new surface.

Know what else went through my mind? I was that road.

I can cover myself in any new outer persona I choose. I can put on a brand new coat of contentment, but if the surface (foundation) isn't prepared properly, that new layer will buckle and slip at the first sign of trouble, exposing the old soul underneath; one that has now been scarred by the force that removed the outer layer of the "new" me.

I am me. I don't try to make myself out to be someone I'm not and I surely don't want to be someone else. I won't be shaving my beard off anytime soon (sorry!). I love my children. I like going out, but love being at home even more. I love my job, I hate doing laundry, and I think I have an ingrown toenail. I'm addicted to Facebook. I sleep through 5 alarms in the mornings and can drink coffee at midnight. I am a bad liar...I just can't get away with it. I believe in God and I love love. And I don't want my feelings to show, but they have flashing lights and ringing bells and their own Master of Ceremonies. It is who I am. But sometimes, if I am fighting an internal battle, I put on a covering to strengthen my soul and conceal any hurt. I usually don't fool anyone, even though I say, "All is well." Unless you're looking for attention, I would bet that just about anyone would not want to wear their battles on their chest for the world to see.

I'm wandering here...

Whether it's through a renewed faith in God, the mountain guru's take on the meaning of life, or a smoke induced vision in a teepee, we're all looking for answers and a way to help ourselves when things go wrong. No matter which route you take to try to achieve these things, nothing will hold up under trials unless you prepare your foundation. Just like the new pavement buckling under trial by water, we can buckle under the stresses of our trials by life itself and that whole layer of improvement will be for nothing.

I've always had a foundation rooted in Christianity. It's what I was raised to believe and even though that belief has wavered over the years, it never really left me. I'll be the first to admit that I haven't been the best example of a Christian, not by a far cry. An "in your face bible-thumper" I'll never be.

So...it was nearly six years ago. I was hurting like I'd never hurt before and looking for answers. I had my close friends to help me, and I turned to them for assurance and love. But also, like any good Christian, I turned to the Bible, that Great Handbook on Life and After Life, for answers to my questions. Oh, it helped me, for sure. I went back to church and even joined a group therapy class where other Christians were dealing with loss too. It was good for me to have someone to talk to that was removed from the situation. It was good for my healing, but when the wounds were healed, I slid back into a scaled-down version of my former self. I masked the scars with a thin layer of happiness, and that happiness was real, just not laid on my shell properly.

I've had a more recent hurt. This one hurt just as bad as the first one. I have taken a step back and once again, re-examined my faith. I know that these earthly things will not last, whether it be a love that professes to live forever or a bank account that is rich but dwindles down faster than you expect...nothing lasts. I like to think that my love lasts a lifetime, and I know it will, but that's just it. I only have this one lifetime. The only thing that lasts is a loving soul. The temporary layer of improvement that I put on myself will always buckle under the stress of disappointment of my own expectations and my expectations of others.

I know I'm a good man. I know that I never intentionally hurt people. That's just not me. I don't "piss" on those I love or even those I don't. If I ever have, I am not aware of it. But is being good enough? Will going back to a church that I love going to be the thing that changes me? It can surely help, but it isn't what makes the soul strong, the foundation solid.

I'm working on my foundation so that the new layer of happiness has a firm grip to hold on no matter what happens. I am still me, but with a renewed hope and faith in love.

And love? Well, it's always the answer.

Going Home

I believe the year was 1991. I know it was before 1992 because I was still living in a run-down trailer in front of the old horse show grounds in Ooltewah and I hadn’t yet fallen in love and married. I don’t know what day or what time it was, but it was dark and the music in my newly acquired 1980 Honda Civic Station Wagon was pumping out some pretty sweet tunes. Who the passenger was, I’m quite fuzzy on, but I know there was someone in the seat to my right. We had just left ____’s house where we had picked up a nice quantity of something that naturally grows out of God’s green earth, something that ought not to have been transported in a car with Grateful Dead stickers running across the bumper and rear window.

The place was downtown Ooltewah. I believe the Racetrac was brand new and gas was still under the $1.50 mark. Red Food was still the grocery store of choice and Wal Mart could only dream of owning the prime piece of real estate where it now lures the feeble willed (hear, hear!) to come and shuffle through the aisles and save, save, save! George H. Bush was President of these here United States and I was sitting on the side of Ooltewah-Georgetown Road with blue lights in the rear view and jail time in the future. The “stuff” had already been placed under the rear seat which folded up and folded down with ease and the idea was “out of sight, out of mind.” Hearts racing sweat trickling, alibis being created on the spot…

Why in the name of Marcus Mosiah Garvey was I even being pulled over? Lights were on, speed laws were being observed (perhaps a little too observant), and the plates were…fine, I thought. After “Driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance, please” came the looooooong pause between boots clomping back to the cruiser and the arrival of the second cruiser. Backup, if you please. Got a couple of hippies in a hippie mobile. Dangerous. Outlaws.

