In one of those I-can-see-clearly-now-the-scales-are-gone-Saint Paul-moments, the question pealed from his apostolic lips: O death, where is thy sting? In that moment it was not so much question as taunt. I understand, I get it.
But in my part-time-saint-John-moments of late, death's scales have been blinding.
In August, only two months ago now, my father-in-law died. Over the course of a year, damned old cancer stole the gift of his life. Now, two months later, grief, real grief has begun to show up unannounced for the woman I love. Oh, his name was John, same as mine. In September, one of my father's best friends died; again, cancer. This man was the janitor for the church where my father is pastor; it's probable that they saw one another and talked almost every day for 20 years. Only days later, one of my father's favorite aunts died. These September funerals fell on the same day. My parents, mortals that they are, could not be in two places at once; death made them choose their last respects. Now, here in October, just this past weekend, a college friend's little 5 yr old daughter died; doctors are saying swine flu. And then this week, another friend of mine experienced her aged mother finally slip beneath the surface of time.
Annie Dillard gently whispers: Write as if you were dying.
Death has not had a sting lately so much as it has pressed in close, making it hard to breathe. Philosophers of old used to keep a skull on their desks, a daily reminder of our prescribed end, an app for that.
After the funeral-home-visitation for my father-in-law, we all went out to eat at an Arkansas-Irish-pub. It was one of the places John liked. I sat among the family I've been grafted in over the last 19 years; their boisterous Catholic arms have always been open for the quiet Baptist...thanks be to God. I closed my eyes a couple of times and listened to the voices, textures of sound I know well. I kept waiting to hear John's voice, I wanted to hear him yell John David, which is what he always called me, but he never did.
There were a couple of John's earthly trinkets that I was given; one was a Montblanc pen. I'm scheduled for a book signing this weekend at a big box bookstore in Co Springs - Mardel's - the antithesis of an Arkansas-Irish-pub. I plan to use John's pen to sign books for the two or three that will probably gather there. I may have to remind myself to breathe.
Week 2 of the 12 Weeks of Christmas Book-And...
It's week 2 in the 12 Weeks of Christmas Book-And. This week's giveaway, which I believe you're really gonna like, involves introducing you to a man I know. His name is Xan Hood; he's a husband (wife, Jayne), author, ministry leader, entrepreneur, and also a good friend of mine. Several years ago, Xan and a friend of his, Cory Smith, birthed a ministry they call Training Ground. In a nutshell, it's a twelve week discipleship experience for young men aged 18-25. There is much talk these days of initiating boys into manhood; unfortunately, much of it is talk. Training Ground is an attempt to shut up and do something. Their mission is to "grow men of character and heart who will impact their community, their family, and the next generation to come." Pretty heavy, huh? The twelve weeks are full of work (often grunt-barely-minimum-wage work), wilderness (everything from learning to fly fish to backpacking trips), and worship (learning to pay attention to God). The experience is also filled (and I love this) with the presence of older men who have agreed to walk alongside the younger men, offering something rare these days - wisdom.
John: Xan, you've been leading Training Ground groups for 3 years now. I'm sure the young men have grown in the experience; how have you grown?
Xan: Well, it seems that often we create or find ourselves in the places we need the most. We are selfish people, probably filling in our own empty places. I have always served in a place I needed as much as those I was around. I think by being able to watch the Lord really grow and mature young men, I have been able to see where I need that as well. I’m only a few years ahead of some of these guys, but it seems to be the beautiful tension. I am like them, but I also know what they need because of the few years ahead. Their courage to risk invites me.
John: The latest adventure for you is launching a clothing line - BuffaloandCompany. Your tagline is 'honor your wild' - what's that about?
Xan: I never inspired to design clothes, but there seemed this opportunity to wed two worlds I am still trying to reconcile, ministry and business. They seem at times like two opposing forces. We talk a lot at Training Ground about initiation, and it seems that for most young men in college, that context comes through the world of business. I have wondered what it would mean to start a business that is about growing young men in that setting.
The 'honor your wild' came out of this loss of a masculine identity for so many young men today. We have so much fashion - Hair gel; Skinny Jeans; Pre-frayed clothes; the preppy looks. While I believe that is one side of a man, I feel as if the balance is way off. Too much luxurious symbols of class like Ralph Lauren Polo, Nautica, Brooks Brothers. Young men wear these shirts to identify with these brands but have no real connection to them. For many men, from Teddy Roosevelt to me, we had to head west, into wilderness and testing to find this side of ourselves not offered in classrooms and in cultured city life. Buffalo and Company is a symbol of hope - finding something that's been lost.
