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...

The children who call me dad have been with their grandparents, two people who call me son. He, Papa, is a Southern Baptist preacher.  So, as you might expect, Sunday came and my children attended church with their grandparents.  My roots are Southern Baptist, but my branches of late have reached into Anglican sunlight and quite recently some Lutheran shade. So, as you might expect, my children have been exposed to several sides of the tree.

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.        

  

      

The Wide Wings of the Present Tense

As my day begins, this is how it ended, the psalm that is:

Whoever is wise will ponder these things, and consider well the mercies of the LORD.

I stir in the spoon of brown sugar as is my custom, 

then remove Fairchild from the shelf:

no "still small voice" or hovering dove, but only gray, murky hunches...

The train barrels by from the north going south,

cars full of coal to heat our homes come winter.

We'll have to pay for it.

The news cast lingers in my mind: an overturned SUV, 

full of fire and a four year old.

Two off duty firemen took turns rushing in, cutting safety belts turned death's chains, 

finally, finally, finally rescuing a boy's life from hell itself.

I just kept seeing the face of my son and I kept going back in.

There are days when God is proud of the race of men.

I'm sleeping alone this week because she's in Arkansas,

taking care of a man with pancreatic cancer - her father.

Each night I've opened all the windows in the house

and placed a box fan at my feet;

anything, anything to stir the silence of her absence.

I look out on a front yard with fresh sod, green, lush,

and remember to feed the fish, Dad.

The owners of the fish and their brother are at grandpa's;

I look in their rooms each night and long for their smell.

A friend and I may run three or four miles on the lunch hour,

pounding concrete, strengthening our hearts while weakening our knees.

One of these days, I'm sure we'll pay for it.

Before rising to go edit books, I give Fairchild the last word:

beneath, at last, the wide wings of the present tense.

Just a hint of Jesus...

Lately, there seem to be a lot of people wanting to make an impact on this world for Jesus. Leadership gurus are wanting to impact the church.  Student leaders, who evidently live 24/7, are mobilizing to impact the next generation.  I've even heard certain artists who are writing or singing or something to impact the culture.  

Now I'm a word guy; in other words, I believe words mean things.  So I looked up this six-letter arrangement to clarify the definition: to collide forcibly with; to strike.  I then checked some related words: concussion, hammering, onslaught, ramming, sideswipe, tremor, wallop, and who could resist whomp. Now, in the interest of fairness, there are related words that ring all nice and smart like etch or imprint, but great horny toads - they don't stand much of a chance next to mauling.

Go ahead.  Take some of those related words and put them in the place of "impact" - 

Leadership gurus really want to ram the church...Student leaders are mobilizing to maul the next generation...you see where this is going.

I don't believe Jesus wants us to do this.  I really don't.

Do you know the words trace or whiff or hint or brush?  For example - "Jimmy slumped in right field, one cleat on top of the other, close to the fence.  Not a single ball came his direction all evening. But the fence was lined with honeysuckle, the whiff of which reminded him of the girl who now sat in front of him in homeroom.  She had just moved to town from Magnolia and smiled at Jimmy in the hallway.  Jimmy liked playing right field."  

Now, I'm gonna bet my boots you've got a story or two or three where the slightest trace or hint of someone or something left you undone; could be it haunts your memory even today. Maybe it's coming across the hint of your father's aftershave in a department store.  He ran off five years ago but that hint causes you to break down in Macy's like a baby.  Or possibly it was when the dog brushed against your legs and your wife said "It's a boy." You'll forever associate that beagle's tail with the best day of your life.  Or how about a trace, just a trace of half-n-half that causes ordinary scrambled eggs to be the envy of Cracker Barrel.

I believe that's what Jesus wants us to do.  Leave hints or traces or whiffs of grace and mercy and forgiveness, words that mean something, in the lives of those both near and far.

But John, you say, what about the incident when Jesus wove a rope and got busy turning over the tables of the money changers?  That was quite impactful, wasn't it?  Yeah, I know; it's in there, so it counts.  But I wonder sometimes if after the onslaught, Jesus sighed and chuckled to himself, "I'm not so sure what good that did."  And maybe that chuckle came to mind when Peter drew his sword in the garden and whomped off that fella's ear and Jesus said, "Easy there, Pete" and then he put that ear right back where it came from, just like that...a little hint of miracle before the mob made their impact.         

                       

Stumbled and fell...

