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…

Word Up

- Emily Dickenson

There was a time when words spoken and words written had meaning. They still do, of course. But, sadly, they are spoken less frequently, and when written, come now to us in muted strings of 140 characters, or in Facebook posts that only highlight the victories of our lives. But there is no real wisdom in the garbled haikus of Twitter. No defeat in the glamorous posts on Facebook.

I think the world would be a better place if people were just willing to bleed a little in public. Not in a self-pitying way, not to play the martyr, but rather to more genuinely proclaim their humanity. Because there is a strength to be found in sharing our weaknesses, to help each other. As Hemingway says, “"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places." It’s our job to seek those with wounds that match, to advise, and wounds that don’t match, to consult.

A word is a living thing. Spoken. Written. Conveyed. So often, we don’t take time for them anymore, and as a result, it is a crime each day how many moments of love, connection and encouragement are lost forever, sacrificed on the altar of our newsfeeds and work deadlines. Until, one day, you wake up and say, “Waitaminutenow. Hold on. I…have something…I want…to say.” If your heart is right, this moment is not followed by an egotistical “Listen to me!” but rather in a humble, contrite, nauseatingly vulnerable “Will you hear me?”

I write stories because of words. It is in their architecture that I can find a way…to you, to others...and invite you in. A story is a building, the opening the foyer and each chapter a room. Once the tour is over, all I can hope for is that I will find you in the study, warming yourself by the fire, a little richer for the experience before you head back out into the world that is your life.

And if that world is sometimes cold and lonely? If I have been blessed enough in the telling of the thing, you will have been given a story that sparks a fire in you that will never go out.

Happy Reading

There is, I think, an inevitability to all things. Growing old, the change of seasons, discord amongst peoples, temptation and auto spell repeatedly failing you during a text, to name a few.

Recently I read “The Pearl” by John Steinbeck. It’s a fascinating little read that reminded me of how much I love short stories (Hemingway and Chekov are two of my favs) and how much I miss them. There’s something magical about a writer saying something briefly, sometimes even incompletely, and then moving on down the road, leaving the reader to sift through the remnants and distill the reflections. A firmer acknowledgment, I think, by the creator of a thing in asserting the equal role of the recipient in the alchemy of the entire process of creation.

I’ve moved on to novels now; the form of them, the art of them. For my birthday my sister-in-law gave me “Journal of a Novel” by…drum roll please…John Steinbeck. Hm. For a guy I've hardly ever read, he's popping up a lot lately. Anyway, it’s a fascinating read so far. Not so much for the technical aspects of writing a novel (the book is his journal as he was preparing to write East of Eden) as much as for the internal aspects of the mind of one of the masters, as he struggled with his views, visions and dreams…of his life to be as much as of his work to be.

Those who know me well know that lurking in the shadows of all I read or write are two great forces: C.S. Lewis and Marcel Proust. One to make sure that I’m listening to God, the other to make sure that I’m listening to my heart. I’ve had a literary novel in the works for ten years now, that’s at nearly 400 pages, and I’ve been scared to push on. “It will be too long,” I say to myself. “At least 1200 pages and probably far too boring.” To which Proust says, “I call your 1200 pages and raise you 2300 pages more.” It’s a novel about spirituality and mental health and when I get all nervous about talking about such things, Lewis replies: “If you’re not talking about God, why bother talking at all?”

I get locked up there, in my head space, and trip out. So does anyone think it’s a coincidence that along comes Steinbeck now, to share in his journal things like “There is nothing beyond this book – nothing follows it. It must contain all in the world I know and it must have everything in it of which I am capable – all styles, all techniques, all poetry – and it must have in it a great deal of laughter.” Or how about, “I can’t think of anything else necessary to a writer except a story and the will and the ability to tell it.”

I could go on but I think you’re getting the drift. Because we're all readers, you see, of our own lives. God the creator has made of us very short stories indeed, but we are each an epic tale. He has moved on down the road, yes, but if you look closely? He’s still watching from just around the bend. To see if you will sift through the remnants and distill the reflections, both of who you are and of who you’re meant to be.

Sing Me A Song

“In the full light of day, and in hearing of the music of other voices, the caged bird will not sing the song that his master seeks to teach him. He learns a snatch of this, a trill of that, but never a separate and entire melody. But the master covers the cage, and places it where the bird will listen to the one song he is to sing. In the dark, he tries and tries again to sing that song until it is learned, and he breaks forth in perfect melody. Then the bird is brought forth, and ever after he can sing that song in the light. Thus God deals with His children. He has a song to teach us, and when we have learned it amid the shadows of affliction we can sing it ever afterward.”  -- Nature Lessons /MH 472.  {VSS 461.2}

We all have a pretty good idea understanding the concept of being taught lessons. From almost day one we’re dealing with them; at home as children, and then at school, as adolescents, and even later, as young adults, in college, one lesson after another. Then? We get a job. More lessons.