John: And there is yet another adventure not too far out on the horizon, right? Fatherhood? You ready for that?
Xan: My friend, Krue, said this about creating his own family: “Most people don’t want to have many kids because it takes them away from being around people. But we wanted to make little people who we would like to be around.” I thought, wow, that is what I would love to do with Jayne - make people. We are in the honeymoon of that, soon expecting our first child, a little lady. I do look forward to what it will make of me. I thought 9 months would be enough time to prepare me, but I tell you, I can’t even get my taxes done in that time span, let alone prepare for a child. Is there an H & R Block that also gives parenting advice?
John: And remind the folks of the web addresses for TG and Buffalo -
So now you've met Xan. Please check out the website for Training Ground. You may know of a young man who would greatly benefit from such an experience; trust me, there are not many offerings like this out there. And last but not least, check out the bufffaloandcompany site; do so to see what Xan is up to but also to see the shirts and caps they currently offer...because I'm giving away a shirt and cap to this week's winner. Ladies, this is a chance to win something for thy man. Men, who can't use a good shirt and cap? Leave a comment telling me the Christmas gift you most remember. And, as always, I'll pray for you and yours as I read the comments. The drawing is first thing Friday morning.
Today's Winner Is...
It's Friday. Giveaway day. I'd love to gift you with the leg lamp, I really would, but for today it's a signed copy of my book and a bag of Dirty Shame blend coffee. The first winner in the 12 weeks of Christmas book-and is Brenda. Here's a snippet from her comment:
What a fun giveaway...My all-time favorite song is Oh Holy Night sung by Sandy Patti. We had the privilege of seeing her live at a Christmas Concert. Just the day before she had to have emergency gall bladder surgery. Most of the other performers were all dancing around the circular stage. All she could do was stand by a stool and hold on...
Thanks to everyone who entered. As I read through all of your fav-song choices, I prayed for you and yours. I don't know if my prayers availeth much; my righteousness score is kinda low, but maybe they count for something. And just so you know, my favorite Christmas song is Hark, the Herald Angels Sing as sung by Nat King Cole.
Make sure you come back and visit on Monday as I'll unveil the next gift in this crazy idea. Many will enter, one will win, all will be remembered to the Grace who keeps this world. I know it's hard to wait until Monday, but like Sandi Patti at that concert, just hold on.
Brenda, my email is johnblase@earthlink.net. You can leave your mailing address there. Congratulations.
Credo
With the help of a good friend, I’m constructing an author site. Yes, it feels silly-self-promoting to have ".com" behind your name on the wide-world-web, but I figured might-as-well. One of the five tabs you can select is “about” – as in, about me. I’ve long toyed with the idea of writing a credo, but the timing has never felt true. But now, maybe it’s time.
Most credos I’ve read start with the words I/we believe. With each phrase, I’ve always sensed an exclamation point should follow; here is something definitive, something known. I won’t do that, or maybe better put, I can’t do that. My credo, if it can even be called such a thing, rides piggyback on the slithering black curved back of the lovely question mark. I start each phrase with why? This is by all means a work in progress, much like myself. I’ll start with ten and possibly add to or take away as days pass. I don't have many answers, but I do have questions...questions about me.
Why is it that my father raised me on a diet of the King James Bible and western movies that, as it turned out, was magically delicious?
Why is it that I live out West and love out West but I’ll always be from the South?
Why am I most at ease in those in-between moments of dusk?
Why am I a storyteller who, unlike a historian, must follow the trail of compassion wherever it leadeth?
Why do I not equate talking with thinking?
Why do I try to not run yellow lights, ever?
Why do I prefer the words melancholy to organized and ache to closure?
Why do I put all my eggs in the basket of grace, a grace that if it’s grace at all will one day drive me to my glass-clearly-knees as I whisper simply amazing?
Why do I cry every time, every blessed time, when Linus says lights, please and gives his that’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown speech?
Why do I feel in the very marrow of my bones that contrary to wildly successful first lines, it actually is about you…and me?
The 12 Weeks of Christmas Book-And...