Now I was young. I was still in college, living off campus in the aforementioned trailer with three other people. Not going to name them here, but they know who they are. I was less than two miles from home! Less than 3 minutes to smoky freedom! All kinds of jailhouse scenarios were going through my mind, not to mention seeing myself being possibly kicked out of school.

The first officer came back up to my window and I was already hearing the whole “step out of the vehicle, sir” being spoken in my mind. I was spread legged, palms on the hood, patted down and cuffed when the officer spoke and brought me back to sitting in the driver’s seat with my hands at 11 and 2.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No sir.”

“These plates don’t match this vehicle.”

Now I had just recently transferred the plates from my dark-tinted windowed, dancing bear sticker covered, first car ever owned, jacked-up 1980 Pontiac Phoenix, complete with Yosemite Sam mud flaps telling whoever was behind me to “Back Off!” I knew the plates were legal. I had the paperwork to prove it. Why those in authority didn’t have the correct information was beyond me. And that’s what I told him. At that point, the other officer must have called him back because he told me to hold on and he walked to the rear of my car. A minute later, the other officer came up to my window, and even though he was an officer of the law, with gleaming badge, shiny belt buckle and Johnny Law hat, I felt relief. He was somebody I knew. He was “family.”

“What’s going on?”

“Um…that’s what I’d like to know.”

I told him exactly what I had told the other officer; that the plates had been transferred from one vehicle to another and surely it should be in the system by now. A few exchanges of words between us and my license and other papers were being handed back to me.

“Go on home. And be safe.”

“Yes sir.”

The relief that filled the cabin of my car was as thick as billowing smoke from Cheech and Chong’s upholstery van. The last few miles to home were spent in almost complete silence as perhaps many prayers were given in thanks that the next decade or so would not be spent in a 6’ X 8’ room with bars on the window and bars for a door. Did I learn a lesson that night? Perhaps not. Business went on as usual for quite some time after that. But there was a lesson to be learned, filed away for when I was able to understand and comprehend and see just how much my life would have been different if someone hadn’t stepped in and told me to “Go on home.”

I would see this officer many times on the road and at family gatherings. On the road, he would pass and there would be a finger pointing and shaking at me. I think perhaps he knew more than I thought he knew. Even after he was no longer employed by the City of Collegedale, that finger would be pointing and shaking. Nothing was ever said to me more than “Behave yourself,” but I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew that I…

Today…today I stood in a room as a group of bluegrass musicians played gospel music to this man. This man was laying in a hospital bed in his living room; a man who had once been a giant in my eyes was laying there, eyes closed, seemingly unresponsive to those around him. He had been sent home from the hospital to hospice care. There isn’t much time left for him. His wife was holding his hand and other family members and friends were gathered together and the sound of guitar, upright bass and mandolin reverberated through the small room…and that trademark bluegrass voice that all good bluegrass musicians have was sweetly singing backwoods gospel. You know what I’m talking about.

As the tears that I so desperately tried to hold back started breaking free and streaming down my face, his wife came up to me and I just held her. I told her that I had no words to say, but I would hold her. She told me that it was okay, that she knew that I had dealt with pain before and that I knew exactly what it felt like. What she said was true. I have dealt with pain, but not the pain of losing a spouse to death’s cold grip. I’ve lost family members and friends that way; I’ve lost love more times than I care to count. I’ve lost hope and faith and desire and will…but not this.

I don’t know how much more time he has. I do know it won’t be long. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know that this guy right here is not the same guy from that night in Ooltewah circa 1991.

Look around you. Is there someone you love that you haven’t told? Is there distance between you and a loved one, perhaps a distance created by mistrust or jealousy or some other stupid humanistic defect in the perfect plan of life? Is there someone out there shaking their finger in your face telling you to “behave” and your pride is keeping you from acknowledging your misdeeds?

You and you and you and you and you…ad infinitum. “I love you. I’m sorry. Let’s get together sometime. Keep in touch.”

You know the drill.

I’m going to miss that finger in my face.

A Cracked Pot

“I’m not a perfect person. There are many things I wish I didn’t do.” –Hoobastank

What is perfection? Perfection is the state or quality of being perfect.

So what is perfect? One definition says “To be entirely without any flaws, defects or shortcomings.” Another says, “Conforming absolutely to the description or definition of an ideal type.” Perhaps the most fitting definition for me is “Exactly fitting the need in a certain situation or for a certain purpose.” Those definitions are using the word as an adjective. As a verb, it means “to bring to completion, to improve, to bring nearer to perfection, to finish.”

