Friday, October 20, 2017

My master's happiness - part 1

...Enter into the joy of your master. Matthew 25:21b

Those seven words hold so much meaning for me both in the context of the passage in the Bible where they are spoken and in my position as a father. As these words are spoken, a master has returned from a long journey and has seen the wisdom of a servant in his handling of the money that was entrusted to him. The master is thrilled so much so that he invites the servant close to him. So close. I get the sense that this is not a begrudging willingness to share in his master's happiness. It seems rather spontaneous and born out of the servant functioning at his highest level. A level that may even have been born out of love. 

This is not a "good job" pat on the back. This is more of a visceral reaction - the master reaches deep and offers everything that he can possibly give to the servant. His happiness is not something that he holds onto. It is something poured out onto the servant. Overflowing. Soaking. Immersing. Baptizing. Marking. This will be the servant's finest hour for (I try to catch this into my heart) it in one of the master's.

But why? I rather think that the master had more than enough money. It was not as if he was depending on the servant to fill his coffers so that he and his wife could go on vacation or so that they could pay the rent for one more month. Men who go on long journeys needn't concern themselves with such vulgarity. No, this happiness is squarely centered in the wisdom of the servant. How humiliating! How could a master, so well endowed, so important, so adequate in and of himself, wrap his own wellness in the actions of a piece of property? Isn't that what a servant was in that day? Isn't that all he was?

Yet here is his master falling prostrate to him as the servant shows his rags of wisdom. A wisdom that, without a doubt, paled in comparison to his master but one that set his master's life ablaze and attached his heart to that of his servant. Incredible. If it had not been written down I would have scarcely believed it.

But more on that later. 

Tuesday, October 3, 2017

I scarcely understand

If only I thought of the right words,
I could have held on to your heart.
If only I thought of the right words,
I wouldn't be breaking apart
All these pictures of you. - Pictures of You, The Cure

I can feel the lament of these words as sure as I can feel the peace of being known by God. I needn't find the right words in his presence as if my poetry would open access to him. All I need to do is sit. Even sit so still and be.

I scarcely understand as I lay myself bare before him. On my face, on my knees, driving in my car, walking with her I open myself wide to him and he sees. He knows. He smiles. He loves.

Pictures? No. Presence. Deep abiding light that sees me. All of me. Not the part that I expose to others. All of me. And the drumbeat of his heart arrests mine and we know.

Me, in part; he, the whole. 

Monday, September 18, 2017

Because of breakfast

When they landed, they saw a fire of burning coals there with fish on it, and some bread. John 21:9

I can't help but think that Jesus smiled as he saw the boat coming to shore crammed with tired men and fresh fish. There, soon, would be a big crowd on the beach and they would be happy to see their Master. But their Master would be even happier to see them. To see one.

Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these? John 21:15

This place, this time, was more for Peter than anyone else. His failure in the events leading up to Christ's death were massive to say the least. Yet, Christ's mercy and grace were greater.

"Very truly I tell you, when you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go.” John 21:18

Jesus would produce a love in Peter, a love that would eviscerate his fear and would be displayed to the world in martyrdom. Jesus knew who Peter could become and the prince of the Apostles would abandon himself to his Master. 

Because of the cross. Because of his God's gentle restoration. Because his Savior's pursuit. Because of a night without fish and a morning with more than enough.

Because of breakfast.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Things and places, people and faces

It's things and then it's places
Not people and their faces - PIL, Happy?

It was dark. Too dark when I walked into my son's room to get him up for our trip to the Little League World Series. I turned his fan off and opened his shade. Not that any light came in as it was 5:30 AM and we needed to be on the road by 6:00.

"Time to wake up, Drew. It is time to go the Williamsport."

Well, we hit the road right on time and I had nearly everything I needed save some gas (I also forgot to bring cash, but that is another story) and we hit Starbucks to get a caffeine fix for the ride down. Drew remarked at how chipper the person was who gave me my iced latte and him his mocha Frappuccino.

"Drew, don't worry about using your gift card. I got this one."

We had no idea what to expect as we arrived at the park and we got a good parking spot. We walked up to the stadium complex and, eventually, found our seat for the 11:00 AM game. The stadium was to fill up as we sat admiring the place, smiling when the teams took the field. It was all rather overwhelming that I was there. I mean I had seen the games so many times on TV growing up and even recently. And there I was. With my son. With MY son. With my SON. My son. I can never say that enough.

"Watch the catcher Drew. He's got quite an arm."