When I looked and realized there were 12 weeks until Christmas, I cussed. Sorry, it's what I do sometimes. My inner-priest deemed a penance of either a mouthful of LifeBuoy (could cause blindness) or try my best to redeem these next twelve weeks. I chose the latter. My first thought, which I humbly share with you, is to encourage you to read a chapter a week from my book Touching Wonder: Recapturing the Awe of Christmas. You just never know what the Grace that keeps this world might reveal in those written words. My next thought, which I shamelessly share with you, is that each week for the next twelve, there'll be a giveaway here at The Dirty Shame. In the publishing world, we call this a "book-and" - in other words, I'll give away a signed copy of my book and an accompanying gift.
We'll start slow and easy and probably keep it that way; remember, we're trying not to be pummeled by the season. Leave a comment here telling me your favorite Christmas song and why. The gifts will vary, but there will be a common thread: each one will hopefully bring you some joy. To crank it all up, this first week's giveaway will be a bag of Dirty Shame Coffee - an extra bold dark roast that will leave you like those resurrection witnesses - shuddering and wild. What better way to wake up and say Christmas is gonna be just a little different this year. Sorry, but there's no decaffeinated option; this is the Dirty Shame, we've got standards.
Each week's drawing will run Monday thru Thursday. First thing Friday morning, I'll throw all your names on the floor and the one the Beagle eats first wins. Fair enough? Be sure and tell all your friends. Heck, tell your enemies even; they might win and invite you over for a cup of Dirty Shame Coffee and lo and behold, a little bit of peace-on-earth-good-will-'tward-men might waft up from a coupla' steaming mugs and you'd both look at each other and say my, my, aren't we lucky...
Communion
I want to tell you a story...
He was a preacher back then. He still is to this day. He is my father. I can remember him standing behind the table with the words etched across the front: in remembrance of me. He would say the words needed to bless symbols of stale saltines and microscopic tumblers of grace juice. But those memories are slight, fleeting. The memory that endures is his stance before another table, this one a polished veneer console. His voice was not required at this table, only his hands.
He would rise early of a morning before sun and sons and wife. His ritual was to stack the albums he loved and then let the needle slowly drop. The volume would be barely a whisper at the beginning; every five minutes or so he would stroll back by and increase the sound slightly, smoothly. While other houses were roused by alarm clocks of bells or beeps, our home gradually simmered each morning in the juice of music: Johnny Cash, Sons of the Pioneers, the gentleman Jim Reeves, Rod McKuen, Ray Conniff, there were others. As that cheap needle drew crackled sound from warm vinyl, so were my brother and I drawn from sleep to face the day. His morning ministrations were priestly; you cannot convince me otherwise. I was there. I am witness.
I had prodigal days of Cougar Mellencamp and Boston and Journey, there were others. I stepped away from his table of remembrance. But now, in my forties, probably the age he was in those days, I have found an AM station that plays Glen Campbell and Tom T. Hall and Andy Williams...and Cash, always Cash. I listen each morning on my commute and think of him, of my father's body broken and blood spilled for me in ways a son will never know that I might live and grow and find wife and children of my own and sleep and dream. It is my daily communion. I take and eat and drink and do it in remembrance of him. He has not crossed over Jordan yet; he knows the joy of his children's children. But I find it no sin to remember the living while the day is still called today. And so I do.
The crackers and grape juice of my youth were quarterly symbols; they never became the literal body and blood of our Lord. But my father's music...
Giving Out Wings...
Thanks to everyone who entered the Dirty Shame Autumnal Equinox Giveaway. Here are the winners:
- John Santic
- Andrew
- ForHisGlory
- Kari Kounkel
- Sheila
- Jennifer
- Sande
- Juli
- Ginger@From The Cocoon
- Emily
My email address is johnblase@earthlink.net. If you'll send the name and mailing address of the person you would like to gift with a copy of Touching Wonder, I'll sign and send it on. Don't forget - if you'd like me to indicate who the book is from, I'm happy to do that; if not, I won't.
For each of you that entered, the fact there was someone you were thinking about, maybe even two or three someones, tells me you have people in your life you care about - a.k.a., friends. And no man or woman, no, not one, is a failure who has friends.
Still Teaching Me to Pray
I write at a kitchen table. But there are times I leave the table and go out into the world.