You can have a perfect storm, a perfect sphere, and a perfect crime. You can be the perfect gentleman, have perfect teeth, or be a perfect example. But is anything or anyone truly perfect?

No…and yes.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the dumb, stupid and idiotic things I’ve done in my life. Not all of them were done on purpose; in fact I’d say that most of them were done without any thinking ahead of time on my part. I’ve taken people and my position in a relationship for granted. I’ve spent a great deal of time hearing only what I want to hear. I’ve been consumed with the sin of green jealous envy. I’ve made choices that only make me more flawed. And that’s just the top tier of the list of flaws and faults and stupidity that come to mind. I’m just a child in God’s eyes and sometimes children do stupid things.

I am flawed. I have faults aplenty. I have cracks in my exterior that can make me unsuitable for sale or to put on display. If I was an LP, I would warble and skip. I am not permanent press; I have many wrinkles in my exterior. I fail time and time again; get right back up and fail again. I am the 404 error; the blue screen of death. I’m a faulty, flawed failure. I am a cracked pot.

I have not been the perfect Christian for a long time. Perhaps I never have been. That doesn’t mean that I am a bad person. I try to do well and I believe that I am good. I am not in-your-face religious and will not be pushing anything upon anyone. But I do believe as a Christian believes. Bear with me…I’m about to get all religious up in here. I have some questions: Does God use our flaws to create perfection? And does he use our faults to His glory? There is a story about a cracked pot…

A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on each end of a pole
which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and
while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water
at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house, the
cracked pot arrived only half full. For a full two years this went on
daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water in
his master's house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its
accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor
cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was
able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the
water bearer one day by the stream.

"I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you."

"Why?" asked the bearer. "What are you ashamed of?"

"I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load
because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to
your master's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work,
and you don't get full value from your efforts," the pot said.

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion
he said,

"As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful
flowers along the path."

Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun
warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered
it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had
leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for its
failure.

The bearer said to the pot,

"Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of your path, but
not on the other pot's side? That's because I have always known about your
flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the
path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you've watered them.
For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate
my master's table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have
this beauty to grace his house."

Are our failures a part of God’s plan? Does he use our flaws and faults to put us where he knows we should be? I believe so. Perhaps the stupid things I do are the hands on my shoulders, turning me around, placing me into a position where He is pushing me in the direction I should head; a direction I should have been going all along; a direction I probably wouldn’t have gone all by myself; a direction where I am poised to let go and give it up to Him.

Back to one definition of perfect…“Exactly fitting the need in a certain situation or for a certain purpose.” If God does use our flaws to bring glory to Him, then those flaws are fitting the need for a certain purpose. In that case, believe it or not, we are perfect. That is what I believe.

Is there anything we can do as humans to achieve perfection? I don’t think so. Just as a cracked pot cannot fix the cracks all by itself, neither can we. But we shouldn’t let the cracks get worse. In the story, why didn’t the water bearer patch the cracks in the pot? “There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza.” Right? We find out later that he was using the cracks in the pot to water flowers for the master’s table; and all the while the pot was thinking its value was diminished.

Questions…questions…questions. Take recognizing a sign to act…how can you recognize an answer to prayer, or know what a sign to act looks like? I’ve been told, “You’ll know when it happens.” It has happened to me in the past. I take all major decisions to God when I know I can’t make the decision on my own. There have been times when I swear that I am told to “go for it” and later on, it ends in disaster. Did I just think I was told to act, or was it an actual sign to act, to be used later to open my eyes? And after perceiving a sign to act or an answer to prayer, are we to sit idly by and just “leave it to His will” without getting involved?

Another thing that I have noticed recently; out of diversity goodness arises. Are my efforts to make my life right, to take heed to the “still, small voice” that calls, to live as I ought to live bringing goodness into my life? Miraculous thing are happening that I can’t explain. Family and friends are giving much more than I can ever repay. I am changed. I’m still flawed, still imperfect, and still failing every day.

Some may say “Hypocrite!” Let them say it. They don’t know who I am. Not now. Not any more. The mere fact that it may be said confirms to me that they do notice a change in my life. It shows me that it is apparent outwardly, because I know there is an inner change as well.

There are so many questions that I don’t have answers to. Maybe somebody does and can shine a little light on me. But in the meantime, I know that I am flawed. I know that I have faults and blemishes and cracks. I know that I am not the perfect Christian and never will be. But you know what? God will use me to His glory, He will never leave me, and He will love me through it all, regardless of my impediments, seen or unseen.

And to know that puts me closer to perfection.

