1961-1962 Gunsmoke, Bonanza, cork popgun, christmas, artichokes, Johnny, moon/trees/picket fence, church, wheat, mountain bars, lake, lizards, my brothers, faith, Salvador Dali, Johnny Mathis, swamp cooler, pomegranates, extra servings in cafeteria, swallowed tooth, church window, bell, balsa wood gliders, my brothers... barefoot, pirates, riding bikes, forts. Brenda was born.
1963 JFK
1969 Moon Landing
1973 Huntington Beach
1974-75 Silverado, graduated high school, visit Oregon, cave, hitchhiking ("many parts are edible")
1976 Hitchhiking, living in Ashram, Sons of Ramakrishna, Adityo, Ramprashad, Brahminandana, Yoga Center, Ventura River, California Condors
1978 Got sick, Milkman
1980 Met Brenda, Mt. St. Helens, changed name from Bill to Will, Gaston, Aloha, Timber
1981 Married, California
1987 move to Oregon
1989 Debbie & Michelle died
1990 Bought the house
1992 Willy adopted, died
1993 A March Moon
1994 Adopted boys
1998 Light leaves the sun Epsilon Eridani which will strike Luna and bounce toward me walking before dawn
1995 Brenda’s affair, bachelor's degree, master's degree, teaching license
2001 WTC... We aren’t on the moon, there isn’t a mission to Jupiter
2002 Melinda’s suicide
2004 Light leaves Alpha Proximus which will strike Luna and bounce toward me walking before dawn
2005 Church fire
2006 Jeremiah graduates high school
2007 Brenda’s Affair
2008 Divorced, Isaac graduates, Rocky, Jeremiah into group home, writing, standing in yard boys asleep... Trying to get a clear idea what this really means... Am I going to be someone different? I think so. She’s gone and I am free to relax a little. This really stinks... but it won’t be long and it is a was, not an is... melodramatic... I’d like to get away from the melodrama. How did I attract this situation? I think I have been needy... Starlight streams over me from suns far away, photons which began their journeys years ago... damn that’s a lot of writing. Job’s Tale... The Journey... Justin. C. S. AGGF Aphra, Erin, Penni, Mars, Astronomical picture of the day... Word a Day, Amrita... She has nothing. This house. That job. That church. I used to let my writing wander. It didn’t have to make sense. Weird short stories. Now I think about it so much. Am I distracting myself? Why do I want to keep so busy? This is a lot to do right now. I wonder... is it going to be OK with Jeremiah? Where will he live? What is going to happen with Isaac? What am I going to teach him? What can he do? Damn good dog. Best one I’ve had. Had at least a dozen. Isaac seems confused, sad, I hope he is going to be OK. Robotics team. Long way to go. Jeremiah seems to feel responsible somehow, scared. Can’t believe they paid that claim without telling me. Got to get her stuff out of here. Got to learn a new way of talking with her, new dance. Weird post. I have no idea what I’m doing here. Can I really figure th... I can, I will It’s cool. My home. My boys. I’ve to teach these boys how to cook something better than Hamburger Helper, twenty eight years, I wasn’t perfect in a lot of ways, but this was crazy, ever since that fire, ever since she found out... Not her fault. I’m willing to adopt, biological doesn’t mean anything to me... I think you love them and miss them, He... I’ve got to go to bed... probably shouldn’t post this... I can delete it...What a strange list of events... past, future... I know them better than she... Good boys. G’night.
2029
We never divorced.
Brenda and I old and secretly unhappy.
House is torn down. Two small houses are built. I sell one and live in the other and tell everyone I’ll be moving out to somewhere with a little more space between me and the neighbors, but I never will.
Brenda and I have a loving, sad, tension-filled marriage. Jeremiah has been in a group home since 2009. Isaac has an apartment and a somewhat unsteady marriage. Brenda and I went on only one of those trips over seas we were always dreaming of. I suspect she has had a fling with someone, but I don’t know for sure. I don’t find out until next year.
We went to Italy. Had a fight in Greece. And had a terrible fight.
Retired.
I wrote a book about random theological points... I hope it to be published, but I’ve sent it to publishers for two years and no one has bought it. I keep in my computer.
Fits alongside all the other events of my life... Willy... stuff of being a kid...
2029
We divorced.
I did marry in only a year and a half.
House is torn down. Two small houses are built. I sell one and live in the other and tell everyone I’ll be moving out to somewhere with a little more space between me and the neighbors, but I never will.
change
Brenda lives somewhere down the coast. She’s married, but not to the guy she left me for. This is her fourth marriage. She never really got back into church, though she talks about it a lot. Mostly to me. We’re pretty good friends. There’s always a thing between us. Friendly tension, I’d call it.
I have recently been somewhat quiet in church... I write a lot
Isaac lives in Springfield. Pretty happily married. Has two kids. A girl, 16, and boy 13. We see them twice a year or so.
Made enough money to get a little ahead...
turned out different than I thought
I’ve come to a few spiritual conclusions and don’t talk or write about it. (?)
I stopped blogging 2011.
I taught at the same middle school until I retired last year.
Wrote eight books. Sold fairly well at first. Not a lot of money. The last six never sold much. That's fine with me. Wrote them for myself.
?
!
...
Faith
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
What We Did Today
If you read the previous post, you'll understand why we decided to do this today... the day after a particularly difficult day for my sons.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
A Pet, my Kids, and my Ex
When I came home Isaac was upset. Wanted to talk.
I asked him to come into the living room, our cozy pumpkin, to talk.
He stepped into a pile of vomit. Rocky (our 8 year old German wire hair/Irish Wolfhound has been a little lethargic lately, not eating well, and obviously worse than I thought).
After the rug was scrubbed clean we sat down. We talked.
"I think I need help, like Jeremiah. I think my brain doesn't work right. I'm too scattered. I lost my camera. I lost $20 today... Maybe I need to take those tests again so they can see if I can get the kind of help Jeremiah can.”
“Isaac, I’m going to talk square with you. I know you are worried, you are scared. You are afraid you won’t be able to make it in the world. I’m going to sit here now and tell you exactly what I know, what I think, and how things might work out. But before I do, I want you to know something...
“It’s going to be OK. You don’t have to worry about your life. You can live a very good life. Jeremiah is going to always need someone to watch over him. He will have to live in a group home, and have people tell him what to do and when to do it. But you will be able to live on your own, live your own life. You are going to be OK.
“The other thing you need to know is how much I love you. If there was a truck barreling down the road and the only way to save you was to push you out of the way, even if there wasn’t enough time for me to get away, I would do it. You are more important to me than I am to myself. You are more important. I love you. I am so glad God gave you to me. I will always make sure that the best possible things I can make happen for you, will happen.”
His eyes shifted back and forth... to the wall behind me, to my face, to the couch... a small smile flickered on his face.
I launched into the most difficult talk I have had with him.
“The average IQ is between 90 and 110. Jeremiah’s IQ is 46. Yours is 77. To be considered mentally retarded a person’s IQ has to be below 70. You are too smart for that. You cannot get the sort of help Jeremiah is eligible for. You are almost twice as smart as Jeremiah. That is a good thing.
“You won’t be able to do everything you might want to do. I know you want to work on computers, be able to figure out all sorts of problems with them... but they can be very complex and it takes a lot of clear thinking to be able to figure out what might be wrong. I don't think you will be able to do that.
"But there are lots of other jobs you will be able to do. You will be able to work at an electronics store. Learning the inventory and how everything works would be a challenge at first, but once you did, the small changes and additions that would happen would be easy enough for you to keep up with. You could work in a video store, or all sorts of places, and earn enough money.”
I gauged his responses. His eyes were locked on mine.
“OK... Here it is. You are scattered. You do have trouble keeping things in their place, knowing where you left things. But there are things you can do to help.
“Have you ever heard about leprosy?”
“No.”
“It’s a disease. Nowadays it is usually called Hansen’s Disease. For most of history people were afraid of people who had this disease. They didn’t understand how it was spread. They were afraid of it because lepers, that’s what they call people who have that disease, because they looked awful. They had terrible sores, so bad their bodies would come apart. They lose fingers, hands, feet, parts of their faces.
“Nowadays people aren’t so afraid of it. Now we know that it is caught by children when they live in places where there are terrible conditions. In such places sewers run in the streets and kids are exposed to it. The kids get it after a long exposure to it, and even then many don't get it. Now we are much better at keeping kids away from it and they don’t get leprosy very often.
“And most lepers today don’t look like they used to. They have learned a way to keep their bodies from doing that.
“Leprosy doesn’t deform their bodies. Infections do. You see, leprosy kills nerve cells. And since these people can’t feel things, they don’t know when they hurt themselves. When they get a cut or a bruise, since they don’t feel those cuts and bruises, they don’t notice they are getting infections, and the infections get real bad and they get gangrene, and they swell up, and parts of their bodies just rot away.
“But lepers today are taught a way to keep that from happening. They are taught to do what is called a VSE, a ‘Visual Surveillance of Extremities.’ They are taught to always be looking over their hands, and arms. They are always taking their socks off to check all over their feet. They learn the habit of looking carefully all over their bodies all the time so they can take care of themselves and stay healthy.
“That is something you can do to help yourself with being so scattered.
“There were a couple of things that your tests showed about you that were different than most people. Yeah, it showed your IQ is a little lower than most people, but it showed you were higher than other people in some ways.
“You care about people. In fact, you care about other people a little too much. You tend to think about others far too much, much more than about yourself. What you need to be careful about is that there are some people who care too much about themselves and they will take advantage of you. But you can use that trait of yours to your advantage.
“Another thing your test showed is that you are extremely careful about following laws and rules. Much more than other people. You can use that to your advantage.
“Just like people with leprosy learn to make a habit of always of always checking their body, you can learn the habit of always checking everywhere you are before you leave. You can learn that habit, and if you think about how that when you leave things all scattered you are making others pick up after you, and you don’t want to bother other people, you will learn the habit easier. Also, if you tell yourself that everything belongs in a very particular place, and it is a rule, you will be checking to see if you are following the rules... and you want to do that. Thinking of keeping things in the right place is like following the rules, and you will be checking everywhere you are, and you won’t lose your camera, or lose $20.”
He seemed to be following me closely.
“I know you have been wondering if you could go to college. Well buddy, I don’t think you can get a bachelor’s degree like some people, but you can get a high school diploma... and you can go to a junior college and get into a two year program that can teach you to do things that I know you can do. You can learn to work on cars. You can learn to weld. You can learn to do all sorts of things.
