37 Steps

"One of these days, letters are going to fall from the sky...

telling us all to go free.

But until that day, I’ll find a way to let everyone know

that you’re coming back...

coming back for me." - Civil Twilight (Letters From the Sky)

There is quiet space between sin and grace. I know, because I’ve been there. It’s a “still” sort of silence. A little over two years ago I walked 37 steps surrounded by it. I know, because I went back the other day and counted them. 37 steps exactly between the spot where I said, “This is really bad. Am I really going to do this?” and the spot where I said, “Yes, I definitely am.”

I never got to the 38^th step because God said “No.” Plain and simple. I don’t care if that challenges some people’s notions of free will because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was Him who intervened and firmly turned me away. I felt it. Love for my shame. Patience for my willfulness. Grace for my sin. The universe just sorta sighed and said, “Oh. Anthony. Has it really come to this?”

Devastation. It was 37 steps away. I look around me and I see a lot of folks hurting and hurting others these days, for beliefs or prejudices that not a single one of them was born with. You come into this world full of love and boundless curiosity. It starts with your mother’s touch, your father’s voice and those bizarre figures dangling from the mobile over your crib. You reach out, for all of it, and you never really stop reaching, do you? For something to catch your eye. For someone to love you. 

Here’s the thing I learned while taking that 38^th step on that hot day in July when all the fissures in my soul had finally joined together to form a massive crack that I was about to fall into head first. The greatest love and curiosity of all is our creator. Yes, He has set us free to bump into walls and in His wisdom, he will not always intervene. But, like any good parent, he’s only one step away from those moments when we’re about to make a really big mistake.

What was my sin? That’s not important. What was your sin? That’s not important, either. Nor is sin “contemplated” much different than “sin committed”. Because, let’s be honest, some of the most despicable crimes of our lives are committed on the mean streets of our minds. Don’t believe me? Go check out Matthew 5:21-48. Tough stuff. Regardless, what is important is that we realize that every step we take in this life is just one more on the journey.

And Thank God, we’re not alone.

Walking "The Way"

I have a dream of walking “The Camino de Santiago” (a.k.a. the Way of St. James) one day. The commonly agreed-upon route begins at Saint Jean Pied de Port, France, and travels 500 miles through four of Spain’s 15 regions, ending at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia. The journey takes hikers over the Pyrenees Mountains, past vineyards, and through lush eucalyptus forests. It takes about 30-40 days to complete, depending on your pace.

If you know me (aka The Claritin Kid) you may be rolling your eyes right now. But bear with me. First off, the route is hardly remote. With a "Pilgrim’s Passport", you can access basic lodging and hot showers every 5 miles or so. You pack very light, eat from farm stands and restaurants, and can take more comfortable breathers in some of the rest stop towns along the way. It’s all very budget friendly, as you enjoy some of the most beautiful countrysides in Europe.

More importantly, to me, is that over and over people say that it is hands down one of the most spiritual things they’ve ever experienced. No cell phones. No computers. Just you, the walk and the magic of meeting random people from all over the world. “You just follow the path and whatever comes up is there,” says the guy in this video (Six Ways to Santiago). I imagine on the lonelier stretches it’s just you and God.

When you finally make it to the Cathedral (where tradition has it that the remains of St. James are buried) you get a special certificate, which I guess is cool for hanging on the wall when you get back home. But then? You can push on for two more days (and 50 more miles) to get to Finisterre and the “lighthouse at the edge of the world” where you can have lunch looking out over the Atlantic Ocean. I love lighthouses. Always have. There’s something solitary and yet hopeful about them.  

My amazing wife has given me her blessing to go but already told me to count her out. Lol. As have two of my most rugged buddies (one from South Africa and the other from New Zealand, both with plenty of hiking and outdoors experience). I dunno. Maybe I’m crazy. Or maybe I’m just meant to do it alone. But, God Willing, I’m going to find out someday. Mark my words.

The Blue Bible

"...in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us" - Romans 8:37

There is a blue bible that sits on my nightstand. It is tattered and worn, the way a good bible should be. It once belonged to my mother-in-law, Carol.  I don’t read it much because in it there are notes, upon notes, surrounding highlighted bits of text and scripture, amidst a sea of personal comments and reflections. She had this bible a long time. I imagine it escorted her through the many challenges of being a good wife, mother, daughter, friend and sister.

It also escorted her all the way through the battle with breast cancer that she would eventually lose. And this is where you will find me leaving the bible there, on my nightstand, untouched. Because to open it is to find so much faith that it will either drop you to your knees or bring you to tears. Often, it’s both. One can read the reflections of C.S. Lewis, Henri Nouwen, Billy Graham or others and still not find the same value of wisdom in words written by someone whom you knew, personally, and loved…as they fought the good fight all the way to the end.