It was one of those glances, the kind of thing that happens in the twinkling of an eye or two, but then lingers. Daylight was finally surrendering to dusk and I was headed to the gas station. As I drove down the street, I looked over and she was standing at her kitchen window, working hard at something in the sink with a wax on/wax off motion. Let's say her name is Victoria. About the time I noticed her, she looked up and noticed me. She stood out against the lengthening shadows in her white; Victoria was washing dishes in her bra. This was all of about four seconds.
You might think a forty-two year old man seeing one of his neighbors in her bra about dusk would elicit arousal; that's fair, I am a man like other men and don't pretend to be otherwise. You could think this a scene out of some Victoria's Secret catalog, but this time you'd be wrong. In that spot of time, I felt tenderness to the point of tears. What I saw in those three or so seconds was framed exhaustion, a woman bone-tired, weary-eyed. I don't know this lady real well; only as a neighbor. I do know she has a husband, two kids in grade school and one on her hip not a year old, a dog to wrangle, I'm sure all kinds of laundry and homework to do, and evidently some dishes requiring a fair amount of elbow grease to clean. As far as I know, there are no flashing runway lights in her house, she doesn't have big angel wings sprouting from her back, no high heels or pouty lips. No, based on what little I know, I'm guessing this Victoria doesn't have too many secrets these days because there's not many moments to herself and when she does find one she's so worn out she can't think straight. One of her secrets was that somedays around dusk she says shucks, I'm just gonna wash dishes in my bra. But I know that one now.
What I witnessed that evening was a woman knee-deep in the things of this earth; a lady that works at her marriage and makes sure the children are fed and taxied hither and yon and labors so that everybody's clothes are washed-then-folded and remembers to feed the dog. And the dishes? Well, sometimes the stains are too stubborn for the dishwasher, so she pulls out the sponge and strips down to her bra and sets to work. In a very real sense, women like her, like Victoria, keep this old world spinning and turning; without them...I'm not sure I want to think about that. Still, I wonder if she sometimes thinks Dear God, is this it? It's not that she's ungrateful, it's just that she's so blooming tired. Maybe she does wish for some of those glossy catalog wings, not so she could strut a runway, but so she could fly, fly away and take a break or a load off or a nap and dream like she did when she was a little girl, back before dishes stained with dusk.
I saw Victoria that evening and now I see her differently. As I am learning to pray for the little boy, Icarus, who jumps so high on his trampoline not far from me, I now also am learning to pray for Victoria-of-the-one-less-secret who lives close by. I don't know if anyone else on the planet is praying for these people, remembering them in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I'm trying.
I write at a kitchen table. But there are times I leave the table and go out into the world.
From you via me to George or Mary or Zuzu or Clarence...
I'm not a praying man...please, show me the way. I don't know what to do...
I'm wondering if you know anybody like this? Someone who has had one of those years? A man or woman, named George or maybe some other name, who is at that point of feeling they might be worth more dead than alive? A precious creation birthed from the heart of the Grace that keeps this world who might be whispering at this very moment a tear-filled-please prayer? Maybe it's been the loss of a job, loss of a home, loss of a spouse, loss of a dream...
Some of you have indicated that you've ordered my book - Touching Wonder. To say "thank you" is to fail at words; it means more than you'll ever, ever know. If you have read it, might I ask you to take the time to go to Amazon and leave a reader comment? I'm not asking you to fudge or anything; if you liked it, say that, but if you didn't, say that. And if you put it under a table leg and it's keeping said table nicely balanced so the butter-n-rolls don't slide off, then say that. Fair enough?
I'd also like to make you an offer because I do believe in this little book and the spirit that runs through it; namely, that each one of us matters to God. Here's the offer: If you'll leave a comment here I will put your precious name in the official Dirty Shame drawing box and at the right time, I'll draw out ten names. If you're one of the ten, you get to gift someone having a George Bailey year with the book Touching Wonder. I'll write a brief note and sign a copy of the book and send it to the person you know who's down on their luck or down on life or just down on themselves, which may best the worst down of all. You might want it to be an anonymous gift and that's fine. But if you wanted me to say "this is from Rachel and she's thinking about you" then I'd be happy to do that as well. Is this making sense? It's an opportunity for both of us, you and me, to reach our hands across to someone with tears in their eyes and say, "it really is a wonderful life...and you've no idea how important you are to us and to God above and to people you've never even met before." Still making sense? The person receiving the gift may not know who-in-the-sam-hill John Blase is, but if they read the book they just might be reminded of who God is and maybe even who they are and well, that could make for a merry Christmas.