"Look at those idiots sliding down the hill with the big piece of cardboard."

We broke for lunch and even played some games in the Family Fun Zone. We made our way back into the stadium for the 3:00 PM game and had a hard time finding some seats that were not taken. This was a game between two American teams and there were plenty of people that camped out the entire day in the same seats. We were making our way behind home plate when I saw an usher with his hand raised displaying the number four with his fingers. He was yelling "Four! Four! Four! Four!" I asked him if we could take two. He nodded and quickly yelled, "Two! Two! Two! Two!" We were sitting one row back from the parent's section of the West team that was playing the Mid-Atlantic that afternoon. ESPN was there and we tried our best to get on TV.

"Look at these seats, Drew. We are certainly blessed to have them."

"Don't bother with the eclipse. The sun is behind the clouds."

Well, a thundershower moved through and shut the games down for a time and we had to make a mad dash to our car to get home at a reasonable hour. We found an eat-in Pizza Hut (he wanted to try the stuffed crust pizza - it was certainly good enough) and we sat down and ordered.

"Do you want the last piece of pizza, Dad?" (I didn't. He did.)

We talked. He read. We tanned and played. We laughed and stared at each other wide-eyed. We looked at the eclipse and tried to walk forward with the eclipse glasses on. Through it all it was all about him. And us. I think that we could have had just as much fun if we went bird watching or even (gasp!) rollerskating. After all, he was there. I was there. We were there. I was there with my son.

My son. 

Wednesday, August 9, 2017

Death in the Dust Days - part two

Part one is here. This is what I think will be the conclusion of the first or second chapter.


This time I would not close my eyes.  

No matter how unbearable it would become I would not join him. There was nothing that would allow him to harken me to times that brought me anywhere save where I willed to go. As I stared in steel resolve at him, his eyes clenched closed. From time to time a slight flutter would almost open them but I was used to their appearance and they did not make me so afraid that I sought to capitulate to his leadership. It barely seemed that a minute transpired when his face became more than lightly twisted with pain. The perspiration left his brow and began to drip from the tip of his bumpy nose. As he grew more disfigured and more disturbing to look at I fixed my gaze elsewhere for fear of becoming even more nauseated than I was. Stealing a glance back to him I noticed his hair twisting and falling out in clumps upon the table with most of it cascading to the floor. Ants rushed to quickly grab the strands in their mandibles and scurry it away deftly avoiding my bare feet. "He must have a cruel master," I thought as yet another lock was thinned from his crown. "Why is he tortured so?" 

Disregarding his condition I stiffened my resolve to not join him in the journey he wished upon me. found myself avoiding his visage and staring at the top of the table when it began to wave. I knew the rhythm well for this lapping of Seneca Lake graced upon the shore of my Aunt's Cottage in Hector. Grass grew and the railroad ties that had always just seemed to be there rose to form the breakwall. Flat rocks fell speckling the beach. As they cascaded down I half expected the large kerplunk of the giant boulders that we stepped on as we wore our swamp shoes and waded out to the chilly, chest deep just beyond the last pillar of the dock. We never went past that point. At least not without a life jacket, or a snorkel and pair of goggles. 

I looked away from the scene recalling the shattered Summer Wednesday that he had brought much too close to me. It was there that I found my aunt and her friends playing euchre at the picnic table dressed in the shine of a vinyl orange and green table cloth. It was the kind with the fuzzy backing that caught on the splinters that jutted from the boards that formed its top. I was often thankful that many bottoms had already smoothed the seats as they slid on and off. I went to sit with them and they barely acknowledged my presence as my aunt shifted in her seat making a little more room for me next to her.  

Clink! Clink! The quarters were thrown into the middle of the table as the cards were dealt. I had no idea how to play the game (some would say I still don't) but the fact that there was gambling bidst me to stay. I rather enjoyed the subversiveness of it all. Even though I knew the stakes were not all that high, my parents never even played the lottery let alone cards or dice. The $.25 that signaled their entry into the hand may as well have been $10 or more. Clink! Clink! The pot grew as the two who thought that they had the requisite number of tricks forced the others to call their wagers. My aunt would lose this hand and more than a couple of coins. I knew she wasn't rich and to see her handle money with such recklessness made me smile and long for my driver's license. It was then that I would be allowed to gamble for that was when I would be an adult like her. 

The game broke up for drinks and snacks as the sun rose a bit higher in the sky. "Where's Uncle Walt?" I asked her as she returned from insidedrink in hand. 

