Letters In A Box

 

“What are you hoping to get out of them?” my wife asked. To which I’d reply, “If you’re parents abandoned you, abused you, or sent you to boarding school in Siberia there’s always a ‘Why.’”

I’m reading through some letters in a box. They were with my mom’s things, fifteen years ago when we cleaned out her house. A shoe box I put in storage. Forgot I had them until the unit was unloaded. Letters from my dad to my mom. Letters dad wrote to my mom from before my birth until I was seven, my sister five. A one-way conversation.

There are relationships where one partner’s vibrant character, and purposeful lifestyle pulls the other clod out of catastrophe and into a smooth orbit. Not our story. My parents were arcing toward collision. To avoid it my parents lived separate lives, three-thousand miles apart.

The iconic Civil-war letter goes something like, “I would brave hot musket shot and cannon-ball fire to experience your red-hot loving again.” Those were not my dad’s letters. Writing from New Jersey to my mother in the San Fernando Valley the letters contained four basic sentences, incorporated four themes: the weather, repentance, money, and plea.

Two pages, handwritten; “It is March, and I am still sleeping in my long underwear.” “Sorry I missed you when I called last night. The boys and I went out. They bought a round. I bought a round…” “Did you receive the money from Rochester? They owe me about 140 dollars.” Often, there was a question about bringing us to visit or to live in the east. Neither ever happened.

The explosion came in high school. Legal divorce. My sister and I were not surprised. The letters survived, in a box. In a closet. Devoid of answers.

Photo by Ire Photocreative on Unsplash

Hemingway Meets Jelly Roll

 

“I hate the man I used to be, But he'll always be a part of me, right now looking at my past…I know it’s unpretty.”--- Jelly Roll

“I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake, you know?” ---Hemingway

 One classic struggle, two men, two souls. Hemingway seems a man broken by tension. A man’s man by reputation. The four wives, the whiskey and emotional polarity, all hint at a soul not sated. In contrast his experiences were bigger than life. His writing rich and vibrant, he poured himself into everything he did.

Jelly Roll is the biggest artist on the country music scene. Not the man’s man Hemingway was. Incarcerated for much of his young life, his daughter Bailee was born while he was in jail. That crushed him. He turned to the gospel he’d heard as a child. His music is his story. He plays it close to the bone. It resonates.  

Both struggling with darkness and their love for whiskey. Hemingway certainly; and would have benefited from current pharmacology. Jelly Roll shares part of how he was healed from self-pharmacology through 12-steps, “Hardly sobered up, already wanna quit quittin’, sweaten’ in an old church basement, wishin’ I was wasted.”

At 19 Hemingway was on the frontlines delivering candy when he was hit by machine-gun fire and 200 metal fragments. A priest administered last rites. As a result he converted to Catholicism. Later, he “more formally” converted” upon marrying his second, Catholic, wife. Some credit these ‘conversions’ to his vision and moral landscape. Whether he was committed to the framework of the church or to the risen Christ, his writing reflected the three great transcendentals of truth, goodness and beauty.

Knowing God doesn’t guarantee good art. Faulty coping mechanisms aren’t easily slayed. It’s surgery. In Christ, in art, in healing, fulness necessitates leaning into the blade. “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

A Man's Man

Where do I look for a man’s man,
To teach me to praise, dance and sing?
I turn back to my Old Testaments’ nub,
To Jesse’s root; David the King.

For God’s honor he fell a Philistine.

He took Bathsheba to Gods’ chagrin,
Still his heart longed for his Shepherd,
God loved the kings’ heart within.

Oh, the depth of my own carnality,

No hope of standing clean before the Son,
David had an innocent’s blood on his hands,
Bright white like snow in Psalm Fifty-one.

I’ve two left feet and it’s all about me,

How will I look in another’s sight?
David cared only for Yahweh’s eyes,
Kicking heels up with all his might.

Where do I look for a man’s man,

When inside there’s a scared little boy?
When David tired of facing life’s fight,
In God’s presence he finds fullness of joy!

Where do I look for a man’s man,
When time comes for leaving all men,
To walk in the Valley of Shadow,
Goodness and mercy will still follow me then.

Photo by Akira Hojo on Unsplash

A Cautionary Tale

 

“Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.” ---Helen Keller

The steamed-up windows make it difficult to see outside. You strain to get a breath of fresh air. Can’t really spread fully out to sleep. You could simply roll down the windows if not for fear of evil reaching in. Car seats aren’t for camping. Could have cuddled if both of you were talking.

Years ago (in a time before cell phones), much more so than now, ‘Zimmer Fries’ abounded in Germany. It literally means, ‘room free,’ and is a type of accommodation in Germany where a local rents out a spare room in their house to travelers. The property owner posts a sign indicating a vacancy. Find the sign, check in, stay the night. Easy.  

Our travelers left late that day with the assumption that seeing a sign would be easy. Like a Vegas hotel in neon. So it may have been, on a crisp, clear day. But the rain came. Not softly like the gentle touch of a new lover. It came pouring down like it had something to prove. The wipers zipped back and forth with a fury. The only view, ropes of rain as headlights reflected off the road. And what of our couple in the car?

