I woke up not sick
but worse -
discouraged.
Not quite the depressed black and white of George Bailey,
worth more dead than alive,
but somewhere near that jumping bridge,
tired of the same old house,
same old town,
same old dreams,
same old face in the mirror,
same old God.
I woke her up for school,
and the sun in her smile blinded me
like that old Damascus fool.
Hi, dad-o.
Hey, kid-o.
She combed her hair
with the same old comb,
in the same old mirror,
as I stood close brushing
the same old teeth,
in my same old head,
and tears like scales
fell from my eyes
at the technicolor mercies
in my same old life -
me, the richest man in Bedford Falls.
Lange and Ruess - Frank & Hearty
Gary Jeffers had worked as editor of the successful 'Christian' magazine for over a decade. His devotional column - Green & Still - had a loyal following he'd fed faithfully each month, rain or shine, but his devotion had worn thin, he was exhausted. He'd been a groomsman at Ruess' wedding, a pallbearer at Jane's funeral, and a trusted friend all along.
Gary's request caught him off guard: 'Ruess, I'm resigning, had enough of the spiritual stone soup cooking in this grand land. I'm going off to write the book I've always whined about never having the time to write. The mag is giving me a final column, one last chance to say my peace...and I've decided to invite a guest writer - you. Instead of Green & Still this last hurrah's going to be Frank & Hearty. I want you to let go the length of the reins, Ruess, like we've long talked about. You've got 1500 words. I'll merely spellcheck it then send it through. Do it for me...and Jesus.'
Ruess took a few days to hem and haw. He loved Gary like a brother and was one of his loyal readers, but he had no affection for the magazine. Ruess understood the necessity of wooing advertisers to keep a periodical afloat but the prevailing blood lust for all things young and relevant or dead and orthodox drove him nuts. He'd intentionally walked away from those reindeer games a long time ago...stepping back into them, even by way of a magazine article, felt shaky, risky.
But the thrill of the rant was strong and one thought swallowed another. It used to be he swore if one more person used the words 'worldview' or 'closure' he'd slather himself with A1 steak sauce and hurl his body over his neighbor's fence, straight into the feral desire of twin rottweilers - Coco and Chanel. Then he choked on the memory of Jane's voice: 'Ruess, write the article for Gary, but be smart, baby...remember the two people in every audience - Nicks and Henley, and how to always reach them - leather and lace, leather and lace.'
Ruess smiled and then bowed his head and wept. He'd write the article for Jane...and Jesus.
Gary's request caught him off guard: 'Ruess, I'm resigning, had enough of the spiritual stone soup cooking in this grand land. I'm going off to write the book I've always whined about never having the time to write. The mag is giving me a final column, one last chance to say my peace...and I've decided to invite a guest writer - you. Instead of Green & Still this last hurrah's going to be Frank & Hearty. I want you to let go the length of the reins, Ruess, like we've long talked about. You've got 1500 words. I'll merely spellcheck it then send it through. Do it for me...and Jesus.'
Ruess took a few days to hem and haw. He loved Gary like a brother and was one of his loyal readers, but he had no affection for the magazine. Ruess understood the necessity of wooing advertisers to keep a periodical afloat but the prevailing blood lust for all things young and relevant or dead and orthodox drove him nuts. He'd intentionally walked away from those reindeer games a long time ago...stepping back into them, even by way of a magazine article, felt shaky, risky.
But the thrill of the rant was strong and one thought swallowed another. It used to be he swore if one more person used the words 'worldview' or 'closure' he'd slather himself with A1 steak sauce and hurl his body over his neighbor's fence, straight into the feral desire of twin rottweilers - Coco and Chanel. Then he choked on the memory of Jane's voice: 'Ruess, write the article for Gary, but be smart, baby...remember the two people in every audience - Nicks and Henley, and how to always reach them - leather and lace, leather and lace.'
Ruess smiled and then bowed his head and wept. He'd write the article for Jane...and Jesus.
Letters for dad-o...
Her third grade spelling list for the week includes
the words dance, wreck, fancy, and tremble.
She already knows how to spell them,
she'll ace Friday's test, 'no prob, dad-o.'
Still, we'll review them, just to be sure.
As she reels off d-a-n-c-e
I see a boy who will one day soon
take heart and ask her to inhabit this word.
Maybe he'll grow on me, I doubt it.
W-r-e-c-k will be the letters soaked in tears
as she explains 'I swerved to miss the dog, dad-o,
but I'm o.k.'
Thank God and Jesus.
I'm no prophet but my gut tells me
she'll want the f-a-n-c-y wedding dress,
her easy days of hoodies and jeans faded
like weekly spelling lists.
Still, just to be sure, we review these omens.
I try my best not to let her see me t-r-e-m-b-l-e.
the words dance, wreck, fancy, and tremble.
She already knows how to spell them,
she'll ace Friday's test, 'no prob, dad-o.'
Still, we'll review them, just to be sure.
As she reels off d-a-n-c-e
I see a boy who will one day soon
take heart and ask her to inhabit this word.
Maybe he'll grow on me, I doubt it.
W-r-e-c-k will be the letters soaked in tears
as she explains 'I swerved to miss the dog, dad-o,
but I'm o.k.'
Thank God and Jesus.
I'm no prophet but my gut tells me
she'll want the f-a-n-c-y wedding dress,
her easy days of hoodies and jeans faded
like weekly spelling lists.
Still, just to be sure, we review these omens.
I try my best not to let her see me t-r-e-m-b-l-e.
I'll Never Forget
I do not remember any of their far-away names,
those swallowed by that black September day.
But I do remember her.
Our families had long known each another,
I always easily ten years her senior.
For time upon time,
as long as I could remember,
she embodied youth, innocence, goodness.
She paused at the door to my office
to say 'I think something's happening.'
We walked to a room where televisions
broadcast O beautiful's scourge.
We stood shouldered in quiet, image after image eroding
our shores of amber grain.
Our bodies did not touch in those moments,
but rather our souls.
We shared a more perfect union of loss.
She searched my eyes and
I saw her suddenly older,
no longer the girl I'd known.