Go

Nudge.
A literal poke or just a dream?
Nudge.
Ok, ok…it’s the alarm clock.
Snooze.
Nudge. Something says to get up. I grudgingly turn off the alarm clock and slip out of bed. My dreams have not been so good as of late. Heartbreak can create dreams that cause sleepless nights.

If you know me, you know that life has taken a dramatic turn. The one I consider being the one true one; the love of my life; my soul mate, lover and future partner has left me. I’m not going into detail, but mistakes were made and it is over. When your heart is hurting, life’s everyday nuisances become dramatic interludes into despair. When you can’t think of anything else but how much you miss her; how much you long for those 3-word texts; imagining that you smell her essence in the next room, every day lingers and every night there is longing.

Hope? Nope. I don’t have that. The only thing I have is a pain that rises and ebbs in a cyclic pattern.

I’m dealing with it. That I can do. I don’t know how long it will take to get over her. I compare it to the pain of losing my first love. That one took years for the hurt to subside totally. Really, it was gone before then, but would surface every now and again in memory.

Several Stuart Smalley moments of standing in front of a mirror put a thought into my mind and this past week, I decided that perhaps a visit to my church of choice would do some good. That is, if I could wake up in time to make it. If, when I did get up I felt like it. If the weather permitted it. If something told me to go…

“Wake up. Get ready. Get in your car and go.”
Not audible words, but words in my head. Did I say them? Were they even said at all?
But I need to make the coffee…
Oh, I prepared it last night.
But I don’t have anything to wear…
“They don’t care.”
But I haven’t been in so long…
“They don’t care.”
“Go.”

I drive.
I arrive.

I’m meeted and greeted and pointed to snacks, juice and coffee. I’m told that the regular preacher won’t be preaching today, but that there is a special guest speaker. Roger Hernandez is his name; speaking to your soul is his game. One day only, all the way from a city nowhere near you!

I chose this church because years ago, when I was at what I felt was my lowest, when I felt that love had slapped me in the face and turned its back on me; when I thought that I could never love again…something told me to go. I could have chosen anywhere, but I chose there. Having friends who attended there helped out a lot in my choice too.

I ran into one of them almost immediately. I’m not a person who can hide my feelings with ease. You ask me how I’m doing and if I’m in a bad mood, you can tell I’m lying when I tell you I’m just fine. I opened my heart out to him. Even though he had no profound words of wisdom or insightful quotes, it felt good to let it out. He had to run the video for the sermon, so he didn’t have much time, but pointed me to a friend of his whom I could sit with so I wouldn’t feel alone.

One tear jerking video about Mother’s Day and several songs later, he speaks and I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He is speaking of how David was given much and how he LOSES it all.

He loses his wife.
He loses his job.
He loses his house.
He loses his spiritual adviser.
He loses his best friend.
He loses his dignity.

And through it all, he had already been promised that he will become the next king of Israel. How can this come to fruition when he has lost so much? He ends up in a cave, the leader of a rag-tag group of losers like himself. He is King of the Losers. After much prayer and soul searching, he comes to understand that his circumstances do not control his outcome. He was already promised what he was promised. He comes to understand that even though he doesn’t have his wife, his job, his house, his spiritual adviser, his best friend nor his dignity, he does have God. And God is enough.

Tears stream down my face. I’m a grown man surrounded by people I don’t know listening to a man that I had never even heard of and I feel he is talking directly to me. He tells me that I was not brought to this place to be left here. In the midst of the storm and pain of my life, there is a plan.

You know, I prayed going into this relationship that it was right. I felt that it was. For nearly two years it was right. It was part of the plan. I don’t blame her for this…I don’t blame myself for this. Perhaps I blame us. What could have been done or what in the world went wrong or the who’s, the how’s, the when’s where’s or why’s are unsure to me. I do love her, (and I do mean I love her with all of my heart) and I wish only the best for her. I prayed after she left, begging God to bring back my love. I don’t want to be lonely. I don’t want to go through life, one failed relationship after another. I even got to the point of questioning myself; questioning my own worth. What is wrong with me that this keeps happening to me? Why can’t I keep someone to love?

It took several reassurances from multiple sources, telling me that there is nothing wrong with me and a stranger on a stage to remind me that I am not the one in charge. I can make all the right (wrong) decisions on my own, but they will never be the right ones as long as I try to make them on my own.

The service was over. I walked up to this speaker, this man that I never heard of nor seen before in my life and I tell him that I had no idea why I came to this place today, but that the man that he was talking about was not David; it was not Old Testament times…it was me and it was 2013 and that surely he was the reason that I was told to “Go!” He shakes my hand and tells me to listen and to remember there is a promise, a purpose, and a plan.

I have no idea of what that plan is. Only time will tell.