I stumbled on these folks today.  Mercy, what a beautiful fall.  I listened to a few of the songs from their second cd - Eveningland...I just picked that cd because I thought "Eveningland - what a simply splendid word."  Here are some reviews - 

"Eveningland, the second album by Hem...sets allusive, haunting songs not only to mandolin and steel guitar but also to chiming celeste and mallet instruments like glockenspiel - countrypolitan trademarks - as well as passages of rich, emotive playing by a full orchestra."

"A collection of fairy-tale melodies fleshed out with idiosyncratic instrumentation... Eveningland inches toward the countrypolitan sound favored by seventies acts [with the] languid, fetching soprano of their front woman, Sally Ellyson."

"On their second album, this Brooklyn Octet weave together haunting melodies and delicate orchestrations to craft intimate country/folk lullabies. Sally Ellyson's vocals are as homey as a snow day spent with hot chocolate and a fleece blanket."

I know folks have different ideas about what kind of music will be playing in heaven.  There are a lot of people who believe we'll all be standing 24/7  (unfortunately like many church services these days) with our hands raised or maybe even jumping up and down in place.  I'm bettin' those folks are gonna be surprised. Something tells me the good Lord may just favor countrypolitan.  And if that's the case, then there's no way in heaven you can be languid and fetching when you're standing up; nah, that calls for something like sitting barefoot in a porch swing or laying out in the cool grass around dusk.  And raising your hands all day? Practically impossible with a mug of hot chocolate in one and the other grabbing a fleece blanket's Hem... 

My thanks to Betsy Zabel over at Burnside for bringing them to my attention.

This Must Be The Place

Question: If the foundations are destroyed, a.k.a. grandpa and grandma are moving out of the country for two years just three months shy of the birth of your firstborn, what can the righteous -Verona (Maya Rudolph) and Burt (John Krasinski) - do?

Answer: Embark on a grailish quest touching the lives of relatives and friends in places like Phoenix, Montreal, and Miami, to find the perfect family role model and place to raise their child. 

“For as long as our records go back, we have held these two things dear, landscape and memory…The one feeds us, figuratively and literally. The other protects us from lies and tyranny.”

As the film begins, Burt and Verona know quite a few things: how to trade futures, draw surgical illustrations, and make a baby top the list.  They’re young, still evolving, but they do feel things deeply.  Burt desires to be the kind of father who makes things out of wood.  Quaint, but fair.  What they don’t know, however, is where they’re from.

“It is the chilling nature of modern society to find an ignorance of geography, local or national, as excusable as an ignorance of hand tools;and to find the commitment of people to their home place only momentarily entertaining.  And finally naïve.”

Some reviewers have criticized Burt and Verona for showing contempt for their family and friends along the way.  For example, A.O. Scott of the NYTimes refers to the “smug self-regard” of the characters.  Anyone else besides me ever shown contempt for family and friends and engaged in a little smug self-regard in your thirties?  C’mon, A.O.

Mythic time culminates atop a trampoline at Burt’s brother’s house.  Unmarried Burt and Verona give voice to vows that made this old pastor proud.  Burt wakes to find Verona holding two things dear, landscape and memory.  True hope for those yet to be born must hold hands with those long dead.  Verona tells a story of her parents; they died while she was in college.  The tale is one of love and longing.  And place.    

The next thing we see is their old blue Volvo approaching the landscape of Verona’s childhood: a tree strung with plastic fruit, an old house in need of repair, and a river or lake or shoreline or something running through it. 

“Geography, the formal way in which we grapple with this areal mystery, is finally knowledge that calls up something in the land we recognize and respond to.  It gives us a sense of place and a sense of community.  Both are indispensable to a state of well-being, an individual’s and a country’s.” 

I don’t know everything this film was about.  I’m not a prophet, nor the son of one.  But I do know that desire was stirred in me as I sat quiet in the theater.  Desire not for false or imposed geographies, but a longing to be able to voice the original working, and better I believe, title for the film – “This must be the place.” 

*Quoted material taken from “The American Geographies” by Barry Lopez.

Away We Go is rated R for language and sexual content. 

The Cover, a Sketch, and some Words...

I realize you're probably not thinking about Christmas right now, but here we go...

You can now preorder my book on Amazon and B&N...I described it to someone the other day as an outlaw lectio divina approach to the first few chapters of Luke's gospel, graced by sketches from my good friend Amanda Jolman.  The one below shows the feet of Mary when visited by Gabriel...