Her wordless question of 'what now?'
found me dumb.
I do not remember any of their far-away names,
those raptured into spacious skies that day.
But I do remember her,
as I remember me, cast ready-or-not
further east of the garden.
I remember Ellen.
those swallowed by that black September day.
But I do remember her.
Our families had long known each another,
I always easily ten years her senior.
For time upon time,
as long as I could remember,
she embodied youth, innocence, goodness.
She paused at the door to my office
to say 'I think something's happening.'
We walked to a room where televisions
broadcast O beautiful's scourge.
We stood shouldered in quiet, image after image eroding
our shores of amber grain.
Our bodies did not touch in those moments,
but rather our souls.
We shared a more perfect union of loss.
She searched my eyes and
I saw her suddenly older,
no longer the girl I'd known.
Her wordless question of 'what now?'
found me dumb.
I do not remember any of their far-away names,
those raptured into spacious skies that day.
But I do remember her,
as I remember me, cast ready-or-not
further east of the garden.
I remember Ellen.
Meditation on Luke 15.1-32 - Quickly!
He ran to his son, embraced him and kissed him.
His son said to him,
'Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you;
I no longer deserve to be called your son.'
But his father ordered his servants,
'Quickly...
~~~
That word - quickly - that's what I remember about that day. And his crooked smile. My brother later told me it was a stroke, the day after I left.
It undid me, to see him hobbling toward me. I just stood there, frozen on the ridge I'd played on as a boy. The old man fell twice, like some child learning to walk, the last fall only steps from me. He began to crawl, scooping at the ground, willing himself forward. It was then my body released me to move to him. As I knelt he raised his eyes to mine. That's when I clearly saw his face, half-right, half-wrong, as if something had torn him.
He frantically began to climb my frame until he reached my face. He kissed my cheeks, over and over, and stroked my hair. I'd had whores do that and more countless times. Money will buy almost anything. But then he began to mumble my name through his broken smile. No one had spoken my name in what seemed like a long, long time.
I shook to myself and knew I had to say the words. Were they honest, sincere, heartfelt? I doubt it, I really do. You see, I'd come to my senses earlier, primarily the sense I was starving. I was still so young. I held the old man by the shoulders: 'Father, I have si-' His eyes filled with a fury I'd known as a boy, his hands covered my mouth, he would not let me speak. And then he began to wrestle with that word - Quik-klee! Quik-klee! By then the servants had made their way down the ridge. He turned and clawed them in - Quik-klee! The next few seconds were filled with the old man's commands, half-spoken, fully understood.
Then, quickly, the celebration began.
My father lived long enough to see his sons work beside one another once more in the fields, like we'd done as boys. My brother and I both came to live again under the mercy of our father's roof. We awoke one autumn night to shouts of that word - Quik-klee! Quik-klee! By the time we reached his bedside the angels had taken him. My brother stayed at his side, close, until the dawn. Meanwhile I wandered down a familiar ridge and squandered my tears.
His son said to him,
'Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you;
I no longer deserve to be called your son.'
But his father ordered his servants,
'Quickly...
~~~
That word - quickly - that's what I remember about that day. And his crooked smile. My brother later told me it was a stroke, the day after I left.
It undid me, to see him hobbling toward me. I just stood there, frozen on the ridge I'd played on as a boy. The old man fell twice, like some child learning to walk, the last fall only steps from me. He began to crawl, scooping at the ground, willing himself forward. It was then my body released me to move to him. As I knelt he raised his eyes to mine. That's when I clearly saw his face, half-right, half-wrong, as if something had torn him.
He frantically began to climb my frame until he reached my face. He kissed my cheeks, over and over, and stroked my hair. I'd had whores do that and more countless times. Money will buy almost anything. But then he began to mumble my name through his broken smile. No one had spoken my name in what seemed like a long, long time.
I shook to myself and knew I had to say the words. Were they honest, sincere, heartfelt? I doubt it, I really do. You see, I'd come to my senses earlier, primarily the sense I was starving. I was still so young. I held the old man by the shoulders: 'Father, I have si-' His eyes filled with a fury I'd known as a boy, his hands covered my mouth, he would not let me speak. And then he began to wrestle with that word - Quik-klee! Quik-klee! By then the servants had made their way down the ridge. He turned and clawed them in - Quik-klee! The next few seconds were filled with the old man's commands, half-spoken, fully understood.
Then, quickly, the celebration began.
My father lived long enough to see his sons work beside one another once more in the fields, like we'd done as boys. My brother and I both came to live again under the mercy of our father's roof. We awoke one autumn night to shouts of that word - Quik-klee! Quik-klee! By the time we reached his bedside the angels had taken him. My brother stayed at his side, close, until the dawn. Meanwhile I wandered down a familiar ridge and squandered my tears.
A word of 'thanks' to my alma mater...
I am partial to the letter l...one of my favorite poets, B.H. Fairchild, refers to it as 'the Audrey Hepburn of consonants.' If I allow little miss Hepburn to wiggle into Ouachita's Founders Day today, I find a word that immediately reminds me of those halcyon college days - flounder.
flounder - v. 1: to struggle to move or obtain footing; 2: to proceed or act clumsily or ineffectually.
I'm not sure what all my alma mater's founders had in mind when cutting the ribbon on a small, liberal arts Baptist college, but I bettin' at least one of them had a renegade thought, probably unspoken, that went something like 'ya know, kids need a good place to flounder, be clumsy for a few years, gain a little footing.' To that founder, I tip my hat and say 'thank you.'
For some, the thought of spending four, maybe even five years, and not to mention rather large land masses called 'tuition' in a state of floundering is, well, just horrible stewardship of unbiblical proportions. But I, for one, would gently disagree. As for the 'some' just mentioned, yes, there will always be two or three gathered together who have it all figured out at nineteen, 'look out world, here I cometh.' As for the rest of us, we really need some time to flounder around, find our life legs. Ouachita Baptist University provided that for me, and a few others I know...we needed a place to act clumsily and be downright ineffectual...a safe place to fall, for a little while.