This has been on my mind; it may be a foolish idea, but that's about the only kind I can come up with anyway. Leaving a comment on this post enters your name. I'll draw the ten names ten days from now, September 22nd, the first day of fall. I'm coming up with two or three other giveaway type things to follow this one, so stay tuned. And again, if you've bought the book or might even be considering it, thank you very much.
Teach Me To Pray
I write at a kitchen table. There are days when I'd love to have a writer's desk with an old Tiffany lamp perched just so and fountain pens in an empty soup can and copies of The New Yorker strewn about the edges and...but that would be someone else's story. I write at a kitchen table.
As I wrote yesterday, I could see him. Then he'd disappear. Then I'd see him again. Rising. Falling. Rising again. You see, his backyard has a trampoline, like our backyard does. I watched him turn flip after flip after flip, I bet twenty in a row, his eyes closed. He was poetry. Our trampoline has a black safety web that feeds our abandon. His does not; he jumps without a net.
The lights in his house stay on all night long and the windows are always, always open, every last one, and people are always yelling or screaming or crying or hollering. Sometimes, when I'm writing at the kitchen table in the wee small hours I see the lights and hear the sounds. Sometimes I stop writing and pray. There used to be a daddy in his house, but now he's gone. There were rumors about, well, they were rumors. Now there's a boyfriend in his house and rumors of marriage.
Sometimes I stop writing and wonder about him. It used to bug me that the lights stayed on all night but then I thought what if that's because a daddy loved darkness rather than light? That was the rumor. It doesn't bug me so much now, after that thought. And I used to wonder why he would spend long stretches of time doing flip after flip after flip. But then I thoughtsometimes even a new boyfriend can't put humpty together again and maybe he asks God to make him a bird so he can fly, fly away but God doesn't listen, so the closest he can get to the sky, to being untethered by the things of this world, is to barrel outside and close his eyes and spread his wings and jump without a net.
If I had that writer's desk like I mentioned, it would probably be tucked away in some corner of the house surrounded by books that reached to the ceiling. If I had that desk, I couldn't see Icarus; I wouldn't know how to pray.
Just a piece...
“My friends, I don’t have a sermon for you this morning. I know that will disappoint some and thrill others, so ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘your welcome.’ I tried to prepare a sermon on the familiar. Instead, I’ve decided to tell you a story on the not so familiar."
One day a man, a good man, a godly man, was taking out the trash when he saw a young woman by the side of a dumpster. She’d had a life growing within her, but the life died, and so, in a way she was dying too; she was half-dead. Although she looked like a child herself, she was not. Her eyes told the story of years of suffering. This good man dropped all of his plans, everything that everyone around him thought so important, and took her in his arms and carried her home. The man and his wife nursed the young woman, doing what they could, praying as best they knew how. The woman regained enough strength to tell the man and his wife her name: Isabel.
What the woman did not know was that many years before, the good man and his wife had a little girl named Isabel. They had dreamed of her; only God knew how much they loved her. One Sunday morning, as the good man prepared to go and speak of holy things, he backed out of the garage and did not see Isabel playing behind the car. She was rushed to the hospital, but her injuries were too severe. Isabel died.
The good man dreamed that one day God would give Isabel back to them. And so, when Isabel was found among the trash, this man believed his dream-prayers had finally been answered. But after two days of caring for her, the man and his wife awoke to find Isabel was gone. It was sadness upon sadness, simply too great to bear. The man found he could no longer speak of holy things; he counted himself among the half-dead.
One day, the half-dead man met another man who spoke of holy things; he said ‘if you cannot speak of those things, maybe you can do those things.’ And so the half-dead man did try, and one thing led to another and maybe the God who is great and the God who is good saw those holy things and believed they were as good as words, maybe better.
The new friend who spoke of holy things asked for his help; a woman had been killed, and in the face of tragedy, two together are stronger than one. As the two men stood before the young woman’s body, the good man, the man God still believed in, realized it was Isabel. Whether or not it was his daughter was not the point; her name was Isabel.
If you were to ask this man, this good man, about this story today he would say ‘there are our plans which most of us confidently travel in the direction of, and then there is life, usually somewhere to the side, asking us to pause and really live. I longed to hold my daughter throughout her life, but that was not to be the story. I did hold her at the beginning and in some way I was able to hold her again in the middle, when she had been discarded, almost lost…and I was able to hold her again at the end, to tell her goodbye and how beautiful she was.’