“Recovering wonder is never easy. But John Blase provides a doorway through his graceful book, Touching Wonder. The anticipation meant for Advent is often lost in the very season when steady pacing, taking time, and breathing deeply ought to be its hallmarks. John gives us that unhurried time back by expanding on the human side of the Christ child’s heritage, the men and women who were there before and after His birth giving us living examples of how the Scripture speaks to us in contemporary ways. Eugene Peterson’s The Message coupled with John’s tender stories and singular prayers makes this a book I will read again and again.”

Jane Kirkpatrick, award-winning author of A Sweetness to the Soul and A Flickering Light

Nineteen years...my lord...

I stood before her, nineteen years ago today, and promised.  She did the same.  By the authority invested in him and with tears in his eyes, my minister-father pronounced us husband and wife. We kissed, turned to face God and those witnesses, and stepped into the rest of our lives.  It was a June afternoon in Arkansas and hotter than sin.  We were just kids, I tell you...kids.

A lot of folks these days write their own wedding vows.  As a pastor, I used to encourage couples to if they wanted to; if I were still a pastor, I wouldn't.  Those old fashioned vows are hard to beat: for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and health, to love and to cherish... There's a lot of space between those words of extremes.

We were driving home last night after dinner with some friends and our middle girl was singing that Dixie Chicks song - wide open spaces/room to make a big mistake.  The song specifically speaks of a young girl heading off from parents and the familiar to make her way.  But as good country songs do, there's something there for everybody.  Today, celebrating nineteen years of marriage, I think that line our daughter crooned is a pretty good one for husbands and wives.

I've officiated at a wedding that was decorated to the nines and Ken and Barbie didn't last a year.  I've also stood before two giggly teenagers in a trailer park and spoke the words and crossed my fingers and last I heard, they were still giggling and married.  My lord.  Why did one fizz while the other still giggles?  Best I can tell - Grace & space: the Grace that keeps this world & room to make mistakes both big and small.  I've made more mistakes in my marriage than Washington D.C. has lonely people, but so far, by the Grace of God & Meredith, there has been space to make them.  

That good Franciscan, Richard Rohr, says the only way men learn anything after about the age of 30 is by way of failure.  Up to that age men need some wins/successes, but after that, success has nothing to teach; failure, however, does.  I believe the same holds true for marriage.  Some early days, maybe even years, of everything turning daisy is good and needed. But after a while, when the flower fades and the grass withereth, failure is the only teacher. And the question in those days, weeks, months, even years is, well, is there room for this?  The vows fashioned of old say as much.  Meredith and I are committed to wide open spaces; it's hard but most things worth anything are hard.  I may end up one of these days in front of a trailerhome sitting in a lawn chair...I'll take it, as long as she's in other chair, giggling.

Some of you out there read books and such.  My two favorite marriage books are Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner and The Maytrees by Annie Dillard.  They are books of great space...and amazing grace.

Meredith, I love you.  And that statement about our doublewide was just for giggles...maybe...       

   

  

Send in the Clowns

"I spent the last five days of my life crying in Argentina," he said.  

That sentence was a part of the public confession from the lips of South Carolina governor Mark Sanford, or what puer aeternus George Stephanopoulos called "his performance."  I'm guessing you saw it, heard it, read about it, or at least you have now.

"What cannot be said will get wept." - Jim Harrison

We all react differently to revelations such as this.  But I believe with all I am that our response, as least the one by the church on earth, the body of Christ, the visible representation of Jesus Jesus-self, is to be tears.  As the good book says, "Weep with those who weep."

Yes, John, but isn't he getting what he deserves?  Ah, justice - the current golden calf for many in the Lord's army, yes sir.  We've castrated Micah 6.8.  We must be careful little hands what we cut for there is something in that verse which we christians or christ-followers or little christs or whatever we want to call ourselves are called to love...and that something is mercy. Only by loving mercy can justice worth a God's blood be done to the uttermost.

Yes, John, but what if his tears were those of a crocodile?  I'm not a tearologist nor do I play one on tv, so I really cannot say.  I will roll the dice and say they were the tears of a clown; a man, flesh and blood like thee and me, whose public persona covered a private circus of broken vows.  If we cannot weep for the clown, and maybe we can't, then let us weep for his wife and children, his staff, the people who elected him, his parents, the lady in Argentina...hell, let us weep even for ourselves for we too often paint on a smile and juggle our lives.  And sooner or later, we'll all drop the ball.