“We are all unique... IQ is only a small part of who we are and how it affects us. I’m a little on the smart side. But that doesn’t mean things always go my way.
"I never want to talk down about Mom. I want you to always respect her and love her. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t make mistakes. Mom is smart, but she has made a lot of mistakes.
"I’m pretty good at figuring a lot of things out, but sometimes I have trouble reading people. Sometimes I don’t feel comfortable around people. Sometimes I think and say things I think are funny, and other people don’t get it.
“I think the new medicine you are taking makes you more scattered. But I also think it makes it easier for you to think clearly. We can go back to the other medicine. But it will make your thinking a little fuzzier, and I think you can learn habits that will compensate for being so scattered.
“Another thing. I know you are upset about losing the $20 and are scared about your future... but it will be OK. Part of what you’re feeling is about worrying about how well you think. Part of what you’re feeling is because you are confused and sad about this situation with Mom. I get it. I feel it. That stuff wears you down. But it helps if at least you know you are feeling that way because of those things.
"I love you. Mom loves you. It will all work out. I will always be there for you, and you can stay living with me for as long as you need... though I think that someday you will need to move out on your own because living your life, in your home, doing what you want to do and not worrying about my way or my rules, is what is best for you. But for now, finish high school, get your diploma. And next year we will work on getting you used to working and earning money. And we can set things up so that your paycheck goes directly to your bank, and your bank can pay most of your bills directly.
“One last thing. There is something about you that you don’t know, even though you have heard it. But it is true, and I want you to believe it. Ready? OK, here it is: You are very handsome. You are one good looking kid.
"You will be able to find a girlfriend. I know you want one. You just need to feel more confident, less afraid. I know there are a lot of girls out there who think you are handsome. And they are right.”
He looked straight at me. Hard. Unsure how to take that bit. And I stared back, judging the truth of how beautiful he is. For him, the dreadlocks really do set him off very well. And his eyes. He does have beautiful eyes.
He could see me scanning his face, and that I was smiling, and that I really do think he is one of the best looking kids I know, whether or not I am his dad.
We watched TV together, at dinner together, folded clothes. Rocky got sick again. We cleaned up dog puke.
I went to bed early. Fell asleep fast.
It didn’t last long. A knock on the bedroom door woke me in less than a half hour.
“Rocky threw up!” both boys were saying.
He had indeed. In three places. I cleaned it up. He didn’t look too well.
I opened the sliding glass door so he could go outside if he felt ill. Turned off the heat so we didn’t waste money heating the Oregon night. I covered him with a blanket. Went to bed.
He was worse in the morning. He had thrown up four more times. I called the vet, who wasn’t available to see him on a Saturday morning. He was headed out to make his rounds at various farms. But he gave me the number of a vet in Beavercreek.
I called the vet. They could see me in 40 minutes. I jumped in the car.
Rocky could barely get into the van. I had to help him up. He was wagging his tail, anticipating another good walk at Molalla River State Park.
I started driving, and I thought about Brenda and all her stuff. I sent her a text message, telling her I wanted her to get her stuff out of the house.
I thought about how much she loved Rocky. I hadn’t told her about my going to the vet because I was a little ticked that she hadn’t called the boys in over a week and they missed her and they hurt and she didn’t seem to care and she seems to love the dog more than them and... she should know the vet said that this sounded very serious. So I sent the text:
“Rocky is VERY sick. F (the vet.) says he might not make it to Monday. Call me if you want to meet me @ vet’s.”
She called. I gave her the address.
Rocky could barely walk when I got there. And when I got him inside, he collapsed. I put him on the scale. He has lost 20 pounds since his check up a month ago.
Brenda showed up. Minute by minute Rocky looked worse. His temp. was four degrees below normal. He was anemic. He was having trouble breathing. The veterinarian gave us an estimate to start blood work and x rays. $570.
And he would need to go to a pet hospital anyway.
We wondered if we should have him put to sleep , or start on the costly checks of what he has. I said something about how I thought he would not get better no matter what, but I thought we should take him straight to the pet hospital. And see about first steps.
Then he started bleeding out his rectum.
We got him into the van. Twenty minutes later I was pulling into the pet hospital parking lot. He couldn’t stand. I picked him up, carried him into the building while blood trickled out his butt and down my pants leg. Brenda held the door open.
The receptionist saw me carrying this huge dog, saw his condition...
“We need a triage doctor and a gurney in the lobby, STAT!”
Two technicians came rushing out with a gurney and I placed him on it. They wheeled him away. Brenda and I followed.
But behind the offices, in the area filled with all sorts of equipment to care for the pampered pets of Americans, equipment third world clinics beg for, we were turned aside and put into consult room.
Ten minutes later an animal doc came in to tell us Rocky had stopped breathing. He was on a ventilator.
We went to see him.
Agreed to euthanize him.
I lifted his ear, bent close and whispered “You’re a good dog. You’re a good boy.”
The doctor put a large syringe filled with a pink liquid into his catheter. We nodded. She pulled back the plunger, and a little blood leaked in, mixing darkly with the pink fluid, it was in a vein. We nodded.
“This will only take about 30 seconds.”
We nodded again.
She slowly pushed the plunger in.
He grew still.
I held Brenda.
Afterward we went to Denny’s. I wanted to catch my breath before going home, telling the boys that their beloved dog is dead. Have a cup of coffee.
I noticed she was wearing a class ring where her wedding band once was.
At one point she started saying things about how awful life is. How she wished we hadn’t adopted Jeremiah. I told her that if she said one more word about Jeremiah I would leave the money for the coffee, get up, and walk out.
She came home to help me tell the boys. I suggested she pack some more of her stuff. I told her she had two more weeks to get the rest of it.
She got into a "rag fest" over the way we have been putting away plastic containers. I pulled her into the bedroom.
“Knock it off! I don't have to listen to your negativity anymore, and I won't!
“Yeah, the boys don’t do things exactly the way you do...”
She started in on how the boys are inept: “It takes no more effort to do things right than to do them wrong. If they would just...”
“I said knock it off! If you can’t be nice, then get out!
"It takes patience to teach them how to do things. I find the good they are doing and praise them in order for them to learn. It is great they are doing things! They are trying. So what if it isn’t perfect?! That is so far down on my list of what is important I can barely see it. They are helping to run this house. They are learning to cook and clean and wash laundry and dishes and learning to do things simply because they need doing and not because someone has told them to do it. It doesn’t matter if sometimes I have to rewash the dishes, or revacuum the floor, or do the sweeping again.
"That they are trying is much more important than how well they are doing it.
"Not doing it right. I can work with that. At least they are doing something!
“This is exactly why you are having so much trouble in your life.”
“I’m having trouble in my life because bad things never stop happening, while good things do,” she whined.
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m wrong?!! THE DOG IS DEAD! How much more wrong can it get?“
“You just don’t get it. You hold onto every bad thing that happens. You are constantly angry and constantly resentful. Resentment is a poison you take hoping it will hurt someone else.
“Yeah, life is pretty bad sometimes. But it is also beautiful. Life sucks, and life is wonderful.
“On the way here, as we drove through Oregon City, there were all those yellow leaves floating down just in front of the railroad tunnel. It was beautiful. It looked like I was driving through bright yellow snow. I would guess you didn’t notice.
"Now it is twenty minutes later, and I am still holding onto the image of all those beautiful leaves floating down. I deal with what is wrong, and I dwell on what is right.
“You can look at the ugly things, take them in, and let them poison you. Or you can look at the ugly things, deal with them and then focus on the beautiful. And life is full of beauty. Even that jerk you are with in Molalla probably has good in him.”
I told her to pack more of her stuff. I had a couple of errands to run. I left.
This evening we had dinner at the group home I think would be perfect for Jeremiah. It was another step in the complex process of finding a good future for that child of mine.
At any rate... tonight my children are upset over the loss of a beloved pet. Tonight my wife cries for this dear former companion of hers. Tonight I am learning how to guide my home and my children through another little mess.
Sometimes life is full of shit. So... one should put on waders, walk through it, take care of the mess, and then wash it off. Sure, life stinks sometimes. But, it is also beautiful.
I have two wonderful children.
I will miss Rocky.
But, I have an important job to do in finishing this task of raising my sons to be as independent as they can be.
Now... I have spent too much time recording the events of last night and today and I need to get to sleep. Tomorrow my team of Special Olympics Bowling athletes are going to the regional tournament and I should get some rest.
Brenda is not sleeping beside me, and Rocky will no longer be sleeping on the foot of the bed. I have more adjusting to do.
G’night.
I asked him to come into the living room, our cozy pumpkin, to talk.
He stepped into a pile of vomit. Rocky (our 8 year old German wire hair/Irish Wolfhound has been a little lethargic lately, not eating well, and obviously worse than I thought).
After the rug was scrubbed clean we sat down. We talked.
"I think I need help, like Jeremiah. I think my brain doesn't work right. I'm too scattered. I lost my camera. I lost $20 today... Maybe I need to take those tests again so they can see if I can get the kind of help Jeremiah can.”
“Isaac, I’m going to talk square with you. I know you are worried, you are scared. You are afraid you won’t be able to make it in the world. I’m going to sit here now and tell you exactly what I know, what I think, and how things might work out. But before I do, I want you to know something...
“It’s going to be OK. You don’t have to worry about your life. You can live a very good life. Jeremiah is going to always need someone to watch over him. He will have to live in a group home, and have people tell him what to do and when to do it. But you will be able to live on your own, live your own life. You are going to be OK.
“The other thing you need to know is how much I love you. If there was a truck barreling down the road and the only way to save you was to push you out of the way, even if there wasn’t enough time for me to get away, I would do it. You are more important to me than I am to myself. You are more important. I love you. I am so glad God gave you to me. I will always make sure that the best possible things I can make happen for you, will happen.”
His eyes shifted back and forth... to the wall behind me, to my face, to the couch... a small smile flickered on his face.
I launched into the most difficult talk I have had with him.
“The average IQ is between 90 and 110. Jeremiah’s IQ is 46. Yours is 77. To be considered mentally retarded a person’s IQ has to be below 70. You are too smart for that. You cannot get the sort of help Jeremiah is eligible for. You are almost twice as smart as Jeremiah. That is a good thing.
“You won’t be able to do everything you might want to do. I know you want to work on computers, be able to figure out all sorts of problems with them... but they can be very complex and it takes a lot of clear thinking to be able to figure out what might be wrong. I don't think you will be able to do that.
