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.