And it was then that Jordan Ross, pastor of Grace Church, began to weep. He wept for good friends in Kansas who were at that very moment standing before a casket holding a beloved father. He wept for a young college girl, gifted with the compassion of the saints of old, who now sat in fear at a violent world that had suddenly become much closer. He wept for a military widow and her two sons who were on this day observing the anniversary of the death of their most loved soldier. He wept for a man without a home who was just moving into a new town with new faces but possibly the same old prejudices. He wept for a woman named Isabel and the suffering she endured at the hands of those who used her and those who ignored her; who in this very second he prayed was safely in the arms of Jesus. And the pastor wept for a good man, a godly man, who was not far away placing fresh lilacs on the grave of a little girl that he and his wife hoped to see again one day, some day, when all, when everything that is broken is pieced back together again and everything is beautiful.
When September Comes...
That little Christmas book releases today. Be sure and get your copy soon. The early bird gets the awe...
Everybody Needs a Tramp
I now know what all that stimulus money should be spent on - trampolines. I kid thee not.
We bought our offspring one this summer. They'd been asking for five years and we kept saying good things come to those who wait and this summer they said but not to those who wait too late. Yeah, Grover Washington, Jr. - they've been listening to the oldies station at night. Fair enough. So, we ponied up our own version of stimulati trampolinus, which is Latin for "cash for jumpers."
So now, after we've had our caviar and scotch for dinner, we wait about ten minutes as we don't want to yark in the circle of wonder, and then we remove our shoes for we are entering holy fabric and we slide through a slit in the netting and it's like we've entered Narnia or the Shire or something. Otherworldly.
I've gotta tell you, regardless of what happened during the day, a few minutes on a trampoline and you're feeling better or at least you've got a bloody nose. Being a self-taught philosopher and all, I've a theory about this. Here goes. I've noticed that many times our "jumping" is really a glorified "hopping" - we're hopping around, trying to do flips and wrestling jumps off the top rope - everything the manual says not to do. Anyway, as I "hop" numerous times, unbeknownst to me, the wily silent "e" slides through the slit in the netting and slinks up next to my "hop" and gets in on the fun and the next thing you know my "hop" has become "hope." Yep, good old hope. I know "love" is the greatest of these, but "hope" is in the top three and some days, days like these, "hope" may just be the one that spurs us to ride into hell for a heavenly cause or helps us make it through the night or suffices for what a fool believes. Yes, I'm somewhat of a musical philosopher.
Trampohope (nice, eh?) might just be what our country needs right now. September's a helluva month. It was a year ago all this recession stuff really got heavy. Then there's 9.11. Johnny Cash died in September. Lord, that's enough right there to make millstones look attractive. But wait, what's that? It's a rhythm, a bouncing, a jumping, a hopping, calling us to abandon our work-casual-flip-flops and squeeze through the netted wardrobe and hop like little children, hop till that glorious silent "e" makes an appearance and transforms us, if only for twenty minutes 'cause then we have to come in and do our homework, yes, be infused with trampohope complete with phrases like Lord, your head is hard and say, do you think this is a rib poking out of my side?
You come off an experience like that all good and sweaty and your feet are blackened so you muck up the sheets on the bed but all that's worth it to laugh so hard boogers fill your beard and to crash, literally, into folks you love dearly but haven't seen all day and to hop, hop, higher and higher 'cause geese are flying overhead and you think they just might notice your skills and invite you to fly along or at least compliment you and say dude, are you Peter Pan? And if the geese do ask such a question, the presence of trampohope enables you to say maybe! Not the hubris-laden yes, we can nor the woe-is-me-Eeyore-shuffle, but something in the middle, the glorious middle - maybe...a word born of one of the greatest - hope.
Sorry, but it's all I've got right now...
I'm chin-deep in writing something, so there's not much time for long, rambling, dirtyshame posts; those'll be back soon.
A good man reminded me of the this phrase the other day. His name is Mark, he's one of my best friends. And although I know it drives some of you fine folks crazy when I post little snippets of stuff, these paragraphs feel like enough, and sometimes, that's all we need. I hope they speak to you in some way; they're from a long, rambling thing I'm working on. FYI - Sam and Dr. Dobbins are one in the same.