"But there are lots of other jobs you will be able to do. You will be able to work at an electronics store. Learning the inventory and how everything works would be a challenge at first, but once you did, the small changes and additions that would happen would be easy enough for you to keep up with. You could work in a video store, or all sorts of places, and earn enough money.”
I gauged his responses. His eyes were locked on mine.
“OK... Here it is. You are scattered. You do have trouble keeping things in their place, knowing where you left things. But there are things you can do to help.
“Have you ever heard about leprosy?”
“No.”
“It’s a disease. Nowadays it is usually called Hansen’s Disease. For most of history people were afraid of people who had this disease. They didn’t understand how it was spread. They were afraid of it because lepers, that’s what they call people who have that disease, because they looked awful. They had terrible sores, so bad their bodies would come apart. They lose fingers, hands, feet, parts of their faces.
“Nowadays people aren’t so afraid of it. Now we know that it is caught by children when they live in places where there are terrible conditions. In such places sewers run in the streets and kids are exposed to it. The kids get it after a long exposure to it, and even then many don't get it. Now we are much better at keeping kids away from it and they don’t get leprosy very often.
“And most lepers today don’t look like they used to. They have learned a way to keep their bodies from doing that.
“Leprosy doesn’t deform their bodies. Infections do. You see, leprosy kills nerve cells. And since these people can’t feel things, they don’t know when they hurt themselves. When they get a cut or a bruise, since they don’t feel those cuts and bruises, they don’t notice they are getting infections, and the infections get real bad and they get gangrene, and they swell up, and parts of their bodies just rot away.
“But lepers today are taught a way to keep that from happening. They are taught to do what is called a VSE, a ‘Visual Surveillance of Extremities.’ They are taught to always be looking over their hands, and arms. They are always taking their socks off to check all over their feet. They learn the habit of looking carefully all over their bodies all the time so they can take care of themselves and stay healthy.
“That is something you can do to help yourself with being so scattered.
“There were a couple of things that your tests showed about you that were different than most people. Yeah, it showed your IQ is a little lower than most people, but it showed you were higher than other people in some ways.
“You care about people. In fact, you care about other people a little too much. You tend to think about others far too much, much more than about yourself. What you need to be careful about is that there are some people who care too much about themselves and they will take advantage of you. But you can use that trait of yours to your advantage.
“Another thing your test showed is that you are extremely careful about following laws and rules. Much more than other people. You can use that to your advantage.
“Just like people with leprosy learn to make a habit of always of always checking their body, you can learn the habit of always checking everywhere you are before you leave. You can learn that habit, and if you think about how that when you leave things all scattered you are making others pick up after you, and you don’t want to bother other people, you will learn the habit easier. Also, if you tell yourself that everything belongs in a very particular place, and it is a rule, you will be checking to see if you are following the rules... and you want to do that. Thinking of keeping things in the right place is like following the rules, and you will be checking everywhere you are, and you won’t lose your camera, or lose $20.”
He seemed to be following me closely.
“I know you have been wondering if you could go to college. Well buddy, I don’t think you can get a bachelor’s degree like some people, but you can get a high school diploma... and you can go to a junior college and get into a two year program that can teach you to do things that I know you can do. You can learn to work on cars. You can learn to weld. You can learn to do all sorts of things.
“We are all unique... IQ is only a small part of who we are and how it affects us. I’m a little on the smart side. But that doesn’t mean things always go my way.
"I never want to talk down about Mom. I want you to always respect her and love her. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t make mistakes. Mom is smart, but she has made a lot of mistakes.
"I’m pretty good at figuring a lot of things out, but sometimes I have trouble reading people. Sometimes I don’t feel comfortable around people. Sometimes I think and say things I think are funny, and other people don’t get it.
“I think the new medicine you are taking makes you more scattered. But I also think it makes it easier for you to think clearly. We can go back to the other medicine. But it will make your thinking a little fuzzier, and I think you can learn habits that will compensate for being so scattered.
“Another thing. I know you are upset about losing the $20 and are scared about your future... but it will be OK. Part of what you’re feeling is about worrying about how well you think. Part of what you’re feeling is because you are confused and sad about this situation with Mom. I get it. I feel it. That stuff wears you down. But it helps if at least you know you are feeling that way because of those things.
"I love you. Mom loves you. It will all work out. I will always be there for you, and you can stay living with me for as long as you need... though I think that someday you will need to move out on your own because living your life, in your home, doing what you want to do and not worrying about my way or my rules, is what is best for you. But for now, finish high school, get your diploma. And next year we will work on getting you used to working and earning money. And we can set things up so that your paycheck goes directly to your bank, and your bank can pay most of your bills directly.
“One last thing. There is something about you that you don’t know, even though you have heard it. But it is true, and I want you to believe it. Ready? OK, here it is: You are very handsome. You are one good looking kid.
"You will be able to find a girlfriend. I know you want one. You just need to feel more confident, less afraid. I know there are a lot of girls out there who think you are handsome. And they are right.”
He looked straight at me. Hard. Unsure how to take that bit. And I stared back, judging the truth of how beautiful he is. For him, the dreadlocks really do set him off very well. And his eyes. He does have beautiful eyes.
He could see me scanning his face, and that I was smiling, and that I really do think he is one of the best looking kids I know, whether or not I am his dad.
We watched TV together, at dinner together, folded clothes. Rocky got sick again. We cleaned up dog puke.
I went to bed early. Fell asleep fast.
It didn’t last long. A knock on the bedroom door woke me in less than a half hour.
“Rocky threw up!” both boys were saying.
He had indeed. In three places. I cleaned it up. He didn’t look too well.
I opened the sliding glass door so he could go outside if he felt ill. Turned off the heat so we didn’t waste money heating the Oregon night. I covered him with a blanket. Went to bed.
He was worse in the morning. He had thrown up four more times. I called the vet, who wasn’t available to see him on a Saturday morning. He was headed out to make his rounds at various farms. But he gave me the number of a vet in Beavercreek.
I called the vet. They could see me in 40 minutes. I jumped in the car.
Rocky could barely get into the van. I had to help him up. He was wagging his tail, anticipating another good walk at Molalla River State Park.
I started driving, and I thought about Brenda and all her stuff. I sent her a text message, telling her I wanted her to get her stuff out of the house.
I thought about how much she loved Rocky. I hadn’t told her about my going to the vet because I was a little ticked that she hadn’t called the boys in over a week and they missed her and they hurt and she didn’t seem to care and she seems to love the dog more than them and... she should know the vet said that this sounded very serious. So I sent the text:
“Rocky is VERY sick. F (the vet.) says he might not make it to Monday. Call me if you want to meet me @ vet’s.”
She called. I gave her the address.
Rocky could barely walk when I got there. And when I got him inside, he collapsed. I put him on the scale. He has lost 20 pounds since his check up a month ago.
Brenda showed up. Minute by minute Rocky looked worse. His temp. was four degrees below normal. He was anemic. He was having trouble breathing. The veterinarian gave us an estimate to start blood work and x rays. $570.
And he would need to go to a pet hospital anyway.
We wondered if we should have him put to sleep , or start on the costly checks of what he has. I said something about how I thought he would not get better no matter what, but I thought we should take him straight to the pet hospital. And see about first steps.
Then he started bleeding out his rectum.
We got him into the van. Twenty minutes later I was pulling into the pet hospital parking lot. He couldn’t stand. I picked him up, carried him into the building while blood trickled out his butt and down my pants leg. Brenda held the door open.
The receptionist saw me carrying this huge dog, saw his condition...
“We need a triage doctor and a gurney in the lobby, STAT!”
Two technicians came rushing out with a gurney and I placed him on it. They wheeled him away. Brenda and I followed.
But behind the offices, in the area filled with all sorts of equipment to care for the pampered pets of Americans, equipment third world clinics beg for, we were turned aside and put into consult room.
Ten minutes later an animal doc came in to tell us Rocky had stopped breathing. He was on a ventilator.
We went to see him.
Agreed to euthanize him.
I lifted his ear, bent close and whispered “You’re a good dog. You’re a good boy.”
The doctor put a large syringe filled with a pink liquid into his catheter. We nodded. She pulled back the plunger, and a little blood leaked in, mixing darkly with the pink fluid, it was in a vein. We nodded.
“This will only take about 30 seconds.”
We nodded again.
She slowly pushed the plunger in.
He grew still.
I held Brenda.
Afterward we went to Denny’s. I wanted to catch my breath before going home, telling the boys that their beloved dog is dead. Have a cup of coffee.
I noticed she was wearing a class ring where her wedding band once was.
At one point she started saying things about how awful life is. How she wished we hadn’t adopted Jeremiah. I told her that if she said one more word about Jeremiah I would leave the money for the coffee, get up, and walk out.
She came home to help me tell the boys. I suggested she pack some more of her stuff. I told her she had two more weeks to get the rest of it.
She got into a "rag fest" over the way we have been putting away plastic containers. I pulled her into the bedroom.
“Knock it off! I don't have to listen to your negativity anymore, and I won't!
“Yeah, the boys don’t do things exactly the way you do...”
She started in on how the boys are inept: “It takes no more effort to do things right than to do them wrong. If they would just...”
“I said knock it off! If you can’t be nice, then get out!
"It takes patience to teach them how to do things. I find the good they are doing and praise them in order for them to learn. It is great they are doing things! They are trying. So what if it isn’t perfect?! That is so far down on my list of what is important I can barely see it. They are helping to run this house. They are learning to cook and clean and wash laundry and dishes and learning to do things simply because they need doing and not because someone has told them to do it. It doesn’t matter if sometimes I have to rewash the dishes, or revacuum the floor, or do the sweeping again.
"That they are trying is much more important than how well they are doing it.
"Not doing it right. I can work with that. At least they are doing something!
“This is exactly why you are having so much trouble in your life.”
“I’m having trouble in my life because bad things never stop happening, while good things do,” she whined.
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m wrong?!! THE DOG IS DEAD! How much more wrong can it get?“
“You just don’t get it. You hold onto every bad thing that happens. You are constantly angry and constantly resentful. Resentment is a poison you take hoping it will hurt someone else.
“Yeah, life is pretty bad sometimes. But it is also beautiful. Life sucks, and life is wonderful.
“On the way here, as we drove through Oregon City, there were all those yellow leaves floating down just in front of the railroad tunnel. It was beautiful. It looked like I was driving through bright yellow snow. I would guess you didn’t notice.