Merci.   

Last night's episode

We sat on top of the bed covers, reading in our pajamas,

like some old couple with legs stuck straight out in front of us.

"I'm glad one of us has pretty feet," she said.

We both kept reading as her grin warmed the room.

I shook my fist in the cool night air:

"One of these days...one of these days."

Through the open window we heard chicken conversations next door.

"You put the neighbor's chickens in the house, right?"

She had admired the four fresh eggs I retrieved earlier,

three browns and a white.

Still, I affirmed her suspicions.

"Good.  I'm glad one of us is responsible," she grinned.

Interesting week here in Lake Sinbegone

[I live just outside of Colorado Springs; based on the number of Christian ministries there, it is the evangelical equivalent of Mecca]

Well, I figured it would be a rather quiet week here in Lake Sinbegone.  Summer's here and folks are staycationing, renting Benjamin Button and all.  But bless God, I am always surprised. On Tuesday, Focus on the Family president Jim Daly announced that male employees no longer had to wear business attire, including neckties, and female employees can now wear those snappy pantsuits like Hil Clin.  According to one report, employees stood and shouted hallelujah! in response to the good news.  Some of them wanted to lift holy hands and turn on the new fog machine, but around here, one thing at time, please.  

However, the most liberating aspect of Tuesday's news was permission for the ladies at Focus to take off their pantyhose.  They were expressly urged to do this once they got home, but then, once they were off, they could leave 'em off.  Apparently the proof for this text was Song of Solomon 7.1 - "How beautiful are your feet in sandals." (NASB)  In some of those newfangled transphrases it reads "Nice toe cleavage, sis."  Focus spokeswoman Lisa Anderson said, "...easing up on formal attire also will...encourage tourists to hobnob with Focus employees." 

I must say my rocking chair missed a rock when I heard the word hobnob.  Dear lord in heaven. Sweet Merriam-Webster describes the archaic word thusly: "to drink sociably" - the etymology from the obsolete phrase drink hobnob, to drink alternately to one another.  Now I don't believe Anderson had drink hobnob in mind when she chose that word, but there are slippery black diamond slopes, there really are, and I can foresee thousands, maybe even millions, of tourists showing up on the hill this summer expecting free Fat Tire from ladies perched on legs sans hose.  From a distance such as my porch, I'm having visions of the wayward Hebrew children dancing 'round the golden beast on liberated thighs and a nicely toned calf or two. Mercy.  

Focus tour-guide (concerned): Please, folks, don't you want to come in and watch the Dobsonmentary.  It's quite comprehensive.

Tourists (smiling): Nope, we're good.  God bless America and God bless hobnobbin'.

What I Hath Seen...

I would sit with this row of boys every Sunday morning, rain or shine.  I'm the helmet in the v-neck green sweater with the Scofield in my lap.  We would lean our chairs back and old Mr. Neal would cover the high school lesson, every Sunday, rain or shine.

Picture, if you will, Mr. Neal sitting before us at a small desk.  To his right was a huge window; notice where almost all of us are looking?  What Mr. Neal didn't know, and as far as I know never found out, was the peep show we good Baptist boys were treated to every Lord's day.

Through the huge window to Mr. Neal's right we could see the adjacent building with a carbon copy huge window just like ours.  Whereas our window was windex clear, this other window, right in our line of leaned-back sight, was slightly frosted.  You're wondering why aren't you? Well, you see, it gave light not to a row of folding chair Sunday School boys, but to a one-staller Ladies room.

It's hard to remember just when this revelation came upon us.  We were probably listening to Mr. Neal droll on about lukewarmness or something when one of us, could have been me even, looked over and saw a curved silhouette bend forward and wrench down her skirt, do it once more due to a girdle or lord knows what else a boy's mind could conjure, and then slowly, regally squat down as the cold ivory yoke piece embraced her warm backside.  I realize that's quite descriptive, but as I've noted, this happened every Sunday, rain or shine.

On about the third Sunday, at the beginning of class, one of our Boy's Row stood and told Mr. Neal I'll be right back. This boy didn't give a flying fig what Mr. Neal or Jesus thought; he did whatever he pleased. We secretly loved him for that.  Before he walked out, his grinned whisper was I'm gonna find out whose ass that is.  We didn't see the rebel for the rest of class, but he was waiting for us when we filed out, with a grin that showed every last pearly white he owned. He had waited the entire time and one, and only one, lady had visited that little room.  One of our disciples pulled a Thomas, so boy-don't-give-a-fig gladly agreed to scout it out again the following Sunday.  He did; one and only one visitor.  And just like that, the lady in shadow now had a name.

