Tail Lights

Last week I went back in time, to my high school days, when driving to the gym or work was a “hold your breath” moment every time I turned the key to my car’s ignition. My car's not new, but it’s not all that old either. But one morning I had a dead battery. Just like that. Either I had mistakenly left something on or the battery was due for a change. AAA jumped the car, I drove it to my mechanic and…wallah! No problem. Until three days later. Dead battery again, and another call to AAA, who jumped me again, ran a diagnostic on the alternator, pronounced it as fine and recommended I take it back to the mechanic. I did. Two days of expert detective work later and my mechanic was dumbfounded. Battery fine. Alternator fine. Starter fine. No shorts. Then he uttered the dreaded words no man wants to hear: “You’re.Gonna.Have.To.Take.It.To.The.Dealer”. Cue the Darth Vader music. 

Now….me? I barelllly got a C- in auto shop back in high school. But, still, all along, I’d been exasperating everyone with my complaining about the fact that one of my tail lights was out. Could that be the cause? The AAA tech, my mechanic, his junior mechanic…they all looked at me with that smile that all men share when one of them is ready to pull your Man Card for being a wussy and then give you a time out. It’s a look that says, “Silly man. You didn’t do very well in auto shop, did you?” Well. No. I was busy writing stories, dumb ass. How’d you do in English? Never mind. I can see that you misspelled three words on the invoice here, so let’s call it even. I didn’t really say that of course. I’m too kind. Okay. I didn’t really say it because I still wanted the car fixed. Otherwise,  I woulda been small enough to say it. I admit.

But when faced with the dealer as my next option? I wanted that tail light checked no matter how silly I sounded. Guess what we found? Not just a blown bulb, but an entirely melted fixture surrounding it. The junior mechanic gasped and said, “Damn! That could cause a short!” The senior mechanic glared at him. I shook my head at everyone and strutted around the car a few times like a rooster. Fixture and bulb changed. Problem solved. I had just dodged a $1,000 bill (because that’s where all dealers start, purveyors of human misery that they are) for $14. Since my children tell me that I’m the Italian Mr. Crabs, this made me weep with joy (when no one else was around of course).

But later I began to wonder: how many of our problems, mental, emotional, spiritual or otherwise…these massive, all-encompassing issues that weigh us down and beg for all sorts of human diagnostics (meds, therapists, etc.)…are really just “tail light” issues? Depressed a lot? How many times a week are you downing a glass of wine or a few beers (aka “depressants”)? Lost and disillusioned? How’s your prayer life going? Are you talking to God? Are you listening for the answers? Feeling unloved? Have you learned to love yourself? Because no one else can truly love you until you do. Instead they'll be loving the person they think you are, instead of the person you know yourself to be.

I’m not saying that some issues aren’t very, very serious. Some surely are.  But some just aren’t as complicated as we think. Sometimes it's just that a small light in you has gone out, and if you're insistent enough to check it out? You can shine bright again.

Taking Selfies with Judy Garland

In the world of dream journaling I am, for all intents and purposes, a mute. I can rarely remember any of my dreams, and if I do at all, it’s usually a scattered fragment here or there. But last night was different; last night I dreamed of taking selfies with Judy Garland. 

I was at the Universal Studios Theme Park, modern day, so it couldn’t have been the real Judy Garland (may she rest in peace), it was a character actor that was playing her, though I must say, she was a dead ringer. Judy wore bright red lipstick and that trademark white and blue checkered dress, with her hair in pigtails. As she was making her way to the center of the park, I intercepted her and asked for a selfie. A look of mild concern came over her face. My wife wasn’t with me, nor were either of my kids, so I must’ve looked like a middle aged perv or something. But she agreed, and as I put my arm around her and noticed how tiny she was, I did a Cowardly Lion impression, which made her laugh, and instead of one selfie I got three. Then? I thanked her and she skipped away.

So, what was that all about? I can only guess. But I’m sure my grief therapist will have a field day with it. To therapists dreams are like coffee; they’re all about awakening, coming alive and breathing deep. In case you don’t read my blogs, my mother died recently. Well, last December. But death is no respecter of persons and grief has no expiration date, so though I’m doing better, I’m still not well, and December might as well be June. But I don’t think it’s a coincidence that in my dream I didn't see myself as the Tin Man looking for a heart, nor the Scarecrow looking for a brain. No. I was the Cowardly Lion, looking for his courage. 