"Now it is twenty minutes later, and I am still holding onto the image of all those beautiful leaves floating down. I deal with what is wrong, and I dwell on what is right.
“You can look at the ugly things, take them in, and let them poison you. Or you can look at the ugly things, deal with them and then focus on the beautiful. And life is full of beauty. Even that jerk you are with in Molalla probably has good in him.”
I told her to pack more of her stuff. I had a couple of errands to run. I left.
This evening we had dinner at the group home I think would be perfect for Jeremiah. It was another step in the complex process of finding a good future for that child of mine.
At any rate... tonight my children are upset over the loss of a beloved pet. Tonight my wife cries for this dear former companion of hers. Tonight I am learning how to guide my home and my children through another little mess.
Sometimes life is full of shit. So... one should put on waders, walk through it, take care of the mess, and then wash it off. Sure, life stinks sometimes. But, it is also beautiful.
I have two wonderful children.
I will miss Rocky.
But, I have an important job to do in finishing this task of raising my sons to be as independent as they can be.
Now... I have spent too much time recording the events of last night and today and I need to get to sleep. Tomorrow my team of Special Olympics Bowling athletes are going to the regional tournament and I should get some rest.
Brenda is not sleeping beside me, and Rocky will no longer be sleeping on the foot of the bed. I have more adjusting to do.
G’night.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Faith, Worship, Free will, and Eternity
I wonder how much my faith separated my life from Brenda’s.
She became a believer. She was baptized, took communion, read the Bible, prayed.
She tried.
I’m not sure where her soul is... where her spirit and body, as a whole, takes her spiritually.
She told me once she was sometimes embarrassed by my worship.
I understand.
When I worship I shut my eyes, I always shut my eyes, and I go somewhere.
I listen to the music, I listen to the voices of those around me, and I do my best to blend my voice with the sounds of worship. And I go somewhere.
Each song that is sung I contemplate the words, weigh them in my heart, compare their meaning with what my heart believes. I let them sink into my heart. I let my spirit interact with my body, I seek the balance place, where my human part blends with my spirit and I let it stir within my heart.
And that is where my worship happens.
I feel the words, stirring within my heart, and I lift them up, place them on the altar of the sounds that surround, and lift them up.
I feel my nature, that I am more than something that grew, that evolved on this world, and grew within the body of my mother. I feel, I know, I am a made thing. I was created. Just the same way a carpenter shapes wood that has been dried, fashions it into something unique.
My soul, the blend of all that I am, responds. Joy. Fear. Adoration. Awe. Servanthood. Gratitude. Love.
It’s a choice.
I choose to feel this way, to respond this way, to offer myself in gratitude, respect.
I love that. The choosing. Choice.
I believe it is the only thing that is really mine. Choice.
Free will.
I can react to the world in any way I choose.
I choose to feel. I choose to love and embrace and be hurt and to appreciate.
I know there are things, beings, different than me.
I dabbled in explorations which showed me more of the realities of the universe than were healthy for me to see. Nearly killed me. I don’t talk about that much.
I know there is goodness personified. I know there is evil.
I know what eternity is like. I’ve felt it. Feel it. Twice eternity intersected my life, and those moments are with me still. They have never stopped being a part of who I am, part of what we call now.
I know eternity isn’t the continuation of the timeline we know. Eternity is not our being dragged along in the direction we think of as “future.” Rather, eternity is being part of the universe as a whole... from beginning of creation through the time when all things dissipate in randomness, entropy (or returns in a big crunch).
I know there are creatures, beings, created for eternity, never experiencing mortal existence.
I have wondered if they understand free will.
I think...
I think... they can... but...
It usually never occurs to them.
It may happen now and then. There is strong indications that some, it is written a third, chose.
I feel a bit of glory when I let my spirit mix with my physical self, and I think it is a faint echo, a reflection, of what eternity is like.
I think it might be difficult for those created into such an existence to choose. It may be difficult to be individual where self is difficult to see. It may be difficult to think of oneself in a realm where self is a concept difficult to grasp... a realm where community is the truth of all existence.
I think a lot.
I think about things that I cannot truly know. And I think about things I can see, and touch, and taste, and smell. I think a lot.
It’s my nature.
I know, I understand, that nearly everything I know is wrong.
My mind, my senses, my heart, my spirit, are inadequate tools to grasp truth.
But I try.
I wish she felt this.
I think I will enter fully into eternity someday... the realm where time hasn’t any real meaning because it all exists at once... I think I will enter eternity and I will bring something unusual to that place of austere beauty.
I will bring the experience of having choices, of having made choices. I will bring imperfection and confusion and the rough joy of a soul unused to experiencing austere beauty.
I believe free will may not be entirely restricted to the mortal existence... but I think it is only possible when a soul is not completely immersed in that awe-sum, awe full, all encompassing reality.
Just a thought.
She became a believer. She was baptized, took communion, read the Bible, prayed.
She tried.
I’m not sure where her soul is... where her spirit and body, as a whole, takes her spiritually.
She told me once she was sometimes embarrassed by my worship.
I understand.
When I worship I shut my eyes, I always shut my eyes, and I go somewhere.
I listen to the music, I listen to the voices of those around me, and I do my best to blend my voice with the sounds of worship. And I go somewhere.
Each song that is sung I contemplate the words, weigh them in my heart, compare their meaning with what my heart believes. I let them sink into my heart. I let my spirit interact with my body, I seek the balance place, where my human part blends with my spirit and I let it stir within my heart.
And that is where my worship happens.
I feel the words, stirring within my heart, and I lift them up, place them on the altar of the sounds that surround, and lift them up.
I feel my nature, that I am more than something that grew, that evolved on this world, and grew within the body of my mother. I feel, I know, I am a made thing. I was created. Just the same way a carpenter shapes wood that has been dried, fashions it into something unique.
My soul, the blend of all that I am, responds. Joy. Fear. Adoration. Awe. Servanthood. Gratitude. Love.
It’s a choice.
I choose to feel this way, to respond this way, to offer myself in gratitude, respect.
I love that. The choosing. Choice.
I believe it is the only thing that is really mine. Choice.
Free will.
I can react to the world in any way I choose.
I choose to feel. I choose to love and embrace and be hurt and to appreciate.
I know there are things, beings, different than me.
I dabbled in explorations which showed me more of the realities of the universe than were healthy for me to see. Nearly killed me. I don’t talk about that much.
I know there is goodness personified. I know there is evil.
I know what eternity is like. I’ve felt it. Feel it. Twice eternity intersected my life, and those moments are with me still. They have never stopped being a part of who I am, part of what we call now.
I know eternity isn’t the continuation of the timeline we know. Eternity is not our being dragged along in the direction we think of as “future.” Rather, eternity is being part of the universe as a whole... from beginning of creation through the time when all things dissipate in randomness, entropy (or returns in a big crunch).
I know there are creatures, beings, created for eternity, never experiencing mortal existence.
I have wondered if they understand free will.
I think...
I think... they can... but...
It usually never occurs to them.
It may happen now and then. There is strong indications that some, it is written a third, chose.
I feel a bit of glory when I let my spirit mix with my physical self, and I think it is a faint echo, a reflection, of what eternity is like.
I think it might be difficult for those created into such an existence to choose. It may be difficult to be individual where self is difficult to see. It may be difficult to think of oneself in a realm where self is a concept difficult to grasp... a realm where community is the truth of all existence.
I think a lot.
I think about things that I cannot truly know. And I think about things I can see, and touch, and taste, and smell. I think a lot.
It’s my nature.
I know, I understand, that nearly everything I know is wrong.
My mind, my senses, my heart, my spirit, are inadequate tools to grasp truth.
But I try.
I wish she felt this.
I think I will enter fully into eternity someday... the realm where time hasn’t any real meaning because it all exists at once... I think I will enter eternity and I will bring something unusual to that place of austere beauty.
I will bring the experience of having choices, of having made choices. I will bring imperfection and confusion and the rough joy of a soul unused to experiencing austere beauty.
I believe free will may not be entirely restricted to the mortal existence... but I think it is only possible when a soul is not completely immersed in that awe-sum, awe full, all encompassing reality.
Just a thought.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
May I be of Service?
I'm gripping the metal bar as I kneel and hold the ramp firmly to the floor. Beside my head a sixteen pound ball is rocking in unsteady hands. I am serving this person, these people, helping them find a moment of joy, making them feel good about who they are, what they can do. I am at their service.
-------------------------
Today is Sunday. I overslept and had to rush my children through breakfast, rush to pick up my mother in law... ex mother in law... and rush to church. The youth pastor was giving the message today, the first in a sermon series, while my pastor, my friend, is on an out of town trip.
I overslept!
I only got up once last night. Sometime around 3:00 a.m. I checked my email. I went back to bed. I went back to sleep! And, all told, I think I slept about a seven hours and fifteen minutes. The most I have slept in more than a year and a half.
I woke, feeling... rested. Oh... what a wonderful feeling. I made coffee while I hollered at the boys to hurry, and inside I felt like I am going to be OK.
I don’t know how I became such a sensitive soul. (By the way... do you know the difference between your soul and your spirit... it’s worth pondering!)
I am the only man in my family with this particular bent. I don’t regret it. I am sometimes embarrassed, to be seen as such a softy, but I know it to be who I am, and I feel good in allowing myself to relax into this part of who I am.
I want to be gentle. (I serve a gentle master.)
Most creatures do not seek gentleness. Beside me, here at my desk, the dominant yellow-white angel fish and the dominant black-white angel fish continue their feud. For four years they have protected their respective halves of the 50 gallon tank and stage their border skirmishes beside the ceramic castle I made. They each have admiring mates to preen for. The mischievous red tail shark honors no borders and slips throughout the tank, teasing both sides.
I recognize that this ongoing stressor in their tiny lives keeps them healthy, active, free from boredom in their small world.
The stressors of my own life have helped me grow in ways which surprise me. I feel one of those areas of growth when I am kneeling before the Special Olympics athletes I serve on Saturdays.
I coach Special Olympics bowling.
My team is four individuals, each very different from the other, each with unique ways of wanting to do things, each needing something a little different from me. They are probably the most needy of all the athletes there. None of them speak.
I love them.
Three of them use ramps. The ramps are made of welded metal tubing. I ask each athlete as they come up, shuffling, or staggering, and rushing for no more reason than the joy of finding it is their turn once again. I ask, or gesture, are they satisfied with the way the ramp is set? For two of them I give them the 16 pound ball I selected and tested for balance, and let them place it on the flat space at the top of the ramp.