You can flounder via many climates: the high-n-tight bootcamps of our military branches; some Elizabeth Gilbert Eat, Pray, Love romp across three cultures; even a go-North-young-man-into-the-wild trek that leads you to an abandoned bus up by some river. All those are fine and well and at least one resulted in a New York Times bestseller and a movie deal with that handsome Julia Roberts. But you can also flounder as a medium sized fish in a medium sized pond in southern Arkansas at a competitive-tuition-rate, in the company of a great cloud of witnesses known as staff and faculty who possess a trait not always found among drill instructors, yogis, or the inside of abandoned buses...yes, I'm taking about
compassion - n. 1: a sympathetic consciousness of others' distress together with a desire to alleviate it.
I'm quite certain the folks at OBU didn't always like me. But I'm quite certain the folks at OBU always loved me. They remembered the distress of being nineteen or twenty and not knowing what-in-the-sam-hill God wanted you to do, much less what you yourself wanted to do with your one wild and precious life. I believe they also knew you might not figure that out until you were in your, let's say, forties, and miles and miles away from the grace of red-bricked buildings and Bradford pears all in a row, swimming now on your own...strokes only possible because you were once upon a time permitted to flounder about.
So, thank you, Ouachita...thank you very much.
Gifts of my Magi...
'Nothing you do for children is ever wasted.'
~Garrison Keillor
Once, long ago now, on an east Texas Indian summer afternoon, my parents took a trip to one of those pre-Walmart discount stores, maybe Howard's or Gibson's. They returned home with whatever items necessitated their trip, but they also came bearing gifts, two things not on my mother's list. One seemed from my mother's heart, something needed, warm, true, while the other came from the vagaries of my father. Together those gifts were kneaded into the impressionable dough of a boy I was and have risen like yeast into the man I've become - a plaid, flannel shirt and Rod McKuen's Greatest Hits Vol. 1.
Based on its point of origin, I'm willing to bet the flannel patterns didn't match up across buttons and seams and being pre-button-down-days, the collar points were no doubt sharp and wide. The shirt probably cost $4. We lived, in those days, on the loaves and fish of a Baptist preacher's salary. As I think about it now, here in my 40s, I am humbled by my mother's miracles of blessing and breaking and having leftovers enough for the extravagance of $4 flannel. I am often in the presence of believers, God's people, who pooh-pooh on the things of this earth, things that will pass away or be consumed as wood, hay, stubble or grow strangely dim in the light of his glory and grace. I am often uncomfortable around such people for I don't know exactly what they believe in; some unmediated, disembodied grace I guess. I probably make such people uncomfortable as well, for I believe in the icons of a mother's love and flannel.
I'd never heard of Rod McKuen until that day my father brought home a two-album set of his greatest hits. I've only met one other person along my way who likes McKuen - http://www.robertbensonwriter.com/. My southern Baptist preacher father bringing home a Rod McKuen album of love songs is evidence that the man will always have facets of mystery to his life that will elude my grasp. I'll never know him, not all of him. From the moment the needle dropped into the vinyl groove that day, I was taken. Songs like 'I've Saved the Summer' and 'Love's Been Good to Me' and 'Seasons in the Sun' and 'People Change' and 'The Lonely Things' were listened to with the same regularity of wearing that flannel shirt...over and over and over again. Its hard to say exactly what it was about McKuen's voice and lyrics that wooed me so; all I know is that they did, and they still do to this day, especially on crisp prelude days of fall. I wonder sometimes, here in my 40s, if the music my father introduced to our home, such as McKuen's songs of love and melancholy, was his way of tempering the hymns of certainty and conviction we'd stand and sing each Sunday in nice neat rows. I don't recall a single hymn extolling the sensuality of a stranger's eyes or the prime of Miss Jean Brodie. I am often in the presence of believers, God's people, who have no place in their lives for music unless it specifically mentions the name of Jesus or works the crowd up to some hands-raised-hallelujah-climax. I am always lonely around such people for the hills are ablaze with the morn's yellow haze but they seem to have never noticed. I probably make such people lonely too, for I was raised on my father's music, and I can't recall your name but the street...was Channing Way.
~Garrison Keillor
Once, long ago now, on an east Texas Indian summer afternoon, my parents took a trip to one of those pre-Walmart discount stores, maybe Howard's or Gibson's. They returned home with whatever items necessitated their trip, but they also came bearing gifts, two things not on my mother's list. One seemed from my mother's heart, something needed, warm, true, while the other came from the vagaries of my father. Together those gifts were kneaded into the impressionable dough of a boy I was and have risen like yeast into the man I've become - a plaid, flannel shirt and Rod McKuen's Greatest Hits Vol. 1.
Based on its point of origin, I'm willing to bet the flannel patterns didn't match up across buttons and seams and being pre-button-down-days, the collar points were no doubt sharp and wide. The shirt probably cost $4. We lived, in those days, on the loaves and fish of a Baptist preacher's salary. As I think about it now, here in my 40s, I am humbled by my mother's miracles of blessing and breaking and having leftovers enough for the extravagance of $4 flannel. I am often in the presence of believers, God's people, who pooh-pooh on the things of this earth, things that will pass away or be consumed as wood, hay, stubble or grow strangely dim in the light of his glory and grace. I am often uncomfortable around such people for I don't know exactly what they believe in; some unmediated, disembodied grace I guess. I probably make such people uncomfortable as well, for I believe in the icons of a mother's love and flannel.
I'd never heard of Rod McKuen until that day my father brought home a two-album set of his greatest hits. I've only met one other person along my way who likes McKuen - http://www.robertbensonwriter.com/. My southern Baptist preacher father bringing home a Rod McKuen album of love songs is evidence that the man will always have facets of mystery to his life that will elude my grasp. I'll never know him, not all of him. From the moment the needle dropped into the vinyl groove that day, I was taken. Songs like 'I've Saved the Summer' and 'Love's Been Good to Me' and 'Seasons in the Sun' and 'People Change' and 'The Lonely Things' were listened to with the same regularity of wearing that flannel shirt...over and over and over again. Its hard to say exactly what it was about McKuen's voice and lyrics that wooed me so; all I know is that they did, and they still do to this day, especially on crisp prelude days of fall. I wonder sometimes, here in my 40s, if the music my father introduced to our home, such as McKuen's songs of love and melancholy, was his way of tempering the hymns of certainty and conviction we'd stand and sing each Sunday in nice neat rows. I don't recall a single hymn extolling the sensuality of a stranger's eyes or the prime of Miss Jean Brodie. I am often in the presence of believers, God's people, who have no place in their lives for music unless it specifically mentions the name of Jesus or works the crowd up to some hands-raised-hallelujah-climax. I am always lonely around such people for the hills are ablaze with the morn's yellow haze but they seem to have never noticed. I probably make such people lonely too, for I was raised on my father's music, and I can't recall your name but the street...was Channing Way.