“Dr. Dobbins? Is something wrong?”
Sam kept staring straight ahead but patted the empty space beside her on the bench; Elly accepted the invitation. “I just got news that my dad died, Elly.”
“Oh, Dr. Dobbins. Bless your heart.”
Sam turned and looked directly into Elly’s eyes. She knew the power of words; she lived with a poet after all. There are times, maybe just moments, when the right word or phrase is like the biblical description: apples of gold in settings of silver. In that moment, Elly’s bless your heart was just such an apple. Sam had heard that phrase growing up at least a million times. Many times the words rang hollow, a thoughtless expression people parroted when they didn’t know anything else to say. But sometimes the three words were more, much more – another human being taking the time to cross to the other side and ask/hope/pray a blessing into the heart of another, that deep place we all hold in common. The wise men brought three gifts of verifiable worth; Elly the wise college girl brought three words of inestimable value - bless your heart.
Forgive and Forget
Forgive and forget. Two borders she could not cross.
The memory haunted her still. If she could stay busy it seemed to stay quiet, but she could not always be busy. The remembrance was both sight and sound, always the same: A sky so black it threatened to swallow you. The only lights were the crazed eyes of a woman, her mother, old beyond her years slowly tearing pages from the Bible, eating them, repeating “taste and see…the Lord is good…taste and see.”
She was seven when they crossed under the cover of a new moon. There were others with them but they were told to snake two by two through rocks and sage across the border. They could see the shadows of the others, still her mother was direct: “Don’t let go of my hand, Isabel.” But something or someone, she never knew what, had scattered the group in fear. Mother and daughter ran further into the black. By sunrise everything around them looked the same; it stayed that way for three days. Darkness seemed their only companion.
A small hip-pack had water and crackers, enough for one day, not enough for three. Her mother prayed for miracles more than once. God must have been asleep or busy or just not interested. On the night of the third day, her mother simply sat down and stopped. Hope was not deferred, but lost. Isabel watched as her mother took out a Bible and began to eat the pages. The last thing she saw her mother do was struggle to swallow the words of God.
His arms yanked her from the scene and the night picked up speed as he carried her and ran. She cried for her mother once, but his voiced shushed her: “She is dead.” She never knew his name; he must have been all of fifteen, but strong. He carried her through the darkness saying, “Do not cry.” The air smelled like rain, but the drops never fell.
By sunrise, Isabel’s legs burned as she sat on the rusted out floor of a van. There were holes so she could see the road as they drove; the motion made her sick. A woman packed beside her looked to be her mother’s age. She leaned down to Isabel: “The Lord is good, no?” That question had already been answered for a seven year old; nothing Isabel had seen since then caused her to change her mind.
The memory lunged at her tonight as she spied the Gideon Bible on the nightstand. She wondered if the Gideons had ever tried to eat their words. Isabel shook the remembrance from her mind, gathered her clothes and dressed quickly, then walked to the door. The man in the bed had no name, like the others. He surprised her by asking her name as she reached for the door. “Isabel,” she said. He sat on the edge of the bed and spoke softly: “Do you know what your name means?” She knew; her mother had made certain Isabel knew the origin of her name. “Yes. It means ‘consecrated to God.’”
This was a routine she had followed for some time now; it was becoming a rhythm, this offering of herself. Everything was pre-arranged, business-like. She was instructed never to leave anything in the room, personal belongings such as an earring or tube of lipstick. Isabel was careful that nothing of her’s remained, or so she believed. A Spanish poet wrote that we leave small pieces of our hearts here and there until there is not enough left to give away and stay alive...
When the river calls...
It was Sunday morning coming down in Phoenix. My boss was driving me to the airport. My wife had called earlier saying they don't think Dad's going to make it; I need to go. I agreed and headed to the airport to try and catch an earlier flight back to Denver. My boss and I were talking about the Grand Canyon and a miraculous experience I had backpacking there when the cell phone I carry began to ring...her voice carried two words: He's dead.
Her dad's name was John. He'd been fighting pancreatic cancer awhile now and lately infections galore had complicated things. Then, this weekend, pneumonia crept in and he was just too weak. The writer Barry Lopez describes your death day as the day "the river calls your name." Today was John's day.