I’m not supposed to face the pins when they bowl. That is their moment. I encourage them to push the ball hard and fast, while I drop to one knee and pull my elbow in so it won’t interfere when they push the ball to the top of the slope where the ball rushes down and drops loudly onto the wood of the lane.
I hold the side of the ramp firmly so it won’t shift. It tries to jump twice. First when the ball begins to descend, and again when it falls the final inch from the rails to the floor.
I chose a heavy ball because if the athlete pushes the ball too lightly, it will still have enough inertia to knock the pins down.
One of the athletes, a woman with cerebral palsy, wants to do as much for herself as possible. She doesn’t want me to touch the ramp, she wants to carry the ball to the ramp.
On her fourth frame she grasped the ball from my hands, pulled it tight to her chest and teetered toward the ramp. I try to keep my hands about a foot to each side of her so she is on her own, but I can react quickly if she stumbles. She fell over, backwards and to the side, too quickly for me to catch her.
It was too quick for me to catch her, but I managed to scoop the heavy ball away from her as she tumbled so it wouldn’t land atop her. The ball landed with a loud bang as her hat tumbled off and a look of shock spread over her face.
She was upset for a while after that. Between moments of glee at taking her turn on the lane, she would point to her hand, and her elbow, and grunt sadly.
“I know, it hurts. It will get better. You are doing very well though. I’m proud of you.”
She would shout inaudibly and stagger to her place at the ramp where I would once again suggest moving the ramp one way or another, and when she was satisfied, hand her the heavy ball.
As I knelt before her each time I thought about her joy in being there, at knocking a few pins down. I thought about how kneeling has been a sign of putting one at someone else’s service.
After her fall I made sure she was distracted until she was close to the ramp. She did not try to take the ball from me until she was ready at the ramp.
Each time I knelt to hold that ramp steady I found a certain pleasure in serving.
From time to time I have written of how Jesus knelt to wash the feet of His disciples. That act of humility by God incarnate, done before His creation placed rough hands on Him, dragged Him off to be judged by men out of their depth, tortured by men who found joy in their inhumane craft, murdered by creatures He formed.
From time to time I have written of how God serves us. How the universe is held together by forces we barely imagine, held together in a fashion which permits us the freedom to love or hate.
I’m feeling better. I had a lot of sleep last night. Over seven hours.
I’m saddened over some things. I’m confused by others.
But when my heart is understanding what it means to serve, when it understands my place of privilege, of loving, of being gentle, then I feel whole, complete.
For most of my life I didn’t understand that.
In our culture to serve means to be beneath someone else, to be less than someone else. When we go to a restaurant or are waited on in a store, we expect service which makes us feel important, makes us feel in charge.
Each Sunday I go to a church service. A church service. Who is being served? It may feel like we are being served. That we are being fed, being taught, being given a sense of community and family.
But when I go to church, and I worship with a humbled heart, knowing I am a created thing, and that I am in service to Him, I feel more than good. I feel like I am living a life filled with nights of eight hours’ sleep.
I am no longer married. When I think of her, my mind, my heart, still calls her my wife... though it is no longer true.
She is gone. She walks a path different than mine.
She has failed me. I have failed her.
I failed to serve her properly. She fell. She was hurt. Her joy turned toward her hurts. I failed to serve her.
I serve my students. They see me as Authority. I give the grades. I give the praise. I give the discipline.
My students are wrong. I am not their master. I am their servant.
Each day they come into my classroom and sit in their places, and I present my service to them.
My place is to provide coaching for skills they need, to think more clearly, to develop healthy habits, how to be good students, how to be good citizens, good people.
It is my place to serve my students.
It is my place to serve my employer, the school district.
It is my place to serve my community, to educate the children of my neighbors.
It is my place to serve my society, my world, our future.
And...
I have been given the privilege to serve a God who serves all Creation... In doing so I am fulfilling and fulfilled.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
A Pair of Epiphanies
Before the post... here are the pics I promised of our new living room. I got rid of stuff, moved the piano against a wall to open the place up, and we painted everything in yellowish oranges. So... here is a peek at life inside a pumpkin!
Dearest reader, I beg your indulgence, for portions of what is to come is wordy and oddly complex for those unexposed to terms needful for semi-accurate descriptions. So... for those of you who lose their way here and there in the longish descriptions which follow, please understand the point in describing the two journeys to the incredibly small and the incredibly large, I am only seeking to share the magnitude of scale of the song of creation. If those passages prove too long or confusing, please skip on and just know I have felt something, sensed something, that is hard to describe. I feel these descriptions are important to understanding what I felt this past Sunday morning as I walked in a natural setting waking to a new day.
Two insights came to me on Sunday. One spiritual, one personal. Well, I suppose even the spiritual insights are personal ones. Like all insights, they really can’t be shared. They can be told, but everyone feels, discovers, truth for themselves. A given truth is like most given things, not nearly as appreciated as those we obtain ourselves.
The first was early in the morning, and echoed through the day. I was on the far side of the large open fields at Molalla River State Park, the stage for so many personal dramas. I followed the path in the dark (the moon had recently set).
The familiar hush as night creatures disappeared and day dwellers still slept, was broken by my footsteps, alternating between rustling grass and the soft thud of the packed dirt.
A shaft of red, wriggling through the darkness shot dramatically into the sky. Ruby light, weakest of visible light, in striking the atmosphere bent and slipped around the edge of the world, bouncing off the clouds scuttling around Mount Hood, stabbing across the dark, stabbing through a break in the clouds, and sang to me.
It was beautiful.
Such a simple sentence... “It was beautiful.” Such a short sentence. It does not really say anything. It does not express what I saw, what I felt. “Beautiful” is too brief a term.
Three ideas came together in that moment. I have had them before, but in this context it was as if that shaft of red had stabbed across the edge of the world and struck me with the force of truth.
At the smallest of imaginable levels, smaller than a molecule, or an atom, or a neutron... smaller than the triune nature of quarks, quantum strings vibrate. These threads weave together to form the fabric of reality, of our universe. Just as a guitar string vibrates and produces a sound, these energetic wires thinner than sub atomic particles, vibrate and produce... mass... energy... gravity... They sing out and their voices ring out in a song that sings:
“I am matter, I am more and I am less than I seem. I roil and spin and twitch and I sing in my realm of 12 dimensions a song that you can hear which sounds like only four... height, width, depth, time. I am the voice of God, whispered into the smallest of spaces, joined by countless other strings, and we produce chords which sing creation into existence. We are the song of the building blocks of atoms. We are your limited reality, an echo from realities you cannot see, cannot hear. We are joy. We are love. We are community and unity and separate and one. We are the voice of God, and you exist because of our song.”
That song of reality echoed in my heart, and I knew that my limited reality, a mere four dimensions, is only vapor. Just as I might see a drawing as a mere two dimensional image, a crude representation of the greater reality in which I live... moving about in three physical realms, dragged along in the entropic dimension of time, I hear the song that says there are more... there is more... and the song from beyond gives me shape... as thin and limited as it is.
I am a ghost of a truer reality, I am so limited to only four of at least 12 dimensions. I sense there is more, but I cannot touch it, any more than the cartoon image on a sheet of paper can reach out and play a musical instrument in my world.
And the thought swings in the other direction, the other end of the scale of things.
Far from that quantum reality where all appears to be random, all appears to be chance, all appears to be much less and much more than I can see, is the incredibly large.
A hundred years ago men thought our universe was just this one galaxy. It takes a 100,000 years for light to travel from one side to the other of this spinning disk of two to four hundred billion stars.
Then in 1992 and 1923 Edwin Hubble gathered enough evidence to prove that the Milky Way was only one of many galaxies, “island universes.” We now suspect there may be 500 billion galaxies.
They do not swim through the universe alone. They form huge groups, form strings, bubbles, patterns across vast distances. Gravity is not restricted by size or distance. Gravity from these galaxies reach to each other and they dance a complex pattern around a central galaxy. The center of that galaxy harbors a black hole of billions of solar masses. That invisible, massive heart beats a rhythm of pulsing x rays, heating the rarefied intergalactic gases with shock waves, a drum sounding hundreds of octaves below the range of human ears.
These galactic superclusters, the largest structures discovered in our universe, so large light takes 500 million years to travel from one side to the other, sing.
Sing.
From the unimaginably small to the unimaginably large, the universe sings.
When he came near the place where the road goes down the Mount of Olives, the whole crowd of disciples began joyfully to praise God in loud voices for all the miracles they had seen:
"Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!"
"Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!"
Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to Jesus, "Teacher, rebuke your disciples!"
"I tell you," he replied, "if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out."
Luke 19:37-40
The rocks do cry out! The earth sings! That shaft of crimson shouted to me, sang to me, and I heard.
The entire universe sings. The fabric of space and time is a cloth made up of threads which sing glory and reality to create this four dimensional realm, this shadow of a truer reality.
Who I am, what I am, is a wisp of smoke, a faint ghost drifting in a limited universe.
And my heart sings!
And there is a mystery... Why is that unusual?
Why is it that the one species on this small clump of rock spinning madly around such an ordinary star, this species that is blessed with the sense of beauty, the gift of creativity, a mind that is imaginative and free, is reluctant to join the rest of the universe and sing a song of praise?
Why do we not let our hearts soar in the knowledge that we are held together, the atoms of our bodies are merely the echo of a song sung beyond, and we do not tremble with joy?
When I turn my mind to God, when my thoughts reach across the scales which measure from quantum levels to half a billion light years, and I allow my heart to follow my mind, I tremble.
Not because I fear Him. Or perhaps I do. Not because I stand in judgement, but because I see how small I am, how mighty He is, how small my range of thought and feelings are, and how vast and holy He is, and I tremble because I know that mighty eye, that powerful consciousness, is turned toward me, is aware of me, loves me.
Oh... what a mightily fearful thing!
I have many gifts. I have been blessed with an intensely curious mind that seeks to learn. I have been blessed with an eye for beauty and the desire to use it creatively. I am healthy, fit, and can do many imaginative tricks, gifts given to a clever primate.
But they are all nothing.
I have only one thing of any value.
There is only one thing I think truly pleases my God.
He has given me free will, the ability to choose... and with this heart He gave me, and this freedom... I choose...
to love.
The only thing I truly have is my heart.
All I have is my respect, my joy, my adoration.
That was my first epiphany. That the universe sings, from the improbably small to the improbably large, and that I am designed to sing in trembling adulation.
The second epiphany was much more human, but it also dealt with my heart.