It's Time
Like the evening summer sun,
my bronzed hands and forearms
gently fade and pale.
We both sense it, the sun and I.
It’s fine. It’s time.
We could rage against the dying,
as some are prone to do,
but why?
Old John Donne believed it’s always autumn in heaven,
no buds or flowers, only fruit fully ripe.
I believe that’s crazy.
A seasoned Elysium holds my hope,
not some never ending summer.
The Good Book speaks of all things new,
not all new things.
Donne’s mercy-filled Fall will be covered
by Winters whiter than snow.
Then Spring will thrust up blackred roses
e.e. cumming’s mother couldn’t dream of.
As for Summer, we’ll saunter along
streets of gold with bronzed hands and forearms
until we sense it’s time.
Then we’ll roll down our sleeves once more
to harvest the mercies of God.
Meditation on Hebrews 13.2 - Angels
Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.
~~~
The scripture reference clearly reveals the intended audience - 'the Hebrews' - that's who the writer was writing to. But what if you're not a Hebrew? What if you're an angel? Not literal wings and harps, but as in 'the better angels of your nature.' I believe we all have them. If you don't, fine. But if you do, then it's interesting what happens if you're willing to play with the text...the verse could read thus: Do not neglect to receive hospitality from strangers, for by doing that you can live quite an entertaining life.
Early this week, I was with a group of complete strangers. There is a common link/person between the group and me, but said link was missing so I was among people I'd never met before. Strangers. The group had set meetings, sorta closed-door sessions, I knew that going in. But as for the inbetweens - meals, breaks, downtime - they invited me in, to be with them, hang out, talk, visit, eat, drink, be merry. I felt maybe one or two times would be sufficient for the purposes of my trip, but these strangers just kept extending hospitality to me, over and over and over again. This phrase kept popping up: Oh, we certainly hope you'll join us, please, please do come. For two and half days, I was the recipient of spring-fed-mountain-brewed-grace. Forget living like a king, I experienced the rush of angels.
If you have the opportunity to extend, by all means do. But if, from time to time, you're invited to receive, fiercely forget the humble-bumble oh, that's o.k., ya'll go ahead. Spread your wings. Say yes. And afterwards thank you.
~~~
The scripture reference clearly reveals the intended audience - 'the Hebrews' - that's who the writer was writing to. But what if you're not a Hebrew? What if you're an angel? Not literal wings and harps, but as in 'the better angels of your nature.' I believe we all have them. If you don't, fine. But if you do, then it's interesting what happens if you're willing to play with the text...the verse could read thus: Do not neglect to receive hospitality from strangers, for by doing that you can live quite an entertaining life.
Early this week, I was with a group of complete strangers. There is a common link/person between the group and me, but said link was missing so I was among people I'd never met before. Strangers. The group had set meetings, sorta closed-door sessions, I knew that going in. But as for the inbetweens - meals, breaks, downtime - they invited me in, to be with them, hang out, talk, visit, eat, drink, be merry. I felt maybe one or two times would be sufficient for the purposes of my trip, but these strangers just kept extending hospitality to me, over and over and over again. This phrase kept popping up: Oh, we certainly hope you'll join us, please, please do come. For two and half days, I was the recipient of spring-fed-mountain-brewed-grace. Forget living like a king, I experienced the rush of angels.
If you have the opportunity to extend, by all means do. But if, from time to time, you're invited to receive, fiercely forget the humble-bumble oh, that's o.k., ya'll go ahead. Spread your wings. Say yes. And afterwards thank you.
Exodus
I came down from the mountains today
to find the republic whirling around pyrite media-geldings,
wild-eyed over anti-incumbents and
mosques and 'is he really a christian?'
I wanted to go all Moses on the people,
throw rocks etched with roman numerals,
but the mountains did not give me such stones.
Rather, I descended with something not written on tablets -
gratitude
- impossible to hurl and never effective on a mob.
And so I walked among the people as an alien,
one refusing to bend the knee in this canaan of curdled milk
and rancid honey,
one too thankful to appease the gods of hate.
to find the republic whirling around pyrite media-geldings,
wild-eyed over anti-incumbents and
mosques and 'is he really a christian?'
I wanted to go all Moses on the people,
throw rocks etched with roman numerals,
but the mountains did not give me such stones.
Rather, I descended with something not written on tablets -
gratitude
- impossible to hurl and never effective on a mob.
And so I walked among the people as an alien,
one refusing to bend the knee in this canaan of curdled milk
and rancid honey,
one too thankful to appease the gods of hate.
Meditation on Luke 13.24-27
"Strive to enter through the narrow door; for many, I tell you, will seek to enter and will not be able. Once the head of the house gets up and shuts the door, and you begin to stand outside and knock on the door, saying, 'Lord, open up to us!' then he will answer and say to you, 'I do not know where you are from.' Then you will begin to say, 'We ate and drank in Your presence, and You taught in our streets'; and He will say, 'I tell you, I do not know where you are from...'"
~~~
The Lord ends his statement with a preposition, twice. Apparently the narrow door has something to do with more than grammar. His words ring strange though, almost bumpkin, especially spoken into the sophisticated air we currently breathe. We strive with the question - who am I? - some of us our entire lives. We pass the striving on to our children and our children's children - do you know who you are? In light of Jesus' riddingly poor grammar, I wonder if our question may be too broad.
What if we narrowed our focus from who am I? to where am I from? Some would immediately say that it is, in essence, the same question. Well, maybe. Who am I? ends with a pronoun - me. Where am I from? goes one beyond the me to some place, some people, something other than just the me. What appears to be a narrowing is really an Alice-in-Wonderland door into an open plain of sorts, filled with the menagerie of our lives, people, places, things, sinners, saints, the good, the bad, and the often ugly, always a result of much more than me. To enter that question though, you must shrink yourself.
So, where are you from?
~~~
The Lord ends his statement with a preposition, twice. Apparently the narrow door has something to do with more than grammar. His words ring strange though, almost bumpkin, especially spoken into the sophisticated air we currently breathe. We strive with the question - who am I? - some of us our entire lives. We pass the striving on to our children and our children's children - do you know who you are? In light of Jesus' riddingly poor grammar, I wonder if our question may be too broad.
What if we narrowed our focus from who am I? to where am I from? Some would immediately say that it is, in essence, the same question. Well, maybe. Who am I? ends with a pronoun - me. Where am I from? goes one beyond the me to some place, some people, something other than just the me. What appears to be a narrowing is really an Alice-in-Wonderland door into an open plain of sorts, filled with the menagerie of our lives, people, places, things, sinners, saints, the good, the bad, and the often ugly, always a result of much more than me. To enter that question though, you must shrink yourself.
So, where are you from?
Lange and Ruess - Read, Drink, Tend, Listen...
Lange heard the doorbell ring. It was almost 6:30pm, so the odds were one of the neighbors or UPS. Sure enough, he opened the door to see a brown blur of man and machine speed away. What remained was a large package, taped well, with a familiar name beginning the return address - Ruess.
He opened the box to find a manilla envelope on top of a sea of packing peanuts. The envelope had the words START HERE written across the top, and so Lange carefully slit the seal with a steak knife and read:
Dear Lange,
This is a little goodwill from me to you. As I told you early on, I'm a hard mystic and after awhile words and concepts can make me a little loopy. The popular movie right now is Eat, Pray, Love...well, I prefer Read, Drink, Tend, Listen...sorta the same idea minus Julia Roberts. Dig through the packing and you'll find
~an Annie Dillard book - There are times I don't know what in the hell this lady is talking about and other times when a sentence or phrase of her's splices me open. At one point in this book she writes 'I don't know beans about God'...that's a writer I trust. This is a wrestling book.
~a planter - As you'd guess, the coyote reminds me of you. I dare you to plant something in here, doesn't matter what necessarily, and tend it. It never ceases to amaze me what giving a little attention to small things every day can do.
~a cd - I found this first in album form, as in vinyl. Chances are good you don't own a phonograph so I copied it to cd for you. This is Brazilian flavored easy listening, a good way to begin or end the day. Eve might like to be rocked to sleep by it. I'd be interested to hear your favorite track.
~a coffee mug - If you're a coffee drinker, great. If you drink green tea or something, lord, don't tell me. This is what I'd call 'an icon of light.' You said everything around you feels like weight these days. That's fair. Maybe the BOOTAY mug can elicit a grin, always a turn in the direction of not taking everything so seriously. Sometimes where the face points, the mind will follow.
I was going to keep all this for myself, I like all these items. But if there's anything I've learned in the last few years, Lange, its that 38 Special was right - 'hold on loosely'...so here you go. The whole shebang cost me $3.
Your welcome,
Ruess
He opened the box to find a manilla envelope on top of a sea of packing peanuts. The envelope had the words START HERE written across the top, and so Lange carefully slit the seal with a steak knife and read:
Dear Lange,
This is a little goodwill from me to you. As I told you early on, I'm a hard mystic and after awhile words and concepts can make me a little loopy. The popular movie right now is Eat, Pray, Love...well, I prefer Read, Drink, Tend, Listen...sorta the same idea minus Julia Roberts. Dig through the packing and you'll find
~an Annie Dillard book - There are times I don't know what in the hell this lady is talking about and other times when a sentence or phrase of her's splices me open. At one point in this book she writes 'I don't know beans about God'...that's a writer I trust. This is a wrestling book.
~a planter - As you'd guess, the coyote reminds me of you. I dare you to plant something in here, doesn't matter what necessarily, and tend it. It never ceases to amaze me what giving a little attention to small things every day can do.
~a cd - I found this first in album form, as in vinyl. Chances are good you don't own a phonograph so I copied it to cd for you. This is Brazilian flavored easy listening, a good way to begin or end the day. Eve might like to be rocked to sleep by it. I'd be interested to hear your favorite track.
~a coffee mug - If you're a coffee drinker, great. If you drink green tea or something, lord, don't tell me. This is what I'd call 'an icon of light.' You said everything around you feels like weight these days. That's fair. Maybe the BOOTAY mug can elicit a grin, always a turn in the direction of not taking everything so seriously. Sometimes where the face points, the mind will follow.
I was going to keep all this for myself, I like all these items. But if there's anything I've learned in the last few years, Lange, its that 38 Special was right - 'hold on loosely'...so here you go. The whole shebang cost me $3.
Your welcome,
Ruess
Lange and Ruess - Dancing in Place...
Ruess,
I thought my life would look different at 40. I'm sure you've heard that before; its a true statement for me. I didn't have some elaborate plan for my life, but I was expectant. Now everything around me, especially those I love most, feels like weight. I wish I could feel like your coyote, nose to the wind, but I don't. I feel much more like a mule. I don't like this feeling.
I've had moments lately when I've seriously wanted to run. I'm sure you've heard that before too. But I don't want to be the man who leaves, who abandons those when they need him most. Though right now, I'm afraid that's more about my pride than it is about their needs. Doesn't it say something in the bible about a house divided?
Roy said you were brave in the pulpit.
~~~~~~~
Lange,
Sure, I've heard those things before. Guess what? I've felt those things before, felt some of them yesterday in fact. Its hard for a man to talk much about those things though, the wound-too-tights'll be on you like ducks on a junebug, shaming you, telling you its a sin or something to feel that way and the loose-gooses are just as quick on the draw spinning some version of Disney's just follow your heart. Neither extreme is much help, you're either hurting yourself or those you love, and oftentimes its both. Yes, that house divided phrase is in the bible, but so are a lot of other things.
I came across a story once about the holiest religious ceremony of the Plains Indians - the Sun Dance. The writer was privileged to be a witness and she described it as 'not really a dance with steps but a dance of containment, a dance in place.' I wonder sometimes if that's not what a man has to learn, at least a man who desires wife and children and home and hearth...to dance in place. Sun Dance is quite taxing though, it takes a lot of focus and grit. But you do get to wear nothing but a loincloth.
Brave? More like foolish, Lange. Your daughter, Karen, now I'd say she's brave. Send me your mailing address, I've got a few things for you, a little goodwill.
I thought my life would look different at 40. I'm sure you've heard that before; its a true statement for me. I didn't have some elaborate plan for my life, but I was expectant. Now everything around me, especially those I love most, feels like weight. I wish I could feel like your coyote, nose to the wind, but I don't. I feel much more like a mule. I don't like this feeling.
I've had moments lately when I've seriously wanted to run. I'm sure you've heard that before too. But I don't want to be the man who leaves, who abandons those when they need him most. Though right now, I'm afraid that's more about my pride than it is about their needs. Doesn't it say something in the bible about a house divided?
Roy said you were brave in the pulpit.
~~~~~~~
Lange,
Sure, I've heard those things before. Guess what? I've felt those things before, felt some of them yesterday in fact. Its hard for a man to talk much about those things though, the wound-too-tights'll be on you like ducks on a junebug, shaming you, telling you its a sin or something to feel that way and the loose-gooses are just as quick on the draw spinning some version of Disney's just follow your heart. Neither extreme is much help, you're either hurting yourself or those you love, and oftentimes its both. Yes, that house divided phrase is in the bible, but so are a lot of other things.
I came across a story once about the holiest religious ceremony of the Plains Indians - the Sun Dance. The writer was privileged to be a witness and she described it as 'not really a dance with steps but a dance of containment, a dance in place.' I wonder sometimes if that's not what a man has to learn, at least a man who desires wife and children and home and hearth...to dance in place. Sun Dance is quite taxing though, it takes a lot of focus and grit. But you do get to wear nothing but a loincloth.
Brave? More like foolish, Lange. Your daughter, Karen, now I'd say she's brave. Send me your mailing address, I've got a few things for you, a little goodwill.
Lange and Ruess - Forward...
Lange,
I'm gonna throw something your way. It was a gut feeling I had driving back from the Goodwill store.
I live not far from a popular running/walking/biking trail. Its usually always teeming with body-nazis and eco-ninnies. But yesterday, around noon, a certain stretch was almost bare. As I drove past, there stood a lone coyote in the middle of the trail. Many of the coyotes around here are sickly, yet this one looked like a coyote should, wirey and mean. But he just stood there, looking around, nose to the air, stock-still, deciding between back or forward.
My gut said that's Lange. I realize your grandmother stirred up something in you, something you're thinking you've forgotten. There's remembering the past and then there's trying to recreate the past, two totally different things. If Nora was half the woman you said she was I don't believe she was encouraging you to do the latter. She was trying to help you go forward, Lange.
Trust me though, I'm the pot calling the kettle black.
I'm gonna throw something your way. It was a gut feeling I had driving back from the Goodwill store.
I live not far from a popular running/walking/biking trail. Its usually always teeming with body-nazis and eco-ninnies. But yesterday, around noon, a certain stretch was almost bare. As I drove past, there stood a lone coyote in the middle of the trail. Many of the coyotes around here are sickly, yet this one looked like a coyote should, wirey and mean. But he just stood there, looking around, nose to the air, stock-still, deciding between back or forward.
My gut said that's Lange. I realize your grandmother stirred up something in you, something you're thinking you've forgotten. There's remembering the past and then there's trying to recreate the past, two totally different things. If Nora was half the woman you said she was I don't believe she was encouraging you to do the latter. She was trying to help you go forward, Lange.
Trust me though, I'm the pot calling the kettle black.
Lange and Ruess - Endure...
Lange had intentionally been brief with Ruess about Rebecca. It wasn't so much he was trying to conceal, as he just didn't know what to say. Or actually, he wouldn't know where to stop. The truth is he'd like to scream RUESS, YOUR WIFE IS DEAD AND GONE, BUT MINE IS DEAD AND STILL HERE. But the only way to scream via email is to type in all caps, something Lange simply refused to do.
It was a late Sunday afternoon when Karen broke the news, whimpered I'm pregnant. Lange sat stunned, but Rebecca suddenly sprung to attention, soldiering around her only daughter with strength and we'll get through this, sweetheart. Seven days later, late in the afternoon, Rebecca sat down in a kitchen chair and said I can't, I quit. That was the beginning of her perverted sabbath. And as for most things, she just quit - bathing, dressing, working, sleeping, cooking, laughing, crying. In all the quitting there was one thing she started, smoking - Natural American Spirits, the blue pack. Rebecca would always smoke outside though, on the back deck, never around Karen. Initially Lange believed that behavior to be a singular ember of care, something that might be stoked, fanned. But as days passed he stopped believing.
What's a man to do in a situation like that, when he finds himself between a young, unwed mother-to-be and an older, wedded woman-that-was? The chorus in his head sang endure. And so Lange did. He became, as they say, tough as nails. The only problem is he also became a nail.
It was a late Sunday afternoon when Karen broke the news, whimpered I'm pregnant. Lange sat stunned, but Rebecca suddenly sprung to attention, soldiering around her only daughter with strength and we'll get through this, sweetheart. Seven days later, late in the afternoon, Rebecca sat down in a kitchen chair and said I can't, I quit. That was the beginning of her perverted sabbath. And as for most things, she just quit - bathing, dressing, working, sleeping, cooking, laughing, crying. In all the quitting there was one thing she started, smoking - Natural American Spirits, the blue pack. Rebecca would always smoke outside though, on the back deck, never around Karen. Initially Lange believed that behavior to be a singular ember of care, something that might be stoked, fanned. But as days passed he stopped believing.
What's a man to do in a situation like that, when he finds himself between a young, unwed mother-to-be and an older, wedded woman-that-was? The chorus in his head sang endure. And so Lange did. He became, as they say, tough as nails. The only problem is he also became a nail.
Lange and Ruess - Goodwill...
He couldn't believe Jane's robe was gone. He'd told Roy the lady at the Goodwill store tried to help, but that was a lie. All she did was wave Ruess toward a corner of the store and say maybe back there. His intent to elaborate was silenced as she put in some of those little white earbuds and turned her attention toward a fresh People magazine on the counter. Ruess struck a cruciform pose, palms open, pleading one more time. She popped her gum and raised her chin toward the back of the store. He remembered a line from Hud: 'You don't look out for yourself, the only helping hand you'll ever get is when they lower the box.' He didn't believe the line, but he did remember it. Ruess turned and walked away.
He never found Jane's robe. But Ruess had always had some of the picker in him, and his search yielded an Annie Dillard book - For The Time Being (he'd only read her Tinker Creek), a black coffee mug with the word bootay emblazoned across it in sparkly gold (it fit his hand strangely well), a terra cotta planter in the shape of a howling coyote (an ear chipped off), and a near mint 33rpm of 'Fool On The Hill' by Sergio Mendes and Brasil '66 (some days you're just lucky). He gathered the four items and headed back to the front counter. The same lady was there, same earbuds, same gum. She keyed each item not once making eye contact with Ruess. You wanna bag for this? Ruess said please although he was about out of patience with her. Rich or poor, young or old, there's no excuse for rude. As he walked away she tacked on have a good day.
He sat a moment before driving home. Jane, I'm sorry about your robe. I feel like the fool I am. He could imagine her sitting there, grinning, saying Ruess, grow up. He rustled the bag, $3 for a little goodwill. Not bad.
He never found Jane's robe. But Ruess had always had some of the picker in him, and his search yielded an Annie Dillard book - For The Time Being (he'd only read her Tinker Creek), a black coffee mug with the word bootay emblazoned across it in sparkly gold (it fit his hand strangely well), a terra cotta planter in the shape of a howling coyote (an ear chipped off), and a near mint 33rpm of 'Fool On The Hill' by Sergio Mendes and Brasil '66 (some days you're just lucky). He gathered the four items and headed back to the front counter. The same lady was there, same earbuds, same gum. She keyed each item not once making eye contact with Ruess. You wanna bag for this? Ruess said please although he was about out of patience with her. Rich or poor, young or old, there's no excuse for rude. As he walked away she tacked on have a good day.
He sat a moment before driving home. Jane, I'm sorry about your robe. I feel like the fool I am. He could imagine her sitting there, grinning, saying Ruess, grow up. He rustled the bag, $3 for a little goodwill. Not bad.
Maybe, maybe not...
[I temporarily interrupt our current storyline for this…Lange and Ruess’ll return on Monday, promise]
Years ago, I and a gamillion other people read everything author Robert Fulghum wrote. Critics summarily dismissed him as saccharine; in other words, sweet. I’m rather fond of sweet myself. It does wonders for black coffee, and the medicine-go-down. A little more sweet might make for a better world.
Fulghum always had great titles: Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten; It Was on Fire When I Lay Down on It; Uh-Oh…genius, pure genius. My favorite was Maybe (Maybe Not). The title was inspired by a Hebrew word – timshel – meaning ‘maybe.’ Something in my splankna tells me an astute reader will offer the ‘correct’ meaning of that word and it won’t be ‘maybe.’ Just remember, astute reader, that sometimes its more important to be in right relationship than it is to be right. I heard an arrogantly humble preacher say that once, so I guess its true. Maybe.
Fulghum’s book is a collection of stories built on the premise of well, maybe, but then again, maybe not. Possibility...openness...wonder...all stances that, I believe, might just make for a better world. For example
- Maybe the most spiritual cinematic scene in recent history was when that raindrop fell from heaven in the crucifixion scene in Mel Gibson’s The Passion. But maybe not. Maybe it was those quiet moments in Million Dollar Baby, the ones in Ira’s Roadside Diner with Eastwood and Swank sitting at the counter eating a piece of lemon pie.
- Maybe Miley Cyrus is really not a Christian after all. She’s got a racy pole-video out, she did that nekkid-back Vanity Fair shoot, all image enhancing efforts to let us know little Hannah’s done-grow’d-up, we’re not in Montana anymore. But maybe not. Maybe she’s going through changes that are going to be fraught, fraught I tell you, with achy-broken hearts, but they are all a part of her life's climb and she’s gonna end up with a mansion next to yours just over the hilltop one of these days, in heaven, just down the golden bricks from Anne Rice, and me.
- Speaking of heaven, maybe we’ll spend eternity singing Matt Redman songs, or crankin’ Third Day, or doing the motions to that awesome Rich Mullins tune. But maybe not. Maybe M-W-F will be filled with Pavarotti and T-Th with Emmylou Harris, with Saturdays being devoted to Chicago. Sunday mornin might be Johnny Cash and evenings could be the Ave Maria a capella. That’d be nice, huh? Of course, it being heaven, we could probably make special requests, like a Judy Collins' tune or two.
- And maybe church is people gathered together under something, a roof or lean-to, and scripture being read, folks sharing about life, a little wine, a little bread, amen. Then again, maybe not, or at least maybe not always. Maybe it might also be something along the lines of Chardin’s saying Mass upon the altar of the world, divinizing the day, driving on past the Sunday morning assembly and having breakfast with your family or friends at Cracker Barrel, laughing, joking, catching up, some biscuits, a little more coffee, leaving the waitress a graceful tip…or even walking around the lake outside town by yourself, chewing juicy-fruit or Copenhagen, watching for sparrows that might fall, humming a Bieber tune, smelling sage.
I realize maybe is a sandy word, it grits at the heart of certainty, the rock upon which wise men build their houses. That’s fair. But I remember reading somewhere that we see, when we’re looking at all, through a glass darkly; in other words - maybe, maybe not. That phrase can leave you all shaky, nervous, closed, or it could swing wide open the door to wanton permissiveness, all-roads-lead-to-Rome, no rules-easy rider, don’t-stand-for-something-fall-for-anything. But maybe not. It could open us up to a life that’s attractive, inviting, trusting, faithful, shot straight through with the grandeur of the Grace that keeps this world…in a word, sorta, well, sweet.