We could go further, of course. We could talk about how The Wizard of Oz was one of my Mom’s favorite movies. We could ask why Dorothy wasn’t carrying her basket, and why Toto was nowhere to be seen. Or…why was it that Dorothy was afraid of me when I first approached? In the last selfie she pressed her cheek hard against mine and gave the biggest smile of all, so at least she left happy. Yeah. I think so. And...did I mention that Dorothy was my mother's name?

No dream remembered is one that’s meant to be forgotten. Keep that in mind the next time you awaken with images and impressions still fresh in your eyes. And, oh yeah, I know that some of you that read this blog are in mourning as well. If so, I cannot recommend short term grief therapy more. If for no other reason than that it has helped me to dream again.

Tell Me A Story

Stories. We each have one. When you were born, how you were raised, who you fell in love with for the first time, how you learned this, or forgot that, or were hurt. From my perspective, as a writer, everyone I look at doesn’t really have a story. They are a story. Prior scenes and chapters in their lives have led to the person now before me, chatting about a broken heart over coffee or rejoicing in their child’s 4 for 4 at bats in a little league game. It is no different when I look in the mirror; one moment sad, the next happy. We vacillate wildly, don’t we, you and I and everyone else? Yes. We do indeed. 

Every part of our story is a journey, documented and retained. Some stories tell of long stretches of glorious victory and, oh, how we must savor those, and remember of how we pushed on, and reveled in that magical state called “peace”. Other journeys were treks across vast wastelands of darkness, pain and sorrow. The feet carried, and the knees bent, all in an effort to get through, before the soul broke.

I've blogged in the past about how we're not alone, that we should lean; on family, on friends, and most of all, on God. The truth of the matter, though, is that some journeys are meant to be taken solo. I’ve been on one for seven months now.  I’ve finally exhausted my intellect and spent my will, which is a good thing. It means now, at last, I’m ready to listen and be loved again. I’m ready to reach out and grab hold, instead of avoid and push away. It’s a bit of a mystery, no? That God brings us to places, sometimes the deepest caverns within ourselves, often more than once, to show us that we can make it out, that we can indeed close one chapter in our lives, which helps us begin another. All in the context of an overall theme of "I Am". All in a character arc that reads beneath the stars. 

 

Weak Posts

"What I don't understand about myself is that I decide one way, but then I act another, doing things I absolutely despise. So if I can't be trusted to figure out what is best for myself and then do it, it becomes obvious that God's command is necessary. But I need something more! For if I know the law but still can't keep it, and if the power of sin within me keeps sabotaging my best intentions, I obviously need help! I realize that I don't have what it takes. I can will it, but I can't do it. I decide to do good, but I don't really do it; I decide not to do bad, but then I do it anyway. My decisions, such as they are, don't result in actions. Something has gone wrong deep within me and gets the better of me every time." - Romans 7:15-20 (MSG)
 

Down the 15 Freeway, on the way to Las Vegas, there's on old fence, tattered and worn, protecting dry desert land that, as far as I can tell, is completely uninhabited now by anyone who would ever need a fence. Still. It's there. A solitary thing, holding the line.

I pulled into a nearby turn off once, and took a picture by the fence. There was just something about it that I wanted to capture. Something haunting, but dignified. It creaked loudly as I leaned against it, threatening to give way. The posts were weak, but the fence held. I'm no carpenter, but I figured it was due to the cross beams. All that wood, sun bleached and splintered, still strong after who knew how many years, because of its connectedness, because the weight borne against it could be shared.

We're no different, you and I. Each of us is a post, not nearly as strong as we think ourselves to be, but when the sun gets too hot or the winds of life grow too strong, we can trust in God to be our cross beams. He helps us figure out how to distribute the weight, and He tells us who to lean on and who not to lean on, because that's important too, because some people can't handle it right now, they're not ready for it, and others can.