My marriage has been filled with hurts, and when the pain ceased, it felt like pleasure.
Have you ever had something hurt so much, a toothache, a splinter, an arrow through your thigh, that the cessation of the pain feels like pleasure? It isn’t really pleasure, I think. Just the stopping of the pain feels so wonderful.
A certainty came to me that my wife is not truly working to heal our marriage as she so frequently claims. Her recent silence suggests she is occupied. She is with him.
A few months ago the thought would make my heart pound and I would stress over the idea, fret over it, wonder if I should drive there and prove the truth of it.
But not this past weekend... I felt no such feelings.
I discovered, I didn’t care.
I find myself creating a new home, a new life with my children, and I marvel at how pleasant it is to run this home peacefully.
It is sort of like hitting my thumb with a hammer. It hurts like hell. And when the throbbing stops the cessation feels almost like pleasure.
Was my marriage so dysfunctional that between the blows of the pounding hammer I mistook the relief from pain as pleasure?
My marriage is over.
This is what acceptance feels like.
Well, the above post was a difficult one to write. I kept getting bogged down in trying to explain the details of the two extremes of the scale of our reality. Until I realized that it does not matter if I accurately express the details of those scales. All that is important is that I give a good hint at the scale, and how I feel within it.
I feel that if I am not awestruck by the thought of who I worship, then I am not thinking about it very clearly.
The second insight about my wife has rolled along, and in perfect timing, seen its natural fruition. Today the letter from the court came telling me that the judgment is done and I am divorced.
It feels strange.
I'll get better... and I think it will be quicker than I would have thought.
It seems lately I have been taking longer strides through this mess.
I've been writing, but it is too scattered to post.
I feel sad... I feel relieved... I feel hopeful... and there are feelings I can't quite identify.
But, it probably won't be too long when I stop thinking "I'm divorced" and start thinking "I'm single."
Being married has been such a central part of my identity that it feels weird to have this cut away.
It's like an amputation. It had to go. It was gangrene and it was killing me and it needed to be cut away.
But as screwed up as it was, it was what I knew, and even in awful places, what is familiar is comfortable.
We had a Moon Howlin' Tuesday night.
I shared many of the ideas in this post.
Marinated venison.
Now that is how it should be cooked!
This past year I had a large tree cut down in my front yard. It was a threat to my home and I cut it down. I planted a pear tree nearby. It has plenty of room to grow, to produce something useful. Fruit instead of pine needles.
I went home to get Jeremiah... take him to my mother in law's (ex mother in law?). My divorce papers came today... it is final...
But. to the point. That little pear tree, planted during a very tough year for me... I dug a hole gently through its roots... and I put the decoration that was on top of our wedding cake into the hole. The tree will grow up and over it. There will be something new growing over something old.
I asked Jeremiah to take a couple of pictures for me...
Dearest reader, I beg your indulgence, for portions of what is to come is wordy and oddly complex for those unexposed to terms needful for semi-accurate descriptions. So... for those of you who lose their way here and there in the longish descriptions which follow, please understand the point in describing the two journeys to the incredibly small and the incredibly large, I am only seeking to share the magnitude of scale of the song of creation. If those passages prove too long or confusing, please skip on and just know I have felt something, sensed something, that is hard to describe. I feel these descriptions are important to understanding what I felt this past Sunday morning as I walked in a natural setting waking to a new day.
--------------------------
Two insights came to me on Sunday. One spiritual, one personal. Well, I suppose even the spiritual insights are personal ones. Like all insights, they really can’t be shared. They can be told, but everyone feels, discovers, truth for themselves. A given truth is like most given things, not nearly as appreciated as those we obtain ourselves.
The first was early in the morning, and echoed through the day. I was on the far side of the large open fields at Molalla River State Park, the stage for so many personal dramas. I followed the path in the dark (the moon had recently set).
The familiar hush as night creatures disappeared and day dwellers still slept, was broken by my footsteps, alternating between rustling grass and the soft thud of the packed dirt.
A shaft of red, wriggling through the darkness shot dramatically into the sky. Ruby light, weakest of visible light, in striking the atmosphere bent and slipped around the edge of the world, bouncing off the clouds scuttling around Mount Hood, stabbing across the dark, stabbing through a break in the clouds, and sang to me.
It was beautiful.
Such a simple sentence... “It was beautiful.” Such a short sentence. It does not really say anything. It does not express what I saw, what I felt. “Beautiful” is too brief a term.
Three ideas came together in that moment. I have had them before, but in this context it was as if that shaft of red had stabbed across the edge of the world and struck me with the force of truth.
At the smallest of imaginable levels, smaller than a molecule, or an atom, or a neutron... smaller than the triune nature of quarks, quantum strings vibrate. These threads weave together to form the fabric of reality, of our universe. Just as a guitar string vibrates and produces a sound, these energetic wires thinner than sub atomic particles, vibrate and produce... mass... energy... gravity... They sing out and their voices ring out in a song that sings:
“I am matter, I am more and I am less than I seem. I roil and spin and twitch and I sing in my realm of 12 dimensions a song that you can hear which sounds like only four... height, width, depth, time. I am the voice of God, whispered into the smallest of spaces, joined by countless other strings, and we produce chords which sing creation into existence. We are the song of the building blocks of atoms. We are your limited reality, an echo from realities you cannot see, cannot hear. We are joy. We are love. We are community and unity and separate and one. We are the voice of God, and you exist because of our song.”
That song of reality echoed in my heart, and I knew that my limited reality, a mere four dimensions, is only vapor. Just as I might see a drawing as a mere two dimensional image, a crude representation of the greater reality in which I live... moving about in three physical realms, dragged along in the entropic dimension of time, I hear the song that says there are more... there is more... and the song from beyond gives me shape... as thin and limited as it is.
I am a ghost of a truer reality, I am so limited to only four of at least 12 dimensions. I sense there is more, but I cannot touch it, any more than the cartoon image on a sheet of paper can reach out and play a musical instrument in my world.
And the thought swings in the other direction, the other end of the scale of things.
Far from that quantum reality where all appears to be random, all appears to be chance, all appears to be much less and much more than I can see, is the incredibly large.
A hundred years ago men thought our universe was just this one galaxy. It takes a 100,000 years for light to travel from one side to the other of this spinning disk of two to four hundred billion stars.
Then in 1992 and 1923 Edwin Hubble gathered enough evidence to prove that the Milky Way was only one of many galaxies, “island universes.” We now suspect there may be 500 billion galaxies.
They do not swim through the universe alone. They form huge groups, form strings, bubbles, patterns across vast distances. Gravity is not restricted by size or distance. Gravity from these galaxies reach to each other and they dance a complex pattern around a central galaxy. The center of that galaxy harbors a black hole of billions of solar masses. That invisible, massive heart beats a rhythm of pulsing x rays, heating the rarefied intergalactic gases with shock waves, a drum sounding hundreds of octaves below the range of human ears.
These galactic superclusters, the largest structures discovered in our universe, so large light takes 500 million years to travel from one side to the other, sing.
Sing.
From the unimaginably small to the unimaginably large, the universe sings.
When he came near the place where the road goes down the Mount of Olives, the whole crowd of disciples began joyfully to praise God in loud voices for all the miracles they had seen:
"Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!"
"Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!"
Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to Jesus, "Teacher, rebuke your disciples!"
"I tell you," he replied, "if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out."
Luke 19:37-40
The rocks do cry out! The earth sings! That shaft of crimson shouted to me, sang to me, and I heard.
The entire universe sings. The fabric of space and time is a cloth made up of threads which sing glory and reality to create this four dimensional realm, this shadow of a truer reality.
Who I am, what I am, is a wisp of smoke, a faint ghost drifting in a limited universe.
And my heart sings!
And there is a mystery... Why is that unusual?
Why is it that the one species on this small clump of rock spinning madly around such an ordinary star, this species that is blessed with the sense of beauty, the gift of creativity, a mind that is imaginative and free, is reluctant to join the rest of the universe and sing a song of praise?
Why do we not let our hearts soar in the knowledge that we are held together, the atoms of our bodies are merely the echo of a song sung beyond, and we do not tremble with joy?
When I turn my mind to God, when my thoughts reach across the scales which measure from quantum levels to half a billion light years, and I allow my heart to follow my mind, I tremble.
Not because I fear Him. Or perhaps I do. Not because I stand in judgement, but because I see how small I am, how mighty He is, how small my range of thought and feelings are, and how vast and holy He is, and I tremble because I know that mighty eye, that powerful consciousness, is turned toward me, is aware of me, loves me.
Oh... what a mightily fearful thing!
I have many gifts. I have been blessed with an intensely curious mind that seeks to learn. I have been blessed with an eye for beauty and the desire to use it creatively. I am healthy, fit, and can do many imaginative tricks, gifts given to a clever primate.
But they are all nothing.
I have only one thing of any value.
There is only one thing I think truly pleases my God.
He has given me free will, the ability to choose... and with this heart He gave me, and this freedom... I choose...
to love.
The only thing I truly have is my heart.
All I have is my respect, my joy, my adoration.
That was my first epiphany. That the universe sings, from the improbably small to the improbably large, and that I am designed to sing in trembling adulation.
The second epiphany was much more human, but it also dealt with my heart.
My marriage has been filled with hurts, and when the pain ceased, it felt like pleasure.
Have you ever had something hurt so much, a toothache, a splinter, an arrow through your thigh, that the cessation of the pain feels like pleasure? It isn’t really pleasure, I think. Just the stopping of the pain feels so wonderful.
A certainty came to me that my wife is not truly working to heal our marriage as she so frequently claims. Her recent silence suggests she is occupied. She is with him.
A few months ago the thought would make my heart pound and I would stress over the idea, fret over it, wonder if I should drive there and prove the truth of it.
But not this past weekend... I felt no such feelings.
I discovered, I didn’t care.
I find myself creating a new home, a new life with my children, and I marvel at how pleasant it is to run this home peacefully.
It is sort of like hitting my thumb with a hammer. It hurts like hell. And when the throbbing stops the cessation feels almost like pleasure.
Was my marriage so dysfunctional that between the blows of the pounding hammer I mistook the relief from pain as pleasure?
My marriage is over.
This is what acceptance feels like.
----------------------------------------
Well, the above post was a difficult one to write. I kept getting bogged down in trying to explain the details of the two extremes of the scale of our reality. Until I realized that it does not matter if I accurately express the details of those scales. All that is important is that I give a good hint at the scale, and how I feel within it.