"He's still out fishing. He must be doing well or he would have been in by now," she informed. 

"He's still there?" I reacted with surprise. "Oh I bet he's catching a lot of fish," I exclaimed with a great deal of confidence. "He fishes a lot. I bet he's one of the best on the Lake!" 

"He likes to think so," my Aunt Mary laughed. "And so do I."  

They were perfect partners and their long marriage proved their love for each other. They were old. They seemed to be always old and it was hard for me to believe that the pictures, slides, and movies of them that were trotted out and ogled from time to time were real.  "I think I can still get a few hands in before he comes back," she said as her partner and their foils returned. "I need to get some of those quarters back or your dad won't have a paper tomorrow morning." I knew that she was kidding. She always got the paper for my dad.  And raisin toast with extra butter. And the sun. And the smell of the drying seaweed on the stony beach. And even the grey sky with rain when they knew they needed it. This was her cottage after all. This was their lake. 

As the clinking game continued I caught sight of a boat heading straight for shore. It was thin, almost silent at first but grew loud and fat the closer it came. I knew that it was Uncle Walt and I ran out to the dock to greet him. I made it halfway until I remembered the differently colored board that we were not allowed to cross for fear of us falling into the lake and never being seen again. I plunked down just passed it and crossed my legs signaling that I both knew my place an held the rules imposed upon me in contempt. The boat was expertly maneuvered to the other side of the catwalk banging ever so lightly against the milk jugs filled with sand and suspended from the grey, weathered ropes.

The fishermen disembarked as my uncle passed the poles and tackle to outstretched arms. He began to lift the boat slightly out of the water. The creaking of the wheel stopped sooner than it would have in the evening for he knew after lunch he would be giving us kids a ride in the boat. We would go fast. And we would scream in fear that that this was to be our last few minutes above the waves. 

Once my uncle was out of the boat and kneeling on the catwalk he opened the hatch and retrieved the fish that were strung on the metal chain. They were strong, sleek, and fat fish that were rather whale like in comparison to the ones I kept at home. As he brought them out I noticed their eyes darting back and forth and their gills extending frantically for air. I had no idea how fish breathed but I had full knowledge that they could not get what they needed from the air like we did. These fish were not in their cold, green home any more. They were in ours. In his. This was Death's house and they were choking on Death's air; drowning in Death's dust.  

I winced as my uncle threw them too roughly onto the ground as they flopped around a bit rattling the chains as they seemed to slowly lose consciousness just to regain it again. I wanted to save the fish but I knew I couldn't. They were beautiful. Even in the midst of death the marvelous grace and strength they possessed never left. Muscles flexed as the sharp, bony mouths drew their demise deep. All of it filled my eyes and arrested my attention. Everything I could see was lying there on the ground. On the ground that my aunt and uncle raised from the depths to form this cottage on their lake. The lake that they hurled fish into formed from the splinters of wood safely concealed beneath the picnic table cloth and always at the ready for their intended purpose. 

My uncle bore his bounty dangling from the chain to my Aunt Mary. They embraced. A long, still, fragile embrace it was and she smiled as his hat fell to the ground. At least I thought that is what happened as I continued to stare at the almost still fish. I wondered how long they would show signs of life as, one by one, my aunt removed them from the stringer. She was more gentle than he and seemed to hold the fish in thankful reverence as she placed them on the preparation table; the altar where she would commit their life to someone. Or something. Retrieving the hammer from the shelf underneath the table top she struck the first fish on the gills with the handle until she knew it was now subject to her will. Then the second. Then the third. Hopelessness swept over me as she finished and Uncle Walt appeared from the cottage with the cleaning tray. I didn’t follow him to the back of the cottage for I knew precious little about what he was going to do and did not dare illuminate myself. My attention to the matter finally left me for he was not going to clean three fish. They weren't fish anymore. They had been reduced to mere husks: sacks of bones, guts, and blood. 

I had largely forgotten about the fish when the time for the boat ride approached. Much to the delight of me and my siblings we all piled in for the ride of our lives. There were no roads on the roof of the fish's house as we darted this way and that visiting the large white house on the opposite shore and envying the pipe that my uncle hung from his mouth. When he gestured with his hand waving it by the bowl and extending his reach as he pointed I swooned and drew in staccato breaths of admiration. The clinking game would be so much more than I could ever have dreamed when I could drive and puff on a pipe of my own. I found myself wanting to be like him. In my heart, on that day, my sole desire was to be just like him. 