Irony is a constant companion. For me, this bible recalls a girl in Hermosa Beach back in the summer of 1990. I worked as a parking attendant back then in the booth on 11^th Street, and one day I found a bible…worn, tattered, torn…that someone had accidentally left on a fence post nearby. I grabbed it, opened it and scoffed. Inside?  Notes upon notes, surrounding highlighted bits of text and scripture, amidst a sea of personal comments. “What a nut job!” I thought. I was going to leave it until I noticed that on the inside cover there was a name and a phone number. I sighed. Oh, brother. Now I had to call and meet the nut job, or I’d feel guilty.

When she appeared an hour later, overjoyed and beyond relieved to get her bible back, I got exactly what I expected. Younger than me, in her early 20’s, she was dressed like a hippie and wearing sandals. We chatted briefly. She invited me to her church, Hope Chapel, and I smiled – an arrogant, condescending, ignorant smile – and told her thanks, but no thanks. I bid her goodbye. She left with her bible and I never saw her again.

Over 25 years later, here I am again, with a bible of utter and complete testimony. Except this one wasn’t lost. It was left behind. Not as a farewell, but as a constant introduction. Not as an example, but as an inspiration.  It belonged to a woman of great faith and insurmountable love…my mother-in-law...Carol Arriola.

Who once went to Hope Chapel.

A Christmas Worthy Love

The Bible teaches that barriers to our success exist in our mind. Your abilities with God have no limit. You will do great things in your life. Your “Bamma” prayed this prayer over you as an infant every night, so grateful to God for the gift of our next family generation.

David defeated Goliath NOT because he fought well…

But because he believed well.

My mother in law wrote these words under a full quote of Psalm 139. She wrote them to my son when he was five, shortly before she lost her battle with cancer. I can barely type those words without being overcome with awe. Not tears. Awe. This was a person who knew the end was not only coming but imminent. There would be no last second medical heroics and no sudden news of a misdiagnosis.

So what did she do? She turned to her God. The same God who had not, for some reason, answered all her prayers to be healed, prayers that I’m sure were whispered to heaven with no selfish motives. She wanted to stay awhile longer. For her husband and her children, and most of all, for her beautiful grandson, who was born with Cerebral Palsy and was going up against a terrifying world with special needs. She wanted to be there, to help, love, kiss and counsel him through it all. But God said no.

So what did she do? She turned it all over to God. Again, I have to say…awe. It was a maturity of faith that a Jacob-like fellow like myself could not (and still cannot) grasp. I’m all about questioning God, debating God, wrestling God. To endure the pain and solitude of leaving this world in my fifties, before my youngest child has married and just five years after my first grandchild was born? Oh man. God knows me. I’m too weak for that. My faith is not there yet. There would be war. I would fall away.

But Carol WAS ready. It WAS her time. As I think of her this Christmas season I remember a woman who loved to put up her Nativity set, building and expanding on the display and characters and joy represented therein. I think of someone who lovingly chastised my obsessions with wealth, power and money. The woman who once told me I was a horrible multi-tasker (the nerve!) and who would quietly watch me with her daughter, to make sure that each day I was worthy of the gift God gave me in Maxime’s love. And I think of the woman who wanted Anthony to hear her voice whenever he was down.

So what did she do? She left a love note to her grandson that laid it all out under the canopy of scripture. Then she framed it. In a written testimony of faith, she turned his growth and well-being over to the God born in a manger under a bright star in a dark night sky. It was blind faith. It was naïve. It was pure and utter surrender. It was a Christmas worthy love.

And what did God do? Take a look at my son. You will find your answer there.

Mother, May I? (Part 3 of 3)

One player is "mother". The other players are the "children". To begin the game, the mother stands at one end of a room and turns around facing away, while all the children line up at the other end. The children take turns asking "Mother, may I ____?" and makes a movement suggestion, like "Mother, may I take five steps forward?" The mother either replies "Yes, you may" or "No, you may not do that, but you may _____ instead" and inserts her own suggestion. The players usually move closer to the mother but are sometimes led farther away. – Wikipedia (“Mother May I’ Game Rules)

My mother never intentionally meant to harm me. She may have done things that made me move farther away from her, or made unfavorable suggestions. But note that the child has a role in this game too. The child can ask to move forwards many steps, openly, or very few, guardingly. I am working my way towards being healed. I hope you are too, with your splinters, because we all have them. It’s just that most of us get caught in the trap of thinking and talking about them, instead of just getting them out.