 What would you hear if you could listen in to their conversation? This couple, on vacation in Germany, in the midst of a great adventure? Bickering. Fear and frustration giving voice as blame. “You should have planned better!”, “You told me it’d be easy to find one.” They could have spent the time laughing, or praying, or talking each other through square breathing. The dark didn’t lift and the rain kept coming.

Late into the night our out-of-towners spy a hotel. Before paying for the room they asked if they could see where they’d be sleeping. Tired, grumpy and angry they are ready for the relief of a bed. Peering into the room their hopes are dashed. The bed is not made. Sheets are everywhere. Unkempt. They shake off the imaginary vermin clinging to them and head back off into the night.

If only they had danced off into the darkness, betting on each other despite the lack of sleeping quarters. That’s not how the story unfolded. Driving on roads they don’t know. Shoulders stiff, tension in the car mounting as they motor on. Ultimately pulling off into a rest area where they spend a cramped night in discontent.

It's a cautionary tale I tell. I’ve spent too much time imbibing particular people’s poison. I’ve let the elements and circumstance crush me instead of hoping God’s working things out for the joy set before me. That night in the car was one night on a long road. A day I wish I had embraced and not spurned.

 “Seize the day ' seize whatever you can, 'Cause life slips away just like hourglass sand.” --- Carolyn Ahrends

 Photo by Tahamie Farooqui on Unsplash

 

Rembrandt Has A Pauper's Grave

 

Rembrandt has a pauper’s grave,

The museum tourbook read,

A reminder that my life’s appraised,

By others when I’m dead.

 

How could he lie in such a pit?

My confusion here I’ll confess,

Master of both brush and light,

Off canvas so distressed.

How real he draws the prodigal,

Feel the beggar’s plight,

Oh might your heart be so gripped,

With the words that I would write.

 

His paintings are in the Rijksmuseum

Some are in the Hague,

Bankrupt of wives, children and home,

Possessing only the plague.

 

 

Sing Like A Hobbit

 

 

     

“These Hobbits Will Sit on the Edge of Ruin and Discuss the Pleasures of the Table.”

 A sob sticks in my throat. Images raging on Instagram fill my mind. Winds roar and fires blaze in Los Angeles. Flames flare up on the Getty museum, burning down Moonshadows in Malibu. I took a girl there once. Scorched memories. Seeing the smoke and the ruins reminds me of Mordor and darkness, of Hobbits and hope, of Merry and Pippin enjoying Long-Bottom leaf and the smoke of a pipe at the ruin of Isengard.

When my first marriage burned to the ground I cried with friends. I turned Spotify up loud while singing along with Third Day; ”There’s a light at the end of the tunnel”. Psalmodies of passion, lament and praise kept me going. The Creator has set it up so that these crack open your heart and infuse hope. The act of singing is an act of defiance. Eating and drinking too.

If you’ve never sung from a place of heart-ache and desperate loss take a lesson from Hobbit Sam Gamgee.  Believing the quest to be at an end, he sings, “above all shadows rides the Sun, and Stars for ever dwell: I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell.” When dark pervades, I cry to God in hope. Somehow singing grounds me. As do friends, bread and good ale. Hence the attitude of the Hobbit. May we have the same!

Photo by Sergio García on Unsplash

The Darkness I Fear You'll Send

 

Nuke Oatmeal for cholesterol, fresh ground coffee, that’s my morning,
Hot shower, clean water, scented shampoo.
Read verses from my monogrammed-leather-bound bible,
Fed-ex drops a box on my doorstep,
Like the shoe I fear will drop,
The darkness I fear You’ll send.

Tension mounting in my shoulders, ever-present, this foreboding,
Storm brewing, rain coming, bad moon rising.
Hear the Ted talks speak to the wounds of childhood trauma,
Children expect hugs in the darkness.
Locusts devour the crop,
The blessed season up-end.

Sirens blaring out my window, scrolling Meta, isn’t helping,

Barren well, deer panting, heart desiring.
See all of the boundaries fall in pleasant places,
Peace erupts from a different mindset,
May the anxiety stop,
As I trust You to defend.

Killing Caroline: A Sourdough Story

Moving half-way across the country made killing Caroline 1 an easy choice. Most starters have a name, Caroline was the name of mine (Neil Diamond inspired). Is it a lie if it’s not true all the time? Books and blogs say making sourdough starter, the basis of delicious sourdough, is an easy, guaranteed process. It hasn’t been. Creating sourdough starter for me was an arduous process culminating in a vibrant sourdough, increased patience and desperate answered prayer. Starter is the building block; it’s not even the reward! The reward is a rich, tangy bread, the crunch of breaking through the crust to warm richness slathered in butter.

I’ve never gotten the rise out of Caroline that I wanted. She’s never been bubbly and airy enough. And when I made the bread, the dough was never firm enough for the initial scoring—which is both decorative and helps create rise in the oven. Summer began the creation of the new Caroline. Ideally an easy ten day process. Mix flour and water. Wait three days. Add more flour and water. Those are the basics. Like a failed Frankenstein I could not get my Caroline to come to life.