So it should come as no surprise that many of us approach our spiritual walk, our faith, in much the same way. We study, read, observe and apply almost everything we learn into a paradigm of learning, with God as the teacher, handing out lesson after lesson, and we as the students, trying to learn them and “make the grade”. At some point we begin to sense we have this wrong, so like any good student just trying to survive, we avoid the letter grade and go for a “Pass/Fail”.

Then we fail.

Maybe it’s a health issue, or someone dies, or someone lets you down. There are so many ways to have your heart broken in this life. I could type for ten hours straight, trying to list them all, and barely scratch the surface. But whatever the cause of our pain, we act like good students. We respond to it with our knowledge, will, study, scripture, understanding and all those lessons we’ve learned.

And it doesn’t work.

Because God has not brought you this far to teach how to think, He’s not about "head space". He wants to teach you how to sing and feel. He’s about "heart space". What if every dark moment of your life, as painful and radical as it may sound, was God covering the cage over your heart (the cage you built with your own two hands, by the twisted metal of your sins) not only so that you WOULD listen, but also so that you COULD listen. In all the noise of this world you would then hear God whispering to you a tune of surrender, patience, presence and love.

What if the only lesson we’re ever really meant to learn is simply how to sing that sweet song of grace? 

Pleasure & A Paycheck

In the trials of life that come, and go, and come back around again, we often find ourselves. By that, I mean, our true selves, the part of us that has learned to hold the line, or that part of us that still, instinctively, inevitably, flees. You are in that moment, the real you, and that’s where you will find out how much you've grown, and yes, how far you still have to go.

I used to find such moments shameful because, to be honest, fleeing, or even doing the wrong thing, was just plain easier. “Life is hard enough”, I used to tell myself, “Without shouldering a single ounce more than I have to.” Screw that. Count me out. Get me to the next concert, or bar, and the next beer. I liked all that “eat, drink and be merry” stuff that Solomon talked about in the Bible. For that? You could count me in.

But I was, of course, doing selective reading. 

You don’t have to be a spiritual person to appreciate that tough times happen. Maybe, no matter how hard you try, you can’t get past being single. You keep meeting someone, who may be the right one, who ends up being the last one, while you’re left waiting for the next one. Or your job blindsides you by passing you up for a promotion. Or worse. Today I was on LinkedIN and saw a connection announcing her resignation as CEO of her company effective Feb 1^st, due to Stage 4 breast cancer that has spread rapidly to her bones and lungs. She's in her mid-30’s. Married. No children.

There’s something to be observed in all of these challenges. They’re all pains of a different kind, but they each tell us that we only have so much time to get things right, to figure things out, as best we can, in the time that we have left. You can say that we will never “figure things out”, and if you add the word “entirely” then I would agree. But we should be trying. If were not, we're simply existing. The billions of cells that have been brought together to make us each a sentient being would then be an alchemy of wasted effort, by a God who would love us nonetheless, but still, I imagine, be left scratching his head at the end of our days saying, “Really? All those years and it never became about more than just pleasure and a paycheck?”

The trials will come. We must practice facing them, not fleeing or avoiding them, and learn from them. That’s how we will grow. We must find hand holds of a firmer grip, not on the grand scale of the universe around us but of the universe within. Because life isn’t just all about the trials; it’s about all the moments amidst and in between them. That’s where the real you will always be found.

Shiny, Red Apples

I want to share something with you today that may blow your mind, like, outta the park. You might want to sit down. Are you ready? Okay. Here it is.

Sin...is a choice.

Now, don't just say, "Well...of course it is, Tony." Nope. Let it percolate for a minute. Because, if you really mull it over, you realize that it's one of those things whose truth is obvious when observed but quite deceptive when being lived out. In other words, when we're busy doing the business of living. Because there are shiny red apples all around us. An orchard of them, really.

Most of us haven't stolen (except maybe on our taxes), or murdered anyone (except those times when we used our words to kill their self esteem or "put them in their place"), or committed adultery (except in our minds). Most of us think that we're free and clear of "the biggies" (with "think" being the operative word).

But did you know that worry is a sin? And fear? And doubt? How about anger? Judgement? Unforgiveness? Bitterness? Or, my favorite, pride? All choices. All with consequences. All constructs of willful misconduct. Yet still, all futile in the face of a Loving God who sits down to gently untie the knots that we tie ourselves up in every day and whispers, "Shhhh. Why, child? Why do you keep choosing these things?"

In this holiday season it's easy to get wrapped up in the garland and shiny lights and totally forget the reason for the season; namely that a little boy was born in a manger, cried out in the first pains of his humanity, and that through him God crept into the world to tap each one of us on the shoulder, and - through the life, love and sacrifice of his Son - remind us to choose wisely.

Because, without a doubt, it's our choice.

Ayla Wanted to Know

MEET AYLA :)

The other day I was at Carousel Ranch in Santa Clarita, CA, a place which provides equestrian therapy for special needs children. For many years my son went there, before he decided to stop. This month, out of nowhere, he asked to return. His mother and I gladly obliged his request, and as I was walking around the property noticing the amazing changes that had taken place in the three years of our absence (the arena is now covered, a play area had been constructed, landscaping was everywhere) my thoughts were interrupted by a voice.