Once the boat pulled into the dock and my parents helped me and my brothers and sisters out onto its sturdy wood my eyes met his and he would not let my stare go. 

"Mark," he started laughing a bit. "Did you have fun?" 

"I did, Uncle Walt! That was the best boat ride ever." He laughed a contented man and began to walk away. 

"Uncle Walt?" Driven by my desire to be consumed by him I, even I, was shocked by my own boldness. No one ever saw me shy but addressing him without invitation was always a bit frightening even to me. "Can I wear your hat?" 

His back still towards me he stopped, cocked his head in what I know now was a bit of confusion, and turned to me. "You mean this old, faded, sweaty thing? This one filled with hooks and flies?" He pointed to it with the tip of his pipe which fueled my longing all the more.  

"Yes!" I said sensing that he was going to grant my request. "Yes! That one!" My heart raced in excitement and anticipation in the fact that he had not rejected my request straight away. 

"It's full of sharp things and your mom and dad will kill me....but....ah what the hell." He reached up and removed it from his head. He gave it a gentle shake and carefully placed it on my head pulling it to one side. It fit remarkably well and he seemed to admire it on me. "I can't say that I have ever seen it from this angle before," he laughed. "Now don't go running your fingers through it or those hooks will be a lot harder to get out than they went in."  

"I won't!" I said through my smile and almost crying tears of happiness. I ran to show my brothers and sisters looking forward to their jealous faces. I dared not ask him for his pipe. If I had the transformation would have been complete. I would have put on his skin and felt the beating of his heart. I would know why my teeth were stained and how my throat would feel to laugh so deeply ending it with a cough. Yet, as shallow as it was I had traversed the valley, my Rubicon, and had been inserted into this place a fisherman. became the one who filled the lake and lit the fireflies at night. As sure as I breathed I became the one who brought the waves and chose the fish to catch and eat. Of course I was none of those things but I was all of those things. I was everything I needed. I was. 

As I ran the lures and hooks shook and pinged together. The more I moved the louder they grew and the faster I flew. His sweet sweat mixed with mine and I wiped the hair from my eyes. I was not disappointed in my siblings reaction to the crown upon my head. They were fit to be tied and marveled that I had asked and been granted such decoration. I was the darling of the lake. I was the light and heat of the sun that shone through the clouds for the first time that day to illuminate me.  

The now familiar jolt sent me back to the ever-increasing Friday night and I expected my friend to be, yet again, by my side. All that remained was the dampness left by the sweat that, I presumed, had jeweled his arms. There it sat, light pools on the table as two flies drank their fill of it. I didn't shoo them away as they served to erase any trace of him much as the ants had done in carrying away his hair. "Filthy rot," I muttered to myself barely able to move. Just then, as if at my command, I heard the garage door open as my wife pulled in. I couldn't move and I wanted the flies to hurry in their endeavor. Making her way into the kitchen with the bags of clothes she was shopping for she looked at me and almost dropped them. 

"Have you been crying?" she asked with an inquisitive stare concerned about my appearance. 

"Nah, just allergies," I assured her using all of my energy to rub my eyes. I could always make them look tired and teary if I did it just right. 

"Well stop doing that!" She admonished placing the bags on the table causing Death's sweat to scatter and the flies to take flight vanishing into the thickening air. She removed the shirt and shorts she bought for me and the articles of clothing she had secured for herself. I appreciated her thinking of me and really liked what she had picked out. I thought I was covering the journey I was subjected to rather well. 

"Are you sure you are all right?" She asked again wondering why my allergies bothered me this late into the Summer. "You just don't seem like yourself." 

"Well, no. Actually. He was here." I admitted. 

"Oh," she exclaimed weakly. "Where did he sit?" 

Still barely able to move my arms I nodded to the chair directly in front of her. She removed it to the dining room and retrieved one similar to it placing it at the head of the table. "Maybe he'll sit in there next time," she encouraged placing her hand on my shoulder. "She'll be all right. They all will." 

"I know," I answered slowly drawing a deep breath. "But I don't like the new normal." Kneeling down next to me she signaled that she wanted me to push back from the table. She rested her head on my sweaty but drying lap as I aimlessly stroked her hair. "This place..." I began as my legs tightened. "...this awful place." A distant clap of thunder signaled the approach of a predicted storm. I sighed knowing he would return this night. When, I had no ideabut he was coming back. 

"I'm ssorry." She whispered. "I'm sorry he'll return before the sun."