Caroline teased me with her false vigor. I’d coax her with warm tap water, with wheat flour and rye flour, even lying her down on a bed of warmth. She failed to respond. She went flat. She grew mold. She refused to put out. No bubbly proof of yeast. Week after week I waited. Restarted. Perhaps the tap water contained chlorine. I switched to bottled water. I changed the heat source. I changed ratios. For three months Caroline and I danced. She would not double. She wasn’t looking like any of the online pictures. I was near to giving up.

Making bread is an act of faith. Like scattering seed. I prayed for Caroline, that she would be effervescent, growing and doubling. God is, after all, over the rising of the sun and the fruit of the vine. Certainly, He is over the rising of a starter. After three months of perseverance, Caroline #2 blossomed. I can’t specifically tell you why. I suspect the courtship had gone on long enough to convince her I was serious.

The Moustache I Want

“Kissing a man without a moustache is like eating an egg without salt.” Carlos Fuentes

Wanting a great moustache isn’t like aspiring to walk on the moon. For most men, and some ladies, growing a basic moustache is attainable. But to grow a top-notch moustache one is up against 3 things. It takes time. A great ‘stache is more than hair on a lip. It is Michelangelo’s marble shaped into David. A beard grown, trimmed and shaped.  A culmination of desire realized. Stylized and personal, it’s an external trademark; think Tom Selleck, Salvador Dali, Groucho Marx and Mark Twain.  A superior growth of facial hair requires superior genes. And finally, one must deal with their native culture; and when I say culture I mean my wife.

She says hair on other men’s faces is ‘fine,’ but not on mine. The corollary rule is that all of us must be neatly shaven. No burly-home beer-brewer beards, no ZZ Top like facial hair and your moustache must be clean and clipped unlike that of Albert Einstein or Sam Elliott. To continue to be kissed I can’t keep growing the moustache I want.

My dream is to have a Handlebar moustache. A rich, thick growth of hair that can be waxed and curled on the ends. Of the 12 mainline moustaches this one says rogue and nefarious with a hint of evil cartoon character thrown in, Snidely Whiplash with a swagger. It’s not that I want the ‘stache for the same reason some guys like their Dodge Rams. I’ve had beard and moustache, one or both, since college save for a season when my employer forbade it. There was a week or two when I shaved it off from boredom only to realize that I did not like the look. This I realized from both looking in the mirror and from a constant lust after other men’s moustaches.

The wife and I have reached some sort of compromise. I can grow it out for the month of November. This is hardly meeting in the middle. To put it another way, Michaelangelo took 3 years to carve David. But relationships always involve some compromise. In The Princess Bride, Westley (sporting a wimpy pencil moustache) works with a vengeful, sword-carrying mustached Montoya to save his love. True love always sacrifices. So I’ll wait for the moustache I want.

Refugee Hope

 I eat lunch with a group of refugees every week. I drive home elated, saddened and burdened. These are brave men facing difficult circumstances. Coming alongside, I feel inadequate.

I can’t know this; what it’s like to be alone in a place, not knowing the language or the cultural norms. Falling with no safe-place to land.  To be a professor in Venezuela but a nobody here. He formulates a plan. He knows somebody who sells him an old car for a couple thousand dollars. Been carrying his life with him in a back-pack, through-country. His identification, registrations, originals of his doctorates and degrees, his whole life. Driving back to his apartment he stops inside a gas station. Leaving backpack—and keys—inside the car. Perfect target in a big city.

There are worse things stolen than cars. Dark stories abound, as if you’d want to dwell on these. One of the men, Henry, having flown from the middle east was put into a hospital for some serious surgery. In the process, without consent they removed one of his testicles. Smaller infractions occur in living situations; with management companies randomly trying to raise rent-rates and evict tenants unfamiliar with the law. So much treading of water that it’s a delight when somebody splashes up onto land!

The agencies working with this population generally come alongside to transition the refugee to life in Dallas. They provide them with housing, bed, kitchen, healthcare and a case-worker to help them navigate. Most are efficient as any big government agency like the post office or DMV. So when we found our Rodger hadn’t had a bed for two months it was a thrill to see individuals team together to find a bed (and a microwave), rent a truck and deliver them. Beyond the basics; Rodger has been able to obtain his permits and drivers’ licenses and to obtain numerous jobs; Uber eats, doing clean-up at a local hospital, then leaving that to clean carpets for a local company. The refugees themselves keep looking forward to these successes seemingly not paralyzed by the failures. Resilient human hope keeps them going, helps them move forward.

Some amazing stories are shared over pizza. Heartbreaking losses too. On a macro scale the odds look overwhelming; from fleeing home to flying here. If there’s a secret to their perseverance it is this. Hope lives in each small moment. Woven through each shared meal, the laughter and the bread are life-giving.

Photo by Alan Hardman on Unsplash