These past three months I have engaged in dark behaviors, moods and tendencies that I thought myself well past. As a Christian I expected more of myself. As a human being I was unable. Somewhere along the path of faith I forgot that, oh yeah, Christians are still human. Scripture tells us that we were once "children of wrath", that we should work to evolve beyond this, but it also tells us, repeatedly, not to forget that the world that made us that way is still very much alive and well, calling us back to an existence that wants desperately to dry us out, splinter us and shatter us to pieces.

I thought I was a strong post. The Lord reminded me that I am but one post. I thought I could bear a great load. The Lord reminded me that, without Him, I can barely handle a single pound. The way we lean, the way we do or do not give way to the weight of this world, has a direct impact on the rest of the fence. So let's make a deal, you and I, okay? Let's stand together, as best we can, and trust in the cross beams to take care of the rest. That way, no matter what? We can stand strong.

Knitted

"I am your creator. You were in my care before you were born." - Isaiah 44:2

Have you ever noticed that the touch of another human being is the most welcome thing in the world, except for when you're in pain? Be it a cut, a scrape, a burn or even a pimple; when it comes to the body wounded, we are much more likely to recoil from the touch of someone else. It's as if the mind defaults to a defense mechanism that tells us to minister to our own wounds as the means to an end, namely self-preservation. It's instinctive and very real. If you don't believe me, then remember this blog the next time you get a really deep splinter in your finger. Who will have better luck digging it out? You or someone else? Or, more importantly, which way will hurt the least?

I am discovering that grief, for me anyway, is no different. I will tend to myself, thank you. I will immerse myself in the gray fog and pray for survival, each and every day, because - and I'm being so brutally honest with you right now - it actually hurts much less than when others try to step in and help me, or advise me, or talk to me, or empathize. This is my second journey through the valley of death over someone I have loved very deeply. First was my father, now my mother.

I had a class in Thanatology my senior year of high school. Can you believe that? Whatever possessed me to take such a class, I'll never know. I also fell in love in that class, with a girl who never loved me back. Keep following along. I'm getting somewhere with this, I promise. Anyway. Back to death...and grief and mourning. I know how it works. It's all very natural, a long process of five steps repeated over and over, until the heart no longer hurts and the mind no longer acutely questions. We each do it differently. Some seek counsel with close friends or family, some end up needing individual therapy, others group therapy. Some will lean on their priests or pastors, others will go straight to God.

This last group, the one's that flee to God? I think they've got it right. They're fleeing to love in the face of the loss of it. Does that make sense? I hope so. That eighteen year old me tried to get that part right in that class. I mean, I was not actively mourning anyone at the time, but amidst all that dark, depressing study of death I think I had to fall in love with someone just to survive!  My fault was in seeking love from another human being, instead of God. Because whether you're just studying the loss of death, or actually experiencing it? There's only one pair of hands that can truly knit your wounds.

They are, by no strange coincidence, the same hands that knit you together in the first place.

Fair & Cruel

"How could...something...so fair...be so cruel? When this...black sun...revolves...around you. There is an answer in the question...and there is hope within despair. - Death Cab for Cutie (Black Sun)

Imagine my surprise, a few weeks ago, after I posted my last blog, and seconds later my mother's tablet (which I haven't had the heart to disconnect) beeped. A message had arrived in her "inbox" : my blog. I had no idea she'd subscribed to it. The irony. And I thought, "This is all...so...unfair."

If you think about it though, really, really think about it? Death is fair. It is, perhaps, the fairest thing ever. An eternity in heaven, a home amidst the stars, free from pain and sorrows, in exchange for a life that was glorious at times, yes, but crushingly brutal at times as well. Want to leave your sins behind? Want to sleep well, really deeply, as you never have before, free from stress and fear and quiet hours fraught with the deep and painful concern that no one will ever truly understand you in this world? God eventually says, "Come with me." And when your time comes? I bet we all fight it, but I imagine not for one second longer than it takes to catch a glimpse of it: of what's next, of the loved ones waiting for us there, and the realized utter reality of heaven. It’s probably the easiest of goodbyes, because now you know that even those you leave behind will be along soon enough. No need to worry.The sting of death is lost when its reputation is destroyed. I bet my father whistled his way outta here and my mother? I bet she sang. A sweet hymn. For sure.