“Hi. How are you?” a little girl near me asked, the question like a hug, because it was warm, and you could tell that she meant it.  I looked down. She was tiny, but she had a smile so big that it nearly tipped her over. 

“I’m fine. How are you?” I replied. 

“Good. It’s a nice day!” she marveled, nodding her head vigorously, as if her excitement alone could make it so, just in case I was having a bad day. 

We chatted. I learned that her name was Ayla. She learned that mine was Tony. She told me of the horses that she rode and I told her that my son went there, and loved the horses too. She wanted to tell me of her favorite instructor and a funny story about one of her lessons, and as she did, bit by bit, my heart began to swell, because that’s what genuine human interaction does: it opens the heart.

As she spoke, I wondered if this little girl who was supposedly “different” was not the most “normal” of all. I didn’t wonder this in any philosophical or altruistic way, not in a way that could be perceived as being patronizing or condescending. This is not a “puff-piece-feel-good-and-humble” sort of blog today. I’m serious. What if God means for all of us to care about each other with warmth, look at each other with love, smile at each other with genuine encouragement and talk to each other in  fellowship? If so, then the only ones that are really “disabled” in this world are the rest of us, you and me, the “normal” ones who are so good at creating labels and keeping safe distances.

So often I have noticed members of the special needs community (we’ve even given them their own "community") display raw and vulnerable human spirit that is mesmerizing. It reaches out and touches, but embraces as well. Ayla doesn't care about differences; she's in the business of similarities. She's there to remind us that it really is as simple as noticing something we all share, like the sun, and saying something we all know how to say, like “Hi”, and wondering something deeply and genuinely, like “How are you?”

MOMENTS LIKE THIS HAPPEN EVERYDAY AT CAROUSEL RANCH. THEIR ANNUAL "Carousel Wishes & Valentine Kisses" FUNDRAISER IS UNDERWAY. $5, $10...it ALL helps.
Please give: http://carouselwishesandvalentinekisses.causevox.com/anthony-faggioli

Beneath A Sycamore Tree

Yesterday a forty-eight year old man wandered the graveyard at Inglewood Cemetery, a bouquet of flowers hanging from one hand, a map of the plots in the other, unable to find his mother’s grave.  Back and forth he went, up and down the rows of markers, finding name after name, but not the name he was seeking. Already emotional at even being there, he stopped to take a deep breath. Wasn’t this how he’d spent most of his life with his mother: seeking and not finding? Yes. It was.

Out of nowhere came a soft, angelic voice. “Excuse me sir, do you need help?”

The man, startled a bit, looked up to see a young black girl in her early twenties, wearing a faded orange blouse, her prominent cheekbones set beneath dark eyes that were soft with concern. In her arms was a newborn baby, fast asleep, swaddled in a blanket. Clearing his throat, the man managed a reply, “I’m looking for my mother,” he said, “But I can’t find her. I have a map, but…”

She nodded politely. “Can I help?” And the man nodded back. “Sure.” 

The girl called over a girlfriend that was in a parked car nearby and the two of them went up and down the various rows, helping the man, looking for the same name he was. All to no avail. Sadness now began mixing with feelings of embarrassment and despair. Then, another voice called out to the man, this one in Spanish. “Which plot number are you looking for?” It was one of the groundskeepers, a look of pity on his face and a shovel in his hand. How does he know I speak Spanish, the man wondered. They talked. The man told the groundskeeper the number, and after a bit, at long last, the man was led with these three angels to the name he was looking for.

Then? Instantly, respectfully, they all left him alone. The man felt tired. He looked at the letters that made up half of his soul and dropped his head and cried, long and hard, the heavy kind of sobs that hurt your ribs when you try to hold them in. This had been a long time coming. Eleven months, sixteen days. But it was the right day, the day that would’ve been his mother’s 77^th birthday. The man placed the flowers; tulips, daisies, roses and his mother’s favorite, plumerias, on the headstone. Then he sat down and began to inventory his grief.

The man thought of all the hard times with his mother, all the moments of disconnect, misunderstanding, hurt and confusion. He plucked all the “why’s” out of the sky around his head and spread them out on the tall, cool grass before him, and was about to indulge in a garden of regrets, when, instead, he thought of the young girl and her baby. What a picture they were: a mother who had given life and was now continuing to give it, nursing that baby with coos and soft songs of sleep and peace. Hadn’t this been the man and his own mother once, forty eight years ago? Yes. It had. 

And that’s all that really mattered.

So, there beneath the wide spread arms of a sycamore tree, the man got on his knees and prayed. Then he knelt over and put his forehead to his mother’s tombstone and told her, one by one, every single thing that she’d done right in his life. He thanked her and told her how much he loved her, in soft, soft whispers. Like a lullaby. 

Then? He walked to his car and drove away.