But then again, too much sweet can rot your teeth, make your zits go nuclear, and lead to an early onset of diabetes. So never mind. Just never mind.
Lange and Ruess - Remember...
Ruess,
Lange said he wrote to you. Go easy on him. He can wax pretty eloquent about the recent past but between the lines is a lot of hurt. Quite a few family and friends blackballed them when Karen got pregnant. His wife, Rebecca, went completely zombie on him, useless as jello. Karen carried the baby in her belly and Lange carried the cross on his back. The fit really hit the shan, Ruess.
I told him a little about you, where you've been. And about Jane. I sure do miss her.
~~~~~~~
Roy,
Lange seems like a man who's trying, but yes, he builds walls with words. That's alright. I'll listen for awhile. He's pretty angry.
I miss Jane even more these days. I accidentally gave away a bag of her clothes last week, it had her old purple robe in it. The lady at the Goodwill tried to help me, but its gone. I swear that robe still smelled like her, Roy. I'd cut my hand off to have that back. The things of this world, the precious things of this world.
~~~~~~~
Ruess,
Well, crap. I'm pretty sure she was wearing that robe the first time I met her, that and those yellow buckaroo boots - do you remember that? Sherry had just left me and I hadn't touched female flesh in weeks and Jane shook my hand and I literally had to sit down, remember that? I sorta hoped you'd get hit by a bus or something that evening and Jane and I could run off together and be lovers. But a bus never came by.
~~~~~~~
Roy,
I remember it all.
Lange said he wrote to you. Go easy on him. He can wax pretty eloquent about the recent past but between the lines is a lot of hurt. Quite a few family and friends blackballed them when Karen got pregnant. His wife, Rebecca, went completely zombie on him, useless as jello. Karen carried the baby in her belly and Lange carried the cross on his back. The fit really hit the shan, Ruess.
I told him a little about you, where you've been. And about Jane. I sure do miss her.
~~~~~~~
Roy,
Lange seems like a man who's trying, but yes, he builds walls with words. That's alright. I'll listen for awhile. He's pretty angry.
I miss Jane even more these days. I accidentally gave away a bag of her clothes last week, it had her old purple robe in it. The lady at the Goodwill tried to help me, but its gone. I swear that robe still smelled like her, Roy. I'd cut my hand off to have that back. The things of this world, the precious things of this world.
~~~~~~~
Ruess,
Well, crap. I'm pretty sure she was wearing that robe the first time I met her, that and those yellow buckaroo boots - do you remember that? Sherry had just left me and I hadn't touched female flesh in weeks and Jane shook my hand and I literally had to sit down, remember that? I sorta hoped you'd get hit by a bus or something that evening and Jane and I could run off together and be lovers. But a bus never came by.
~~~~~~~
Roy,
I remember it all.
Lange and Ruess - God weeps...
Lange,
God weeps - I realize that was sorta abrupt. When Karen came and told you she was pregnant, did you laugh at her? Even before that, say when she hoped to make the volleyball team or something and didn't, did you chuckle? Or how about you, when you talked with Roy at the funeral about life going cockeyed, did he just lean back and hee-haw? I'm gonna roll the dice on all three counts and say no.
Sure, there's always some ninny cooking up semi-selfish plans, some days that ninny is me, but even then you've got someone trying to do something rather than nothing. I've found most folks, like you and Rebecca and Karen and Aalim and Nora and Roy, even the Yiddish, are trying. If God's sitting around laughing at all our tries and misses because he knows better or likes to be able to say see I told you so, then we're in quite a shitter.
~~~~~~~
Ruess,
I've had thoughts like that before. Thank you for writing them.
God weeps - I realize that was sorta abrupt. When Karen came and told you she was pregnant, did you laugh at her? Even before that, say when she hoped to make the volleyball team or something and didn't, did you chuckle? Or how about you, when you talked with Roy at the funeral about life going cockeyed, did he just lean back and hee-haw? I'm gonna roll the dice on all three counts and say no.
Sure, there's always some ninny cooking up semi-selfish plans, some days that ninny is me, but even then you've got someone trying to do something rather than nothing. I've found most folks, like you and Rebecca and Karen and Aalim and Nora and Roy, even the Yiddish, are trying. If God's sitting around laughing at all our tries and misses because he knows better or likes to be able to say see I told you so, then we're in quite a shitter.
~~~~~~~
Ruess,
I've had thoughts like that before. Thank you for writing them.
Lange and Ruess - God and Yiddish...
Lange,
Mercy. That's alot. I'm sorry.
The old Yiddish proverb is 'we plan, God laughs.' Lord, I'd like to find the Yiddish who came up with that and whack him.
How did Nora dote on Eve?
~~~~~~~
Ruess,
My grandmother was married at fifteen and got pregnant later that year. Nora didn't approve of all the details, but her support for Karen throughout the pregnancy was nothing short of heroic. At the reunion, Nora gathered everyone together. She kissed Karen and Eve and then presented Eve with a string of blue glass beads. Everyone in the family knows of those beads. They were a gift to my grandmother on her wedding day, from my grandfather.
If God doesn't laugh when our plans go awry, what then?
~~~~~~~
Lange,
I believe he weeps.
Mercy. That's alot. I'm sorry.
The old Yiddish proverb is 'we plan, God laughs.' Lord, I'd like to find the Yiddish who came up with that and whack him.
How did Nora dote on Eve?
~~~~~~~
Ruess,
My grandmother was married at fifteen and got pregnant later that year. Nora didn't approve of all the details, but her support for Karen throughout the pregnancy was nothing short of heroic. At the reunion, Nora gathered everyone together. She kissed Karen and Eve and then presented Eve with a string of blue glass beads. Everyone in the family knows of those beads. They were a gift to my grandmother on her wedding day, from my grandfather.
If God doesn't laugh when our plans go awry, what then?
~~~~~~~
Lange,
I believe he weeps.
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