I feel that if I am not awestruck by the thought of who I worship, then I am not thinking about it very clearly.
The second insight about my wife has rolled along, and in perfect timing, seen its natural fruition. Today the letter from the court came telling me that the judgment is done and I am divorced.
It feels strange.
I'll get better... and I think it will be quicker than I would have thought.
It seems lately I have been taking longer strides through this mess.
I've been writing, but it is too scattered to post.
I feel sad... I feel relieved... I feel hopeful... and there are feelings I can't quite identify.
But, it probably won't be too long when I stop thinking "I'm divorced" and start thinking "I'm single."
Being married has been such a central part of my identity that it feels weird to have this cut away.
It's like an amputation. It had to go. It was gangrene and it was killing me and it needed to be cut away.
But as screwed up as it was, it was what I knew, and even in awful places, what is familiar is comfortable.
We had a Moon Howlin' Tuesday night.I shared many of the ideas in this post.
Marinated venison.Now that is how it should be cooked!
This past year I had a large tree cut down in my front yard. It was a threat to my home and I cut it down. I planted a pear tree nearby. It has plenty of room to grow, to produce something useful. Fruit instead of pine needles.I went home to get Jeremiah... take him to my mother in law's (ex mother in law?). My divorce papers came today... it is final...
But. to the point. That little pear tree, planted during a very tough year for me... I dug a hole gently through its roots... and I put the decoration that was on top of our wedding cake into the hole. The tree will grow up and over it. There will be something new growing over something old.
I asked Jeremiah to take a couple of pictures for me...
Friday, October 10, 2008
Not Exactly a Man-Cave
(Peter, Peter...)Not that nothing has been going on. The boys and I are making an effort to reinvent our home.
Taking the advice from some friends, and a few ideas from the boys, we have begun to create a space in our home for peace, new beginnings, and making it a home for males (civilized).
Today I unplugged the phones. People can wait for me to call them back. Every few hours I plug a phone in and see if there is anything of interest recorded there. So far, there hasn’t been.
I’ve never been one to screen calls, but I kind of like it. This will place a buffer between us and the world.
Salespeople won’t be telling me about special deals on refinancing my home or if I would like free tickets to a nightclub. The boys can do without the chatter teens seem partial to, and I like the quiet. Brenda won’t be able to call and get my direct attention. I can choose when to speak to her.
The three of us went to the store tonight and bought... paint. We are going to redo the living room. Yellowish oranges.
It’s a leap for me. I’ve always been an eggshell white kind of guy.
Oh yeah. We bought a waffle iron! Isaac loves the frozen ones, and Brenda never wanted the waffle maker. But... not her choice anymore. So... in the morning... waffles and sausages!!!
Now, that’s a man’s breakfast! (HA!)
Seriously, these are intentional changes. They may not seem like much, but they are the fun parts of running this home. The boys have been learning to do more, and they need the fun distractions.
So we fix dinner, do the dishes, and watch the new Star Wars Clone Wars animated show while we fold laundry. We imagine new ways of doing things, living differently. We spend time with each other. I teach them about maintaining the wood stove, checking the fluid levels in the van, washing clothes, the right way to sweep a floor. I talk with them about what is going on, the real stuff, or as much of it as they can handle. I pray with them. We have someone over for dinner after church each Sunday.
I find these changes are helping me in unexpected ways.
There isn’t any discussion, any joint decisions to make. My sons and I are running the place and doing it as guys do it. We talk a bit, we grunt a little, we decide, another grunt, and we do it.
I find myself feeling relief over a new future. I had somehow accepted I would find joy in misery, offer my happiness as a sacrifice of some sort.
The last few conversations with Brenda included odd statements on her part, hints she wanted to work things out, mixed with touches of sarcasm, guilt, and emotional blackmail.
Deep inside somewhere she really is a good person.
It’s just that, right now, she is really messed up.
I can’t fix her.
And it isn’t my job to try.
One more little twist... My dad has been trying to get me to come visit him in Thailand. I plan on doing that in June. On his dime.
It’s Friday night and here is a run down on the next few days:
Saturday. Waffles for breakfast. Special Olympics bowling at noon. Going to go see a movie. Pick up new tripods for my technology program. Remove pictures from the walls in the living room and prep for painting.
Sunday. Early to church to pray with the pastors & worship team... after picking up my mother in law (she is still my sons’ grandma). Worship, is my favorite 20 minutes of the week. Dinner with guests. Work on the living room.
Monday. Back to work and school. I tell my students what grades their parents are going to see at conferences this week. One class is starting a new claymation project in honor of foreign exchange students from Korea (South of course). Work on the living room.
Tuesday night. It’s a full moon and my buddies and I are getting together for a Moon Howlin’. Iron sharpening iron.
So, there’s the latest from this strange corner of the planet.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
The Candle
When I was a teen, living with my dad in Silverado, there was a restaurant/bar where we sometimes ate. A place of dark decor, minimal lighting, and candles on the tables. They were cheap candles, little votive candles in the bottom of tall glasses. We tried to impress each other by sealing the top of the glasses with our palms until the flame consumed the oxygen and died. It was a test of endurance, letting the heat burn our hands until we triumphed over it.
Dad liked it when we pushed past pain.
I always tried to do what he and my brothers did. I wasn’t as good at it as they, but I always managed to do anything they could.
Didn’t care for it though. I wasn’t like them.
I know I’m a little unusual. How could I not?
My father is a man’s man. Women and whiskey and wildness were a part of all the dear hunting trips, demolition of buildings, and dares to prove our masculinity.
While my dad and brother were bedding mother and daughter, I was reading books. While my brothers and father were seeing who could drink the most liquor and remain standing, I was hiking hills, comparing religious texts, learning to fast and meditate. While my father and brothers were honing their skills in crushing ever taller buildings, I was experimenting with art techniques.
Now I am respected enough in certain circles (education, faith, and even among a few blog readers), to be forgiven a few eccentricities. It is OK with my friends that I am sensitive, scientific, and a touch socially awkward.
Some things I am not very good at. I have a little trouble reading people. I don’t always pick up on others’ humor, and many of my puns and jokes simply confuse.
When people talk sports I am the quiet one in the background who smiles and nods and pretends to understand what the fuss is all about.
But ask me about the ball games of the Mayans, and I can tell you much about their equipment, rules, the designs of and on their courts.
Ah well.
I may not fit smoothly into a bar scene, or navigate the politics found in larger organizations, but there are other things I do fairly well.
My failings are obvious enough to prevent me from becoming too proud of my successes. The skills I possess, I use as a caretaker uses someone else’s tools. They are mine to use, but I cannot take credit for them.
Take art for example. Friends are amused at how excited I get over colors in foliage, shapes in clouds, shifting colors in sunrises. All this ties the universe outside of me to the creativity within me, another tool I use I cannot take credit for.
Or science. Again and again my friends and colleagues shake their heads and try not to smile as I become animated about the implications of the Higgs Bosun condensate or the potential of the Hadron Super Collider or how quarks seem to find the number three as a common denominator.
So what? I may be a touch sensitive, but the condescension it may illicit in others is a small price to pay for the depth of feeling I have in my experiences. I may not wax eloquent over the smooth teamwork of basketball or marvel at the passing skills of a quarterback, but I have other joys.
Still, there are times when I don’t like certain things about myself.
I don’t like the hurt.
Even in typing those words I hear my father’s voice: “What a wuss.”
I’m a loyal person. I am loyal to the companies, friends, organizations I belong to. I am, was, loyal to my wife. To the point where it becomes nearly masochistic.
I am working my tail off. I am doing my best in taking over all the duties of this household. Cleaning, cooking, laundry, bills, house repairs, helping the boys with their homework, performing my duties in my given avocation.
So, I’m tired.
But more than tired, I am sad.
It’s not a manly emotion.
In some ways it interferes with my life.
Would it be better to blow all this off, to saunter into the future on long legs like some sort of pedagogical version of John Wayne? It would be easier.
If I could just get angry, stay angry, say “Screw you!”, I would be able to jump past this emotional junk.
I am passionate. When I worship I feel alive. When I sing to the stars and sunrise, my heart leaps.
So being sensitive means I hurt more easily, deeply, but it isn’t much to pay in exchange for the joys I feel.
I think sensitivity pays off in other ways as well.
I have no doubts about the existence of God, about the truth of my faith. I am well aware of the logic of science which causes so many to doubt His existence.
I know Him to be real, to be true. I can’t demonstrate Him with evidence that could be sliced with Occam’s razor... still... I am certain the reality of His existence is truer than the reality of my own. As weird as that sounds, I know it, with the deepest certainty of my mind and soul, that it is true.
That is one area where my sensitivity pays off.
This sensitivity costs me.
That sensitivity guides me to be obedient to my faith, my God. That sensitivity makes such obedience more painful.
It hurts to be asked to be kind, to love, to forgive, when the mere exposure to the source of my sorrow is painful, burns.
Our faith is not an easy one. It asks us to do much (...forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us...), and we cannot refuse in the light of the spectacle of God incarnate washing the feet of His creation before permitting that same creation to spit on Him, torture Him, murder Him.
So, if my Lord tells me to hold my hand over a flame until I extinguish it, though it hurts deeply, I do it.
Dad liked it when we pushed past pain.
I always tried to do what he and my brothers did. I wasn’t as good at it as they, but I always managed to do anything they could.
Didn’t care for it though. I wasn’t like them.
I know I’m a little unusual. How could I not?
My father is a man’s man. Women and whiskey and wildness were a part of all the dear hunting trips, demolition of buildings, and dares to prove our masculinity.
While my dad and brother were bedding mother and daughter, I was reading books. While my brothers and father were seeing who could drink the most liquor and remain standing, I was hiking hills, comparing religious texts, learning to fast and meditate. While my father and brothers were honing their skills in crushing ever taller buildings, I was experimenting with art techniques.
Now I am respected enough in certain circles (education, faith, and even among a few blog readers), to be forgiven a few eccentricities. It is OK with my friends that I am sensitive, scientific, and a touch socially awkward.
Some things I am not very good at. I have a little trouble reading people. I don’t always pick up on others’ humor, and many of my puns and jokes simply confuse.
When people talk sports I am the quiet one in the background who smiles and nods and pretends to understand what the fuss is all about.
But ask me about the ball games of the Mayans, and I can tell you much about their equipment, rules, the designs of and on their courts.
Ah well.
I may not fit smoothly into a bar scene, or navigate the politics found in larger organizations, but there are other things I do fairly well.