I’ve noticed that when I get into trouble with my grieving? It's when I start making my mother's death about me. It's hard not to make someone else's death about you, when you're all that's left : they're gone. Forever. But we must be careful, for the devil is in "forever". It's just a word - again, for those of us left behind - that can, yes, trigger hopelessness. But, in truth, forever isn't such a long time. If, for example, I have thirty years left on this earth? Then I'm only thirty years away from seeing my mother again. That's no "quick minute", I know, but it's a lot shorter than the vast expanse of this lie called “forever”. And between now and then God would have blessed me with a lot of living to do.

A friend gave me a book on grieving recently and in it there’s the suggestion to look at the entire tragedy of loss from God’s perspective. Imagine the difficulty of creating a creature so delicately complex and then asking it to figure itself out, knowing full well, as the Creator of the universe, that it never entirely can, due to the free will that must be imparted to it for that journey of self- discovery to even begin. Without free will you'd just have a bunch of robots. Yet the very thing it needs is the very thing that hinders it. For free will is all about life; to exercise it or to surrender it. In the process, these lovely creatures do so many beautiful things, and hurtful things and things that are just downright mysterious. And you let them, in Your grace and mercy, because you know that in the end they will be yours again anyway. Together at last, you can finally tell them what it was all about, and no matter what, you will love them through and through.

If you really, really think about it? It just doesn't get any fairer than that.

Mom, Death & Jacob

"So Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak. When the man saw that he could not overpower him, he touched the socket of Jacob’s hip so that his hip was wrenched as he wrestled with the man. Then the man said, “Let me go, for it is daybreak.” But Jacob replied, “I will not let you go unless you bless me." - Genesis 32 (22-26) 

Yesterday I refused communion for the first time in nearly fifteen years. I just wasn't feeling it, and more importantly, my heart wasn't right. I knew that. I sensed it. And even though God and I are wrestling these days, and I'm punching him in the face every chance I can get a hand free, I still hold the bread and the cup in high enough esteem not to partake in them without a mind that's focused, or a heart that's ready.

On Dec 4th the Lord took my mother from me. Or maybe it was the 3rd. Or the 2nd. All I can say is, by the time I found her, face down on the floor in her bedroom, she'd been dead quite a while. Ice cold. Full rigor. Her eyes were closed tightly, as if the pain in the end were nearly unbearable. A massive heart attack, most likely, or a massive stroke.

I don't want to hear about how "it's a part of life" or that "these things happen". I don't want pious advice or empty platitudes. I only want one thing: answers. Jacob wrestled the angel of the Lord, and so, now, do I. Each day I step into the field and I shake my fist at God and ask the same questions before I attack him: Why did she have to die that way? What did she ever do to You? Why did I have to find her like that? Was I such a bad son? Such a shitty believer? What in the world were you trying to teach me? What lesson? What admonishment? How. Could. You. Do. This.

During this same time, I've had friends preoccupied with serious matters of their own. One is fighting cancer, another alcoholism. One has a child that's been forced to endure four surgeries in the past four weeks. I've got people I love fighting loneliness and illness, two more fighting brokenheartedness and failed relationships. Some of them are believers, some of them aren't. And I am watching, studying it all. They're human. It's life. Blah. Blah. Blah.

You see, the speed of the game is slowing down for me, and that can only happen with experience. But here's the thing : I don't necessarily like what I'm seeing. I see nothing but utter chaos. I see no order, no method to the madness, no direction and very little hope. I see people making grand stands, commendable examples and witnessing with a fervor that leaves me awe struck, but I'm losing my ability to see why. That's the truth. It's dark where I'm at. I can't see anything, much less any "why's", and I'm sorry if that disturbs you.

There's only one thing I can say: every, single time I have stepped out into the field to wrestle with the Lord? He has not backed down. Not one, single time. He shows up. He brings it. And as we struggle with one another, as I bite, punch, grapple and claw at him with all I have? As I scream at him with a rage that is all consuming? I have felt it...more than once...I have: his chest against mine...and I have felt Him weeping.

And I know beyond all knowing that I can fight all I want, for as long as I want, for the rest of my life if I so choose, and My Lord will never let go of me. Ever. And I love Him for that. I really do.