There would have been the usual boy wonder at such a spectacle regardless of who it was.  We were each good little Baptist boys trying to figure out how to possess his vessel in sanctification and honour (see I Thess. 4.14 - I kid you not).  But the stakes were raised on this one because the lady in outline was easily the most prim, proper, and dressed to the nines female in our local representation of the body of Christ.  She was striking in her looks, but they were looks that purred don't touch.  I stood by her once during worship as she sang the mournful invitation hymn Have Thine Own Way.  I know I should have been examining my own heart, as each man ought, but all I could think of was me and mrs. mystery frolicking in the garden of Eden, unclothed, without shame.  I'm certain I rededicated my life that day, but to what, I cannot say.

For that brief season of Sundays, our class had perfect attendance; I seem to recall we even gained a few newcomers.  Mr. Neal felt honored; maybe a man his age still had something to offer the younger generation.  Maybe it was o.k. he felt that way.  Maybe.  And maybe it was o.k. those windows were placed just so; they were panes of exposure revealing the tensions of flesh that had and would follow us all the days of our lives.  So for a season, we enjoyed it, rain or shine.  We faithfully brought our Bibles and always placed them in our laps (see photo); fig leaves of sorts to cover what eye hath seen.                

Beyond the word...

You have to understand the rain and the mesquite.  The clouds come on slowly and torture the drooping leaves with the promise of rain and this goes on day after day, week after week, and sometimes, not often, but sometimes the rain never comes at all, the monsoon skips, and still the tree stands and believes and waits.  But when the rain comes, and most years it does come, the feel in the desert is love.  Not the word, the thing beyond the word, the rush of life pouring from the sky...

- Charles Bowden, Blues for Cannibals

God, a glance in the mirror reveals gray hair and age spots. Damn, I look like an old mesquite tree, standing, believing, waiting.  I can soldier on quite convincingly, tortured with the promise.  But there are days, not often, but sometimes, when I wish you'd pour from the sky into my dreams that we might grapple. I'm not angry, you know that. I'd just like to feel you, not the you of the the word, but the you beyond the word. You have blessed and I hope you will continue to bless.  You have wounded and yes, I believe that too shall not cease.  But that the leaves might feel the rush...

I felt the love that day in the canyon so grand, when the water was depleted and there was still some distance to the rim. In the cleft of the rock, literally, the water bottles rested along with the note - take it. And I did.  What I drank was not water, but something beyond the word.  It tasted like...love.

There is so much talk of you, so many words.  In the way the letters C-O-W do not give milk, the letters G-O-D do not give love.  We want to believe that writing the word and speaking the word and attempting to make the word famous will bring the rain.  But I fear that may be the folly of youth; the lips are near but the leaves still droop.  Or they will.  The nations roar and you laugh.  Your children roar and I fear you may gasp.  There is so much talk of you.

I am not alone.  There are others, standing, believing, waiting. We are learning of the rain and the mesquite and that beyond the words.  

      

Yates and the Dream...

The man in the photo is Richard Yates.  He wrote a book titled Revolutionary Road; yes, on which the Winslet/DiCaprio movie was based.  I finally saw the film Friday night.  I am now hunting for the book...mediocre John hunting.

The film is disturbing.  And from what I've read, it doesn't even scratch the brilliance of the book.  

After seeing the DVD clamshell, I believed it was a period piece - 1950s - a story of a young married couple rapidly drowning in the suburban/conformist wave of that time.  In a very real sense, it is. However, as I sniffed around a little about Yates, I found an interview where for him, above all else, Revolutionary Road was a book about abortion.  In a 1972 Ploughshares article he said, "Everything gets aborted in the book...it's...built on a series of abortions, of all kinds - an aborted play, several aborted careers, any number of aborted ambitions and aborted plans and aborted dreams - all leading up to a real, physical abortion, and a death at the end..."

As I said, I'm now searching for a used copy of the book.  

I saw that theme of abortion as I watched the film and I kept thinking how little has changed since the 50s it portrayed.  In no way do I want to diminish the real, physical issue of abortion.  The chilling nature of that reality surfaced days ago in the killing of a Kansas physician.  At the same time, in no way do I desire to scurry past that multifaceted word; we are all victims. To not be able to talk about the word abortion in all of its complexity reveals that cars and fashions and widespread cigarette use may have changed, but we the people have not.  Our Facebook updates indicate what time we're headed to the gym or which character from The Facts of Life we most resemble; we have not changed.

It is not the American Dream to believe that you could be wonderful in this world; no, that is the human dream, a pro-life longing knit into each of us in the womb.  There seemed to be a thread of hope in the movie, something known as bravery, a truly revolutionary road. I want to see if the book even points in that direction or if it is all merely a dead-end.         

It's Not Easy...But It's Not Hard

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?" 

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

 - Marjorie Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit 

If I were to write a book about the meaning of life, which I might have a mind to one of these days, then I'd begin with the excerpt above from The Velveteen Rabbit.  The excerpt above contains three truths that I've long believed in and here, at 42 years young, I believe in even more.  I could have chosen another story to illustrate these truths for I believe they are in the best stories and movies and comic books and front-porch-late-evening-tales.  But Velveteen sums them up for me with clarity, always a good thing.  That clarity allows us easy access to the truth about a meaningful life, as in "it's not hard."  It also affords us the truth about a meaningful life, as in "it's not easy."  But it can be done.

Here they are, my three truths for life, along with a little commentary because, well, I like to write:

1. Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time..."  **I believe a meaningful life is found in letting folks love you.  It doesn't have to be a child necessarily, but children or the childlike are definitely good prospects.  It's opening yourself up to someone else, not just once or even twice, but as old Skin Horse said, "for a long, long time."  Now you might find that almost embarrassing it's so simple and that's fine.  But here, in the middle of my life, based on what I've witnessed thus far, I believe we're either continually opening ourselves to others or were gradually closing ourselves off; there's very little, if any, middle ground.  And just for the record, seeing as how this post feels all important and such, I firmly believe that if you can't let flesh and blood love you, then any talk of letting God love you is just blunderbuss; that dog won't hunt.  Now, astute reader that you are, you might ask Why wouldn't I let someone love me?  I'm glad you astutely asked for it leads us, if you're still willing to come along, to the second truth.

2. "Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse...

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?" 

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby..." **We close ourselves off to love because sometimes, it hurts.  To stay open to love for the duration of this life, well, that may just be the most valiant thing there is, something that would garner after-life words like well done.  You have to learn how to forgive, which is one of the facets of love.  Folks will love your hair off but it may happen by them pulling it out and causing you to do the same.  Folks will say and do things that'll make your eyes drop out of their sockets forcing you, after time, to look at life differently.  You'll get loose in the joints because folks will make demands on you and you'll be yanked in this direction and that and somedays you won't know whether you're coming or going.  Such is a meaningful life.  The alternative is living a life that has "to be carefully kept."  Letting yourself be loved means moving in the direction of "shabby."  If the rabbit is a little too soft for your taste, think man hanging on a cross, hair and beard pulled out multiple times, eyes hanging from their sockets but still attached enough to see and say forgive, joints stretched so that arms wide open took on a whole new meaning, and well, yeah...love will leave you shabby.  If you're trying to finish this race like some Olympic athlete, muscles juiced on a psychotherapeutic approach to life, all in one piece with proper boundaries and all, then you might just get the gold, but what doth it profit a man or a woman or a rabbit...but for every moment when someone pulls your hair out, a child just might stroke your head or cheek and you'll be undone and for every time your eyes drop out of their sockets, there'll be times when you can't believe your eyes at the tenderness a spouse or friend can give in a moment and for all the wear and tear your joints take over the years, there's a limber glory your life can acquire that can cause you to pause and say grace is everywhere.  Not too shabby, huh?

3. "...but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."  **This one gets a little dicey because you start talking salvation and folks pull out their books and notes and tapes and doctrines and slide rules.  I'll say this much, alright.  I believe letting folks love you in this life is intimately connected to any kind of afterlife.  As I said, if you can't let flesh and blood love you, then loud pronouncements about how much God loves you is just noise; sorry, but that's how I see it.  In the end or beginning or however the story goes, there's only love.  I realize that sounds new-agey and mystical and far too generous.  But I believe there's only love and it lasts for always.  And you and I and even the rabbits have the chance to get started in the here and now and live a life that just might mean something rather than ending up good for nothing.

If I were to write a book on the meaning of life, which I might just have a mind to one of these days, then that's how I would begin.  Those truths are not easy to live, but they're not hard.