My failings are obvious enough to prevent me from becoming too proud of my successes. The skills I possess, I use as a caretaker uses someone else’s tools. They are mine to use, but I cannot take credit for them.
Take art for example. Friends are amused at how excited I get over colors in foliage, shapes in clouds, shifting colors in sunrises. All this ties the universe outside of me to the creativity within me, another tool I use I cannot take credit for.
Or science. Again and again my friends and colleagues shake their heads and try not to smile as I become animated about the implications of the Higgs Bosun condensate or the potential of the Hadron Super Collider or how quarks seem to find the number three as a common denominator.
So what? I may be a touch sensitive, but the condescension it may illicit in others is a small price to pay for the depth of feeling I have in my experiences. I may not wax eloquent over the smooth teamwork of basketball or marvel at the passing skills of a quarterback, but I have other joys.
Still, there are times when I don’t like certain things about myself.
I don’t like the hurt.
Even in typing those words I hear my father’s voice: “What a wuss.”
I’m a loyal person. I am loyal to the companies, friends, organizations I belong to. I am, was, loyal to my wife. To the point where it becomes nearly masochistic.
I am working my tail off. I am doing my best in taking over all the duties of this household. Cleaning, cooking, laundry, bills, house repairs, helping the boys with their homework, performing my duties in my given avocation.
So, I’m tired.
But more than tired, I am sad.
It’s not a manly emotion.
In some ways it interferes with my life.
Would it be better to blow all this off, to saunter into the future on long legs like some sort of pedagogical version of John Wayne? It would be easier.
If I could just get angry, stay angry, say “Screw you!”, I would be able to jump past this emotional junk.
I am passionate. When I worship I feel alive. When I sing to the stars and sunrise, my heart leaps.
So being sensitive means I hurt more easily, deeply, but it isn’t much to pay in exchange for the joys I feel.
I think sensitivity pays off in other ways as well.
I have no doubts about the existence of God, about the truth of my faith. I am well aware of the logic of science which causes so many to doubt His existence.
I know Him to be real, to be true. I can’t demonstrate Him with evidence that could be sliced with Occam’s razor... still... I am certain the reality of His existence is truer than the reality of my own. As weird as that sounds, I know it, with the deepest certainty of my mind and soul, that it is true.
That is one area where my sensitivity pays off.
This sensitivity costs me.
That sensitivity guides me to be obedient to my faith, my God. That sensitivity makes such obedience more painful.
It hurts to be asked to be kind, to love, to forgive, when the mere exposure to the source of my sorrow is painful, burns.
Our faith is not an easy one. It asks us to do much (...forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us...), and we cannot refuse in the light of the spectacle of God incarnate washing the feet of His creation before permitting that same creation to spit on Him, torture Him, murder Him.
So, if my Lord tells me to hold my hand over a flame until I extinguish it, though it hurts deeply, I do it.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
The Note
I felt there was something I had to do this morning. Something I had to tell someone. I went there, but he wasn’t home. But all I wanted was to deliver the message. I didn’t really need to see him.
So I wrote it in my Moleskine (journal) and tore the page out to leave. So now I paste the note back into this electronic journal.
I hope it does good. I think it was the right thing to do. It feels like finished business now.
So I wrote it in my Moleskine (journal) and tore the page out to leave. So now I paste the note back into this electronic journal.
I hope it does good. I think it was the right thing to do. It feels like finished business now.
Friday, October 3, 2008
It Was A Big Day
Through my reflection in the window before me, I watched an Oregon drizzle falling around the Portland Immigration and Naturalization Office, now under the protective cloak of Homeland Security.
To my right Isaac was dozing. To my left Brenda was crying quietly.
It was a big day.
The sky was clear 4:30 this morning; stars accompanied me as I walked the dog. I rushed the boys through breakfast, and then Isaac to his government class' teacher so she could approve his sources for his debate on Monday (he is assigned the Republican viewpoint on a proposed wall on the border with Mexico).
Brenda arrived a little before 9:00.
"Did you file the papers yet?"
"Yes."
A pained look flashed across her face.
"I thought so. You probably did it as soon as you could. Well, I guess there's no point in going to the AA meeting tonight."
"What do you mean? Are you saying you were going because of me? Because you thought it might help us work things out?"
"Yeah. But there's no point now."
"Sure there is. You don't need to go to the meeting for me. You need to go for you."
There was a lot more. I got ticked enough to say a few rough things. Nothing untrue, or even unkind. Just a touch more brutally honest than I usually am. I walked away before it got worse.
I thought of the words I emailed to someone earlier: "Too little too late," but I didn't speak them.
I do not want to be angry, or unkind, or hurt her. She is hurting herself enough.
She tried, successfully, to hide her tears from Isaac throughout the day.
We examined the naturalization papers carefully to ensure their accuracy. Waited for the twenty some others to do the same.
There was a delay of some sort, but then the soon-to-be citizens were lined up, and we were led up a tightly winding staircase of marble and brass to the second floor.
Parents and other observers were led first to a small auditorium. When we were seated, a solemn and silent parade was brought to seats in the front, each person clutching a letter of congratulations from The White House.
They were from all over the world. Mexico, The Philippines, India, Ukraine, Africa, Asia, South America, and of course, Haiti. One man was particularly concerned about changing his name to something that "sounded American."
"I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."
I am so proud of Isaac. It was wonderful seeing him stand there, hand raised, swearing to do what is expected of every U.S. citizen, though too many think too little about those privileges and responsibilities.
I got pictures. Even one for Brenda alone with Isaac there, and another with all of us.
I was so pleased, so proud, so excited to see my son secure in this country, this nation that has been blessed with so much. He is now protected from the possibility of being returned to that dark place of his birth, that island where the first European explorer set foot on New World soil.
I have my sons. I have my home and the security of my faith. My soon-to-be former wife has none of those things.
We hustled to get Brenda to work in time. Isaac sat in the back. Brenda's face was clouded. Misty.
I worried about her all afternoon.
I prayed for her.
She called this evening. No longer pleading. She was sobbing.
"I understand how you felt now. I understand what it must have felt for me to leave you. And I didn't try to comfort you. I am so sorry. I deserve this. I am so sorry."
This morning, when I was growling a little at her reminders of her own past hurts, I said: "Even now I know you can't be trusted. I bet that even though you want me again, you have called him again just since Tuesday night."
"Just to tell him I never want to talk to him again."
So she has nothing now.
She has given up her family. She has given up me. She has given up this other man (at least for now), and she has lost her home.
I have let her know I care. I have let her know I will pray for her. I have even let her know she is loved. And... I have let her know she has burned too many bridges.
I hear the deep ache in her voice. She is panicked. She is lost.
So I sit here, tapping away at this keyboard, secure in a home that has only my name on the deed. Secure in having my sons near me. Secure in the knowledge that Isaac has been granted the protection of this wealthiest of all nations... wealth of goods, of natural wonders, of freedom.
My joy is tempered by the knowledge that my wife is experiencing the frightened loneliness she had thrust on me this past year.
It was a big day.
To my right Isaac was dozing. To my left Brenda was crying quietly.
It was a big day.
The sky was clear 4:30 this morning; stars accompanied me as I walked the dog. I rushed the boys through breakfast, and then Isaac to his government class' teacher so she could approve his sources for his debate on Monday (he is assigned the Republican viewpoint on a proposed wall on the border with Mexico).
Brenda arrived a little before 9:00.
"Did you file the papers yet?"
"Yes."
A pained look flashed across her face.
"I thought so. You probably did it as soon as you could. Well, I guess there's no point in going to the AA meeting tonight."
"What do you mean? Are you saying you were going because of me? Because you thought it might help us work things out?"
"Yeah. But there's no point now."
"Sure there is. You don't need to go to the meeting for me. You need to go for you."
There was a lot more. I got ticked enough to say a few rough things. Nothing untrue, or even unkind. Just a touch more brutally honest than I usually am. I walked away before it got worse.
I thought of the words I emailed to someone earlier: "Too little too late," but I didn't speak them.
I do not want to be angry, or unkind, or hurt her. She is hurting herself enough.
She tried, successfully, to hide her tears from Isaac throughout the day.
We examined the naturalization papers carefully to ensure their accuracy. Waited for the twenty some others to do the same.
There was a delay of some sort, but then the soon-to-be citizens were lined up, and we were led up a tightly winding staircase of marble and brass to the second floor.
Parents and other observers were led first to a small auditorium. When we were seated, a solemn and silent parade was brought to seats in the front, each person clutching a letter of congratulations from The White House.
They were from all over the world. Mexico, The Philippines, India, Ukraine, Africa, Asia, South America, and of course, Haiti. One man was particularly concerned about changing his name to something that "sounded American."
"I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."
I am so proud of Isaac. It was wonderful seeing him stand there, hand raised, swearing to do what is expected of every U.S. citizen, though too many think too little about those privileges and responsibilities.
I got pictures. Even one for Brenda alone with Isaac there, and another with all of us.
I was so pleased, so proud, so excited to see my son secure in this country, this nation that has been blessed with so much. He is now protected from the possibility of being returned to that dark place of his birth, that island where the first European explorer set foot on New World soil.
I have my sons. I have my home and the security of my faith. My soon-to-be former wife has none of those things.
We hustled to get Brenda to work in time. Isaac sat in the back. Brenda's face was clouded. Misty.
I worried about her all afternoon.
I prayed for her.
She called this evening. No longer pleading. She was sobbing.
"I understand how you felt now. I understand what it must have felt for me to leave you. And I didn't try to comfort you. I am so sorry. I deserve this. I am so sorry."
This morning, when I was growling a little at her reminders of her own past hurts, I said: "Even now I know you can't be trusted. I bet that even though you want me again, you have called him again just since Tuesday night."
"Just to tell him I never want to talk to him again."
So she has nothing now.
She has given up her family. She has given up me. She has given up this other man (at least for now), and she has lost her home.
I have let her know I care. I have let her know I will pray for her. I have even let her know she is loved. And... I have let her know she has burned too many bridges.
I hear the deep ache in her voice. She is panicked. She is lost.
So I sit here, tapping away at this keyboard, secure in a home that has only my name on the deed. Secure in having my sons near me. Secure in the knowledge that Isaac has been granted the protection of this wealthiest of all nations... wealth of goods, of natural wonders, of freedom.
My joy is tempered by the knowledge that my wife is experiencing the frightened loneliness she had thrust on me this past year.
It was a big day.
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