My wife told me I got to talk to him...they put the phone to his ear and I said I love you, Dad. For that, I am thankful. When someone dies alone, all they hear is the river and I would think it could be frightening, cold, lonely. But the river's voice was not the only sound in my father-in-law's ears today; there was also the sound of love. I love you, Dad. I am hoping, praying, crossing my fingers, and wishing on a star that instead of a violent surge, the presence of love caused the river to be gentle on his mind.
As I flew back to Denver, she flew out to Arkansas via Atlanta. She called a few moments ago: We just landed. I'm safe. But now that I'm here, it's real. As our conversation ended, my voice carried four words: I love you, Meredith. I wanted those words to be the last she heard from me on this long, exhausting, river-run day.
From time to time, I hear the psychological literati skewer that "I love you" phrase, saying if you don't really feel it, you shouldn't say it. I believe that's about the stupidest damn thing I've ever heard. You don't say it because you're trying to get the inside to match the outside; that's the vain consistency Emerson described as "the hobgobblin of little minds." No, you say those words because the river always flows and you never when it might call your name or the name of someone you love or the name of someone you hate, maybe even the name of someone you're still undecided about. But one of the most precious human gifts we can give one another is to make sure on days like a Sunday-morning-coming-down-in-Phoenix, that if the flood threatens to overwhelm, there is also the presence of love via words, touch, smell, whatever. Love covers a multitude of sins. I also believe it carries a multitude of sinners into the restless, raging fury they call the love of God.
Softly and Tenderly
Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling, calling for you and for me...
On this particular Sunday, Papa the preacher gave the normally expected invitation at the conclusion of his sermon. In the Baptist tradition, it is a time to be quiet and respond to the Spirit of God, many times seen in walking down an aisle and taking the preacher's hand. Options in this window of time include decisions such as 1)rededicating/recommitting your life to Jesus after some wayward living or 2)repenting of some sin or sins and asking for prayer to be strong when the temptation arises again (and it will). Yes, savvy reader, that's all about the same thing, but it's o.k. However, the one decision that makes the angels sing is someone asking Jesus into their heart, aka "being saved."
See on the portals He's waiting and watching, watching for you and for me...
My father stood, as is his custom, before the people and pleaded for someone to come to Jesus. But, as is the custom of many Sundays in the same church in the same town with the same people, no one did, no not one...no one, that is, except her. My middle girl looked at her grandmother and asked "Can I go?" As the woman who calls me son nodded "yes" my middle girl stepped out into the long, broad way that leadeth to salvation.
Come home. Come home. Ye who are weary come home...
As the story goes, my middle girl reached my father's pastoral hands and she broke down, tears and all. Papa the preacher led her to a side room where they sat until she calmed down. He returned to stand before the people, a benediction was said, and the people mingled a moment or two and went home. The preacher and his wife and their grandchildren went to lunch and Sunday soldiered on. My mother called me a bit later to tell me what had happened.
Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling; calling, o sinner, come home.
Not long after her grandmother's call, after mexican food and salvation had a chance to settle, my middle girl called me. This is what she said:
"Daddy, I've already asked Jesus into my heart, you know that. But Daddy, Papa was so sad that no one was coming, he looked so sad...I just had to go, Daddy...I just had to go for Papa."
If I'd of drawn my last breath after that phone call, it would have been a good day to die.
Dear reader, I'm afraid most of our perspectives on salvation are full-blown cockeyed. I really do. On that Sunday morning, I believe a ye-who-are-weary preacher stood, as is his custom, and called/prayed that an angel, any angel at all, would come and stir the waters in an every-Sunday-fifty-two-weeks-a-year pool that often grows still with familiar and routine. He needed someone to save him. And she did. Her earnest and tender heart saw an old sinner waiting and watching on the portals and what her grandmother heard as "Can I go?" was really "I have to go!" And she did; she stepped out into the eyes and whispers of saints and sinners alike and shed almost every shred of glory she had as she humbled herself down the via dolorosa for Papa's sake, for love's sake...for Christ's sake. And when she finally reached his hands, she emptied herself for him, tears and all. Greater love hath no man.
On my swing from branch to branch up the tree of God, there is a common bark - only Jesus saves! I'm fine with that. I also believe we save each other from time to time. And I believe Jesus is fine with that because he knows it's true. You see, on a Sunday just days ago, I believe the angels stopped their singing and wept instead as the race of o sinners and middle girls got just a few steps closer...closer to coming home.
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