I’m done asking my mother for permission to love her or be loved by her. What’s that you say? “You kinda don’t have a choice now, Tony. She’s gone.” If only that were so. The truth is that Death does not end the conversation. It only starts a new one. Now I only ask her one thing: “May I?”

And as I pray for help sometimes to pull those splinters out, and feel the angels come to minister to my wounds? I feel another presence there, too. She has soft brown hair and a sweet smile. When she was little she would play hide in seek in her favorite dress and give herself away by giggling too much. Then she grew up, tall and stunningly beautiful, and the world began to take advantage of her, and she let it. Until she couldn’t take it anymore and lashed out at it and lost her way a bit.

Heaven has removed my mother’s splinters, of this I am sure, and from the other side of that veil, I can feel her now, being the mother she always wanted to be. Because mother’s never really leave us, and they never stop tending to the “boo-boo’s”, especially the ones they themselves have caused us. 

And if I wait patiently enough? I can feel her kissing each and every one of them, just before she whispers “Alllll better now.”

Mother, May I? (Part 2 of 3)

“With my mother’s death all settled happiness disappeared from my life. There was much fun, many pleasures, many stabs of joy; but no more of the old security. It was sea and islands now; the great continent had sunk like Atlantis.” – C.S. Lewis

In the midst of mourning the loss of her husband, my mother immediately turned to her children. In her mind it was time, at last, to address many issues. But it’s never that easy. Sometimes the past is a very tall wall. Frustrated and confused she found sanctuary in her faith and the church. Now I had a problem. As a Christian, I had to deal with Jesus getting all up in my face. Not only about harboring unforgiveness in my heart or failing to honor my mother, but also about shutting out a fellow believer who was in need.

For me, this was beyond the pale. Thirty-five years of hurts were supposed to just be set aside? Really?  “Do you not understand my splinters?!” I cried out to Jesus. He looked down at me from the cross with tired eyes that said, “Really? Your splinters? Try coming up here for a while.” Jesus understood that the splinters had to be removed. Not discussed. Not understood. Not rationalized. Not theorized over. Just. Removed.

My mother and I began to work on this process. We talked openly of the hurts we’d caused one another over the years and I was stunned to find that I had caused splinters in her as well…imagine that. I know what you’re expecting…a happy ending. But no. Neither of us had what it took to get the job completely done. We were able to end the war, but unable to comprehend what to do next with the peace that followed. Two hearts reached a detente, of sorts, but the borders, sadly, remained.

Then she died.

But after she was gone I realized that though the splinters were still there? Our efforts to love one another had at least brought them closer to the surface. I could see them again, and get at them, and begin removing them. I’m still at it. And can I tell you something? It hurts. Really bad. A splinter quickly removed is not painless, but a splinter from a festering wound? Yikes. But it was time.

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.

Mother, May I? (Part 1 of 3)

Somebody's Mother

Somebody's mother today

Will linger by her phone

Hoping one child will call

Before the day has flown.

Somebody's mother will weep,

Heartbroken and stunned tonight,

Because her children gone

Forgot to call or write.

Somebody's mother somewhere

Will kiss with lips of grief,

Portraits of children grown

And cry herself to sleep.

Often in my life, I tend to dwell on the hurts. I like to tell myself that it’s the intellectual thing to do: engage those mental and emotional wounds to better understand the pains they cause. But lately, I’m not sure that one is meant to understand pain. The body evidently doesn’t think so; it feels it and reacts to heal it as quickly as possible. And that works, as long as the splinter is in our flesh. 

But the splinters in our mind are a different matter, entirely. For some reason we feel that we can only get these “out” by contemplating them, ruminating over them and analyzing them. Many of us will find a way to blame ourselves for some of the splinters, and then begin a series of construction projects in and around each of them, inevitably making more out of them than they originally were.

The thing is…splinters are only meant to be removed. 

My mother and I separated when I was five. She left. My father and I. And just like those two, very short and no doubt grammatically incorrect sentences, that was life for a long time: my father and I, against the world, and my mother leaving, only the one time in reality, but in my heart? It felt like she left over and over. It was a sharp splinter and in my youth I only pushed it down, further and further. Until I couldn’t see it.

Forty years later the man my mother left us for died. I was as indifferent to his death as I was to her grief. My dad once told me that my mom had a saying she’d use with us kids (me and my half brother and sister) that used to drive him crazy. It was “You made your bed, now go lie in it.” Well. As my mother mourned and found herself suddenly all alone in world, I didn’t say that to her, but God help me, I thought it. Yeah, I know. Harsh. And we're just getting started.
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK…