Dripping (Redux)

I can still remember the sound of Ellie trying to suck in air between fits of crying. The inward gasps were worse than the screams that echoed through the house, not because of any particular sound they made, but because I could feel the exhaustion in her lungs, in her flexing arms and legs and fingers and toes. I remember thinking that I was just as spent as she was and wished with selfish sympathy that she would stop for me. Stop for Dad. But she wouldn’t. She was six months old and, though it seems like a lie now or at very least a reckless memory, she had never stayed up to cry in her life. But she was sick then and What to Expect the First Year pointed us to a general explanation: the flu. I was contented with the diagnosis but Brooke was not convinced. She held onto our baby with the same prayerful grace that she held onto her father with just before he died. I hovered around mother and child trying in an uncomfortable effort to say I understood, to say that I was there in case it was serious. But after an hour or two of awkward fatherness, I went to bed. I know Brooke has forgiven me for falling asleep through Ellie’s cries, but I wonder sometimes how she feels about a father that slept through those helpless inward gasps.

*

Two years before Ellie got sick, Brooke’s father died. I had only had a year to avoid Marvin Heath’s steely eyes before I lost the chance to find out what was behind them. The Multiple Myeloma cancer ate his bones from the inside out, but he ultimately died of kidney failure and starvation. The man my new wife loved even more than her husband wasted away to an empty chrysalis, and I know for a time she was left with nothing. I did not know how to be there for her. I did not even know where there was.

We all hovered for days before it actually happened. I was on the outside looking in. My tears weren’t Heath tears and I did not want to pretend I understood, even if I did. I was scared to mourn as Marvin’s wife mourned, as his children mourned. His bread of life. I did not want to intrude on something that was uniquely theirs. My feelings became transient and I found myself crying when I was alone. Not crying out of loss or pain. Just crying. Perhaps I should have intruded. I should have let them know I feared and mourned and understood in some small way. Or perhaps they found some unifying solace in their distaste for my distance. I won’t ever know now. The time is past and the subject is as welcome as a gravestone in a flowerbed.

That was the first and only time I have ever been around death. It is a process like the melting of an icicle. The memory goes, the body withers, the mind drips drips drips until there is nothing left to hang onto. One day, expectedly but quite arbitrarily, what is left crashes to the ground and it’s over. I spent the majority of the only year I knew Marvin Heath standing in the hallway outside his bedroom while his family watched him die within. He is the white walls of a dimly lit hall in my memory. He is gone. And all I hear are the echoes of dripping.

*

It has been two months since Ellie kept her mother awake and I slept two doors away. After having taken her to see a pediatrician, Brooke rushed Ellie to the emergency room while I was at school. When I came home six hours later, there was a note on the cupboard. Come to the hospital as soon as you get home. Brooke. I tried to concentrate on simply pushing the air in and out of my lungs, pushing the echoes out of my head, as I drove the fifteen miles to the hospital. I got there in time to hear the doctor say the word serious twice. Ellie has a serious bone infection called Osteomyelitis. It helps that you caught it early. It’s a serious condition. It is an unfair word for a doctor to use. It cuts. It cuts whatever tendons or muscles hold your heart in your chest. Does it mean long term illness? Does it mean paralysis? Does it mean amputation? I looked at Ellie’s little legs and tried not to imagine their absence. Ellie was not crying anymore and Brooke was holding her in that way again. That watchful, prayerful, terrified way again. And I knew what serious meant. It meant eating from the inside out. It meant melting and withering. It meant drips.

Time in the hospital was marked by blood tests and beeps. Ellie gained strength and we finally took her home with just an IV in her arm and a six-week treatment to show for her scare. She has been up and down since then, mostly up, and the word serious has disappeared. But there are still nights when I look at her fragile baby body lying in her crib and I am forced to consider what death might mean. What will it be like when I’m on the inside? When there are no white walls to hide behind? I can sense it at times. It flattens me out. It is an ice storm. It freezes then shatters my heart and my lungs. Will I be left with nothing like Brooke was two years ago?

I think on the times when Ellie is laughing. When mom and dad and baby are dancing with our home wrapped around us, dancing in each other’s arms like leaves in a whirlwind and baby squeals with angelic bliss and mom starts crying, smiling and crying like her very essence might burst with joy and anguished ecstasy. I will not be left with nothing. I will have this. And I finally understand that prayerful grace that Brooke holds Ellie with. That same embrace that she gave her father. It is her dance. Her moment. She was not left with nothing.

Ellie is sleeping and there’s an echo in my head. No dripping. Just the sound of my baby breathing.

Oh, G

While Jesus was winding his way down the dungeon corridors, plowing through every evil enemy that Satan could throw at him, unlocking every cell door to set every prisoner free...I was running deeper and deeper into the dark. There in Gethsemane Jesus chased down every last soul. And the billion papercuts on his heart would not stop until he had reached the final one. And I was running deeper and deeper into the dark. I imagine that the first cell door that he opened freed my brother Damion. I imagine that he carried little Ellie on his shoulders, out of the reach of the hissing snakes of Satan's servants. And I imagine that I kept running. And when he checked on PeterJamesandJohn one last time before going back into the garden for one last hour of hell, he told them, "All are rescued, except one. Wait for me if you can. This may take awhile." And wearied and broken he hurdled himself back down the dungeon corridors. And after eons of tortured searching at last he found me. And I cowered in the corner of a tiny secret passage at the very end of the deepest tunnel. And he reached out his hand. And I tucked mine into my armpits. And he took me by the ear and said, "Garred. Love." And he groaned, "It is finished," and finally restedsleptdied. And this is the mystery of a salvation that has already been executed, that will one day be discovered by me. Garred. Love.

Mom in tsunami: I saw my daughter floating away

This was a brief video story on CNN.com. The headline made me sick and I'm not sure why I opened the link. I can't get the child's last words out of my head. I hope this mother's faith is larger than mine is. I would not survive the night.

Taitasi Fitiao was holding her six-year-old daughter's hand when a tsunami
wave crashed onto their coastal village in American Samoa.
"I held her hand.
The wave got us and that's when her hand just left mine and I could hear her
say, 'Mom, please.' And then I saw her, I saw her floating away. And I knew
right then that she was gone, she was taken from us."

You can read the rest of the article here.

Cradle (redux)

The first story I ever remember writing was about a boy who became an astronaut and then turned into a star. The first short story I wrote in high school was about an old man fishing in a pond trying to catch the bobbing reflections of the night sky. And the first personal essay I wrote in college was about a spiritual epiphany I had while following the Milky Way on a dusty Ecuadorian road.

If I ever publish a book, you can bet the nighttime expanse will be prominently featured.

I don't know what it is about the heavens that so distracts my subconscience. I mean rarely do I purposely think about the stars and the blackness in between, but it seems that every time I put pen to paper my thoughts automatically reach upwards. I suppose it's akin to coastal people writing and thinking about water. As I consider it, many of my fondest childhood memories come from the back seat of our family car. On long drives home from who-knows-where I would lay in the back seat and stare out the window into the heavens until I fell asleep (or pretended to fall asleep so that my mother would carry me into the house). It was as if the arm of our Milky Way somehow held and rocked me in the darkness.

I remember the first time I noticed that my Cradling Galaxy was missing from the sky. It was the Fourth of July. My parents had divorced several years earlier and I was just starting to notice the strangeness of their relationship. Deep inside my stomach swelled a murky green storm as I watched my father try to light a firework, fail, get advice from my mother, mutter something under his breath, and hand the unlit menace over to her in an overly macho way. It was, quite remarkably, the first time I realized that they didn't love each other. I was 8 or 9.

That night I slept on the lawn with my older brothers and sister. They fell asleep almost immediately and I was left to shoulder what I believed to be an infinitely unfair and lonesome burden. For in my mind, I believed that I was the only one, youngest though I was, to come to this loveless realization. And it was too cruel and the storm was too green for me to ever share the news. I was 8 years old. And I was scared. I was 28-year-old scared. I was 87-year-old scared. I was 3-month-old scared. And as my eyes instinctively looked upwards, I cried. My starry mothering arm had melted away into a big-city sky. There were a few mocking stars. And the sound of my sobs. I was alone. I 8-year-old cried.

Oh Ellie, please don't ever turn 8. But you will. You will probably turn 8 when you're just 5 or 6. You will turn 8 before I know what to do. My baby bear cub, my angel, please remember this: God is Love. And that forever.

Testing. Testing. Is this thing still on?

Joseph Tellier

He laid his head on the mahogany and took a deap breath in. From this angle he could see the heavy layer of dust that covered the floor, broken only by the game trail plotted by his own feet. The bed. The refrigerator. The couch. The bed. His red pulse slowly began to pool in his view, stage right. He could feel his eye twitch against the dust, and immediately thought how superfluous it would be to blink now. How pointless. But against his mighty reason, he did.

He knew he had made a mistake. He raised his hand to feel the wound in his chest, noticed an orange peel by the foot of his bed, thought of a story he had once heard about Christmas, and died.

grey girl

I took a little piece of brown bark and folded a boat.

We pushed off into the stream, bobbed over the lake, and drifted into the ocean.

You took the ribbon out of your hair and stood there on the bough like you were naked.

You, my sadly happy Edith Piaf.

Lately...

Some of you have been wondering what I've been up to lately. Well, the truth is I'm really into a lot of diverse activities these days. I like to mix it up. I just need variety, you know?

YES WE CAN!

Thank you, Mr. Obama.

Mount Fuji

in you,

the symmetrical,

sensuously

serene

lives

of the Japanese.

Finally

While you were sleeping...

I haven't posted in almost 2 months. Many of you have reminded me of this fact. I have been busy working on 3 short stories, none of which I am able to finish for some reason. They are:

1) The Sins of Mary Krystkow
2) The Tallest Wince
3) Singer Black and White

Please let me know which of the three I should focus on finishing. I will finish it. I will post it for your grubby criticism. You will stop telling me that I haven't posted in almost 2 months.

Thank you dearly,

Garred

For Andrew and Emilee (and seven years)

The Pajaros

There's the awkward couple, the sober couple, the odd couple, the prideful man with the yearning girl, and the three happy happy happy couples. On a Saturday morning in the temple, I am blessed to see them all.

I came this morning simply because I was awake. Had I known that it would be the most apple-crisp golden delicious Autumn day in 28 years, I probably would have gone somewhere else. To the mountains. Or the park. Or my mother's backyard. But at 5am it is dark and still and equally as ominous as it is promising. So it was the temple. The safe choice, even on this most cranberry of days.

There in the Celestial room, a lone twenty-something early riser can feel quite like a curry on Thanksgiving day. Eccentric. Sweaty. Wholly out of place. But not today. For some inexplicable yet undeniably sensed reason, today is a good great granddaddy day. In fact, even here in the Casa de Dios, surrounded by angels and saints, I can only describe it as a bona fide damn fine day if there ever was one. For twenty minutes it is me. And the Samoan Queen sitting across the room. And no one else. And despite all of her grace and graciousness, the Queen does not give me even the slightest hint that the entire sum of life is about to be played out before my eyes.

In they come.

The most picture-perfect bride and groom I have ever seen. Not in contrasting black and white, but both dressed in the color of heaven. It is their faces and their hands. It is their eyes. They are not disgustingly happy. They are exultingly happy. Every inch of smile on that girl's face is equaled by that young man's own. I am happy just to see them. An unnoticed matron seats them on a couch and leaves them to their own best every moment of their life. There is no way that my presence could intrude on this. From where they sit, I do not exist. Even the Queen has been mentally exiled. There are just smiles, and faces, and hands, and eyes.

More couples are ushered in, one by one. This one is sober. Stoic and self-assured. There are no smiles like the first couple, but there are plenty of hands. And eyes. And happiness does not skip a beat. Then comes an awkward couple. Both standing on stork legs and looking on with deer eyes. But they are not uncomfortable like I think. They are just funny. They make each other laugh. They poke and they coo and they smiles smiles smiles. Then another perfect picture. Then a middle-aged man a full 6 inches shorter than his middle-aged bride-to-be. But when they sit there is no shortage of eyes. Or hands. Or even feet for this giddy couple that has been waiting oh-so-long for this perfect October day. I am glad they waited. They are glad they waited. God is glad they listened.

Then comes in a kid. His hand lays open at his side. A girl with a face like a New England beach grasps desperately at his lifeless hand. Her eyes are full of clouds. It has been raining. And I suspect there will be many more rainstorms running down that Cape Cod face long after I'm gone. She is searching for his eyes. He is coolly scanning his surroundings with all the false bravado of a junior high drop out. He is probably 25 years old. He is 12 years old. For the second time today, I swear in my head. "Damnit boy! What are you looking for? What on this Great Green Earth could you be looking for at this moment? Is it your confidence? If so, you have at most ten minutes to find it before you'll need it every day for the rest of your life."

I take a few breaths.

"Listen, I don't know you and I am not a prophet. I don't have to be to tell you that the entire sum and substance of what you're looking for in this life is standing by your side. If you will stop being cool for twenty minutes, you will make your grey-eyed promise the happiest girl in the world. And she will work to make the infinite minutes that follow happier than you can imagine. For one day, for twenty minutes, be a dork. Smile. Cry. Feet hands face eyes kiss. This is it. She. The Joie de Vivre. She is about to promise you her existence. And more importantly for you to understand, you are about to promise her yours. Let her crush you with those grey eyes. Let her swallow you with that quivering line of a smile. She. And then everything."

And then...

They sit down. She buries her head in his neck. He gives a quick glance around...throws caution to the wind...puts his arm around her shoulders...rests his head on hers...and closes his eyes. Queen looks over and gives me a knowing smile. Jesus looks down, his eyes also closed, and nods.

***

I walk out of the temple to find that the dark morning has turned to Autumn. The air is light and the light is flowing in amber sheets across the square. Two birds carefully raise out of a golden ball of oak. The branch where they sat shutters for an instant at the memory of their weight. With no more communication than the happy beating of their wings, the birds trace a winding and parallel path through the sky until, sooner than I can fathom, they disappear over the temple.

REWARD!

If anyone can find me the original opening credits sequence from "To Kill a Mockingbird" online, I will TOTALLY make it worth your time (if you know what I mean). But it has to have the original score, not the slow oboe piece on YouTube.

Thanks.

The Rings of Saturn

Around her head - one million frozen rocks. To care about this, to worry about that, to love this, to judge that, to carry, to lift, to throw, to endure, to solve, to heal, to give, to serve, to care. Oh the care is there. One million cares. One million tiny orbits. One million fireflies disturbing the dark of her sleep. No sleep. A stony haze.

Quick, take my arm. I'll hold your mind. One million miles lie ahead. Half way through she stops and looks back at herself. What do you see? A stony noose. One million miles you've promised me. We walk, time fades, we turn to look. One million flecks of glass a halo they have made. A halo, for thus a saint is made.

Salve

Buy this album now. Ask questions later.

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Writers' Block

This is a call to arms. A few of you have been privy to the "Ultra Mega Classic Writers' Workshop and Tea Room" rumors that have been circulating for years. The idea is simple. People get together, they decide on a given topic or style to write on, they take a month to write something, they get back together and share their writing and give feedback. It's like school without nuns. It's like a bookclub with a different kind of gayness. The beauty is that it can all be done over the world wide weeble these days. So you never have to look a critic in the face. Although the sharing of tea becomes more difficult with the technological disconnect.

If you think you would be interested in such an ultra mega classic forum, please comment on this post and let me know. I'm trying to get a head count to make sure this thing is even worth it. IT'S WORTH IT!

Peace, love, and sympathetic touches.

82 (The Corner)

He is quick; that much is clear. But the glow of his ever-increasing fame pulses every time he hits someone. He slides back and forth effortlessly in his backpeddle - like water that knows its way down a riverbed - then bolts forward an instant before the world flinches to plant his head in a pair of unfortunate numbers. Lights out. That's what his coaches have started calling him. And he smiles a broad ethnic smile every time they do.

He is good with the ball in his hands. The four red stars on his helmet are proof enough that he is the most valuable pair of legs behind the line of scrimmage. But 27 white tomahawks that surround those stars are the reason he lays sleepless at night. Reading a quarterback's eyes. Following a running back's hips. Listening to a receiver's footsteps. All for the pop. The kill. Even through the blinding light that crashes through his brain at 'the moment' - even through his own blood and snot - he can hear the bench erupt with every hit. He is a lithe and lightning hero. He is a bullet and a gun.


There will come a time when he doesn't play anymore. It is already almost upon him. No, he won't suffer a broken spine or a torn ACL or a brain-battering concussion. Time will simply reveal to him what he already suspects in the back of his helmet: he is not that good. And that is fine. But one far-away day he will teeter dangerously on the edge of 30. And he will realize that he has ever been backpeddling. Any jolts forward have been met by a violent crash. The bench will have gone silent. But he will continue to smash and punch and throw himself to the wall. A broken marriage. A single parenthood. A failed schooling. An empty job.

Boy, in that day, remember four red stars. Turn your feet around. Take the ball. And run.

O ellie, this is the heart

.....this is what it looks like.
(touch my wrist) it is red like a summer apple.

.....this is what it sounds like.
(hush baby) it is orange like a calling child.

.....this is what it tastes like.
(kiss my cheek) it is yellow like a popcorn kernel.

.....this is what it smells like.
(close your eyes) it is green like a morning world.

.....this is what it feels like.
it is brown like your eyes.
it is black like your hair.
it is pink like your voice.
it is blue like your overalls.
it is purple like your dreams.
it is white like your name.

(laugh, child. ring out)

the heart is white like your name.

What's on my mind today...

HAZELNUT!!!

Hummingbird Daughter

"Everything about a hummingbird is a superlative" - Tom Colazo

What I saw in the school that night 17 years ago.

There in the hall. In the light of night. In the dark of secret. He kissed her. For luck. For passion. For madness. For mercy. For loneliness. For Heaven. For Hell. For freedom.

There's a hand on the wall. 3 feet on the ground. A shadow slinking down the hall, out the front door, through the schoolyard, down the wet street, over the open field, resting its tangled hair twisted lips double helix head on the gravestone.

In that gristly, mucusy, closed-clawed moment of waking up from a poor night's sleep, a swift and ruthless thoughtsword stabbed my mind: This life is too short to live it like this.

It is time to sprint.

The Fiercest

"I was the meanest lion with curls around my head and the sharpest fingernails. I was the meanest lion, but I was nice to you, huh? I was nice to you..." Her voice trails off. Tiny tugboats push her eyelids ashore.

You - who could paw my heart into a thousand purple pieces. You - who could swallow me whole into the gaping abyss of your mouthsoul. You - who holds me your terrified helpless cowering pleading prey...thank you. For being nice. To me.

The Six-Minute Catholic

Tonight I listened to the radio in my house. In the last 10 years this has happened precisely once. From deep within the bowels of 89.1 FM’s death-by-classical-music dungeon static’d a cathedral choir into my living room. The tinny sound buzzing out of my thirty dollar Phillips veiled a much richer, much more regal affair that probably brought an audience to tears when originally performed. Despite the rattling dissonance of prostituted technology, I closed my eyes and surrounded myself with gothic spaciousness. Every pointed arch, every buttress and cloister and spiny-pillared space was filled with a relentlessly reverent harmony riding on the back of a wandering melody. And for six minutes…I was Catholic. I was crimson and grey. I was blood and stone. In the few decades between ChurchOpression and InsignificantShell I knelt in a buttery pillar of sunlight and gave thanks for all the pomp and circumstance. My Catholic church is an aesthetic church. It smells like gold. It has rubies in its eyes. My senses are filled with the glory of the Earth. My mind is filled with the glory of God. I understand this. I understand this. But the music ends. The light cools. And my church returns to the socio-political white-noise giant-shrimp American-movie Catholicism that we respectfully disrespect today. It once was beautiful. It once made sense. But the senses cannot hold.

Inexplicable Phenomenon #202

When Man starts dating Woman, Man stops blogging regularly.

Man will try harder from here on out.

The 2 Minute Writing Drill

It goes like this: You write for 2 minutes. Not a second less or more. No premeditation. No other rules.

Go.

I sweat. i sweated tonight and now i go to bed salty and sandy and leathered. Salty like the sea like a tiny teacup that i put her in and float her off into the ocean. until she reaches a stop light. a semaphore is good for nothing if not red and green. a christmas tree. a memory. a laying back and staring at the squinted white halos of a million christmas wishes strung on a tangled green vine. a silver ornament at ross's house. and sitting on the outside looking in on an adult party, sneaking bites of baked creamed corn and wishing for a life full of wine and tile and terracotta and a roasted turkey dressed like a movie. there was a life that haunted my adolsecence and now stands at the gateway of my looking-backness and tells me not to dre

YourFriendDave

An abbreviated list of what a best friend sees you through:

A fistfight
A breakup
A first spring break
A mission
Another breakup
A marriage
A divorce
A spiritual quandry
Another breakup
A lame vacation
A hard night with a daughter
A spiritual renaissance
Another breakup
An exile from Mexico
A lost parent
A lost friend
A long walk home
A new job
A crappy girl
Another breakup
A midnight mass
A traumatic encounter with a 6th grade teacher
A silence of the lambs
A senior trip trying to avoid sex, drugs, and a drunk Trygg
A thing for Lauren Holly
Another breakup
A long, strange journey

Creativity comes in waves...

It must be low tide. Please stay tuned...

11 a.m., Easter Morning, 2008.

There is nothing small or selfish about the reception of a gift. Let all other cliches stand aside, this one is true: it is the thought that counts. The thought of the giver, and the thought of the receiver. This morning Brooke gave me an Easter basket...because she knew that no one else would. There was a thought, and now there is appreciation.

Up until this point, two things have kept me from truly appreciating Easter: Perfection and Magnitude. I simply cannot understand or fathom a perfect Christ. Or more exactly, I cannot empathize or sympathize with the trials and victories of Deity. Was the Atonement and Resurrection hard? Undoubtedly. But He's God. He's It. He's All. There just doesn't seem to be any suspense in the story. Nor character arc. And what about magnitude? A universal gift? An infinite atonement? My mental ken travels out about as far as the nearest cloud in its journey through the expanses. I simply don't know what universal means.

But as Garred drives home this morning, Easter basket perched next to him on the passenger seat, a miracle feathers itself into his mind. The Mighty God, Creator of creation, for two moments in time (one 2000 years ago, one at this very point in spacetime) was simply Jesus. My Jesus. A skinny man who put together an epiphanal Easter basket for me while still in the tomb and traveled through 2000 years of History to deliver it to me precisely as I'm passing Ikea on I-15. Here are the contents of my basket:

- One realization that the Atonement was Hell. Literally Hell. When Christ saw me that night in Gethsemane, he saw a boy not worth saving. He saw an animal. A hate. A lust. A lie. A blasphemy. A devil. He saw it in you, too. It broke Jesus' heart. My Jesus. It was enough to make his royal blood flee from the same frame that housed these ungodly pictures. What happened that night was uglier than you and I will ever have to know.

- One realization that the same Christ that suffered for the world was the very Jesus that had nothing but love and benevolence for me after the Resurrection. He thought of me, he smiled, and now there is appreciation.

- One reminder to slow down before I passed a cop hidden behind the median.

JM Barrie would have put it this way: Every ray of light that shone off of our Savior's face that first Easter morning was a happy thought or a hopeful prayer about me and you. Whatever darkness that had perpetrated His soul a few nights previous was answered Sunday with a smile, a glimmer, a happy light. Easter brings Spring. Winter is over.

I don't understand the infinite atonement. But I am moved this morning to know that someone (my Jesus) was thinking about me.

What if you peaked at 3?

Life...at 3 years old. Tuxedos, flashing lights, beautiful women (my mom), limousines, pumpkin-pie haircuts. What if your entire life was a denouement? If the only thing you had to live for was another day slightly less remarkable than the last? Welcome to "This Old Life." I'm your host, Garred Lentz.

Poem

I kid you not - I wrote this in my dream last night.


She never put up with my reading.
'You wear your books like a badge.'
Wilderness Safety. Personal Finance. Ulysses. Proust.
'Nobody knows what the hell Joyce was talking about, anyway.'
She was right. On both accounts.
But I cry when I read Dostoevsky.
She's been gone a few weeks. Or a month. Or a year.
It doesn't really matter because I've forgotten her face.
And her name is a word.
And her something is nothing.
And not even straw blows through the empty barn.
But I cry when I read Dostoevsky.

Sunday Message - cradle

The first story I ever remember writing was about a boy who became an astronaut and then turned into a star. The first short story I wrote in high school was about an old man fishing in a pond trying to catch the bobbing reflections of the night sky. And the first personal essay I wrote in college was about a spiritual epiphany I had while following the Milky Way on a dusty Ecuadorian road.

If I ever publish a book, you can bet the nighttime expanse will be prominently featured.

I don't know what it is about the heavens that so distracts my subconscience. I mean rarely do I purposely think about the stars and the blackness in between, but it seems that every time I put pen to paper my thoughts automatically reach upwards. I suppose it's akin to coastal people writing and thinking about water. As I consider it, many of my fondest childhood memories come from the back seat of our family car. On long drives home from who-knows-where I would lay in the back seat and stare out the window into the heavens until I fell asleep (or pretended to fall asleep so that my mother would carry me into the house). It was as if the arm of our Milky Way somehow held and rocked me in the darkness.

I remember the first time I noticed that my Cradling Galaxy was missing from the sky. It was the Fourth of July. My parents had divorced several years earlier and I was just starting to notice the strangeness of their relationship. Deep inside my stomach swelled a murky green storm as I watched my father try to light a firework, fail, get advice from my mother, mutter something under his breath, and hand the unlit menace over to her in an overly macho way. It was, quite remarkably, the first time I realized that they didn't love each other. I was 8 or 9.

That night I slept on the lawn with my older brothers and sister. They fell asleep almost immediately and I was left to shoulder what I believed to be an infinitely unfair and lonesome burden. For in my mind, I believed that I was the only one, youngest though I was, to come to this loveless realization. And it was too cruel and the storm was too green for me to ever share the news. I was 8 years old. And I was scared. I was 28-year-old scared. I was 87-year-old scared. I was 3-month-old scared. And as my eyes instinctively looked upwards, I cried. My starry mothering arm had melted away into a big-city sky. There were a few mocking stars. And the sound of my sobs. I was alone. I 8-year-old cried.

Oh Ellie, please don't ever turn 8. But you will. You will probably turn 8 when you're just 5 or 6. You will turn 8 before I know what to do. My baby bear cub, my angel, please remember this: God is forever. And God is love.

One Golden Month

There was a time when everything was spiritual. When everyone I knew spoke of God. When every conversation involved service and love and the Lord. For one month before my mission, I lived in Eden.

Out of some random need for affirmation or reminiscence, I decided to open up a shoebox full of old letters and dive in tonight. And what I found was a city of God. All of my very best friends decided to tell me they loved me. Kathy was a miracle. Emily was an angel. Andy and Jake and Ross and Carson were sincere for a sliver in time. A bunch of rag tag 18-year-olds got together and spoke of love and testified of Jesus. Missions are a miracle before they even happen.

It's time for a spiritual renaissance again. Everyone within earshot of this blog: start over. Go back to those golden months when you or your friends were preparing for missions. Not to those holier-than-thou months after you got home, but to those innocent and bumbling and humbling months when friends could say "I love you" and "I believe" and "I'm scared." When the idea of missing someone somehow brought out a newly mature joy and yearning. When high school was the past, and God was the future. Get out your old letters and pictures and tapes. Listen to your farewells. We had no idea what we were doing, but we were full of hope. And 10 years later we still have no idea what we're doing. We might as well bring the hope back.

She's a headache... She's an angel... She's a girl... How do you solve a problem like Maria?

I'm looking for a girl that can't stop singing.

Sunday Message - give said the little stream

Elder Bednar said, “the purpose of our mortal journey is not merely to see the sights on earth or to spend our allotment of time on self-centered pursuits.” I have found even my efforts to become more spiritually minded a self-centered pursuit lately. Going home after work and reading in the scriptures or watching church movies is good, but probably not as good as going and serving other people. I can become as spiritual as I want, but what good does it do me if it does not make me give more of myself to others? In the mission field, there were a few hours each morning that were allotted for personal study and reflection, but the real meat of the day was spent serving others. And that is when the most growth happened anyway. This week I will spend a little less time working on myself and a little more time working for somebody else.

“My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth.”
- 1 John 3:18

French Toast

French toast on a Sunday morning is next to cleanliness which is next to godliness. Plus the sun is shining and Spring is finally beginning to peek its shy little head in the door and that means Sunday walks through the park. French toast and walks through the park combined are greater than cleanliness. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's what God does on Sunday mornings.

ஷ்ளோம்

To the Elders that left their homes to teach Alan and Joyce Smith
To Alan and Joyce Smith for raising Penny in the truth
To the countless missionaries who softened Robert’s heart
To a pragmatic bishop who buried Robert in the font
To Robert and Penny for falling in love
To Robert and Penny for loving enough to adopt
To Penny for working quietly with a broken heart
To the parents of dozens of children that let me into their homes
To Marc and Annette for daring to care
To Brooke for daring to try
To Brooke for giving me Ellie
To Ellie for loving her father
To Ellie who had a beginning but no end
To a life built on the shoulders of those courageous enough to love

Shalom. What love forges…

today's testimony

This life is sweet and personal and glorious and beautiful and today I was absolutely humbled and grateful to be living it. This Gospel has never been so true and I have never been so blessed to have it. Today I closed my eyes and let the Spirit like a breeze sift through me and ruffle the edges of my soul and I haven't been able to stop smiling since. Christ is coming and I can't wait to meet him. Today I love everybody and I hope everybody gets to read this.

Sunday Message - O Pioneers!

Do a google image search of the name Kim Ho Jik and only one relevant picture will come up. A tiny image of the man standing with his family. But while this man may be a complete unknown here in the US, he is the George Washington of Korean Latter-day Saints.

I will spare you a complete biography of this man. It is enough to know that he was the first Korean Mormon ever. Baptized in the Susquehanna river (like Joseph Smith) in 1951, he took the gospel back to war-torn Korea that same year. In the short 8 years between his baptism and death, Dr. Kim was president of several colleges and served in the cabinet of president Syngman Rhee as vice minister of education. He used that position to convince the Korean government to officially recognize the LDS church and then to allow LDS missionaries to proselyte. In the church, he served as District President and taught Sunday School until the day he died. An entire nation was opened to the gospel because of this man's faith and courage. He is a father and a pioneer.

I'm sorry this entry is so boring. But I am inspired every time I learn about this man and hopefully you'll recognize his name and pay attention the next time you hear of him.

Here's the essay you requested

Dripping to Death


I can still remember the sound of Ellie trying to suck in air between fits of crying. The inward gasps were worse than the screams that echoed through the house, not because of any particular sound they made, but because I could feel the exhaustion in her lungs, in her flexing arms and legs and fingers and toes. I remember thinking that I was just as spent as she was and wished with selfish sympathy that she would stop for me. Stop for Dad. But she wouldn’t. She was six months old and, though it seems like a lie now or at very least a reckless memory, she had never stayed up to cry in her life. But she was sick then and What to Expect the First Year pointed us to a general explanation: the flu. I was contented with the diagnosis but Brooke was not convinced. She held onto our baby with the same prayerful grace that she held onto her father with just before he died. I hovered around mother and child trying in an uncomfortable effort to say I understood, to say that I was there in case it was serious. But after an hour or two of awkward fatherness, I went to bed. I know Brooke has forgiven me for falling asleep through Ellie’s cries, but I wonder sometimes how she feels about a father that slept through those helpless inward gasps.

*

Two years before Ellie got sick, Brooke’s father died. I had only had a year to avoid Marvin Heath’s steely eyes before I lost the chance to find out what was behind them. The Multiple Myeloma cancer ate his bones from the inside out, but he ultimately died of kidney failure and starvation. The man my new wife loved even more than her husband wasted away to an empty chrysalis, and I know for a time she was left with nothing. I did not know how to be there for her. I did not even know where there was.

We all hovered for days before it actually happened. I was on the outside looking in. My tears weren’t Heath tears and I did not want to pretend I understood, even if I did. I was scared to mourn as Marvin’s wife mourned, as his children mourned. His bread of life. I did not want to intrude on something that was uniquely theirs. My feelings became transient and I found myself crying when I was alone. Not crying out of loss or pain. Just crying. Perhaps I should have intruded. I should have let them know I feared and mourned and understood in some small way. Or perhaps they found some unifying solace in their distaste for my distance. I won’t ever know now. The time is past and the subject is as welcome as a gravestone in a flowerbed.

That was the first and only time I have ever been around death. It is a process like the melting of an icicle. The memory goes, the body withers, the mind drips drips drips until there is nothing left to hang onto. One day, expectedly but quite arbitrarily, what is left crashes to the ground and it’s over. I spent the majority of the only year I knew Marvin Heath standing in the hallway outside his bedroom while his family watched him die within. He is the white walls of a dimly lit hall in my memory. He is gone. And all I hear are the echoes of dripping.

*

It has been two months since Ellie kept her mother awake and I slept two doors away. After having taken her to see a pediatrician, Brooke rushed Ellie to the emergency room while I was at school. When I came home six hours later, there was a note on the cupboard. Come to the hospital as soon as you get home. Brooke. I tried to concentrate on simply pushing the air in and out of my lungs, pushing the echoes out of my head, as I drove the fifteen miles to the hospital. I got there in time to hear the doctor say the word serious twice. Ellie has a serious bone infection called Osteomyelitis. It helps that you caught it early. It’s a serious condition. It is an unfair word for a doctor to use. It cuts. It cuts whatever tendons or muscles hold your heart in your chest. Does it mean long term illness? Does it mean paralysis? Does it mean amputation? I looked at Ellie’s little legs and tried not to imagine their absence. Ellie was not crying anymore and Brooke was holding her in that way again. That watchful, prayerful, terrified way again. And I knew what serious meant. It meant eating from the inside out. It meant melting and withering. It meant drips.

Time in the hospital was marked by blood tests and beeps. Ellie gained strength and we finally took her home with just an IV in her arm and a six-week treatment to show for her scare. She has been up and down since then, mostly up, and the word serious has disappeared. But there are still nights when I look at her fragile baby body lying in her crib and I am forced to consider what death might mean. What will it be like when I’m on the inside? When there are no white walls to hide behind? I can sense it at times. It flattens me out. It is an ice storm. It freezes then shatters my heart and my lungs. Will I be left with nothing like Brooke was two years ago?

I think on the times when Ellie is laughing. When mom and dad and baby are dancing with our home wrapped around us, dancing in each other’s arms like leaves in a whirlwind and baby squeals with angelic bliss and mom starts crying, smiling and crying like her very essence might burst with joy and anguished ecstasy. I will not be left with nothing. I will have this. And I finally understand that prayerful grace that Brooke holds Ellie with. That same embrace that she gave her father. It is her dance. Her moment. She was not left with nothing.

Ellie is sleeping and there’s an echo in my head. No dripping. Just the sound of my baby breathing.

Three pokes of a thistle

I went to President Hinckley's funeral on Saturday and I left feeling 3 things: first, I was most moved and impressed when President Hinckley's daughter spoke. She spoke of him as a father first and a Prophet second. And the Spirit reaffirmed to me that being a husband and father is the most important thing on earth, even more important than being the Prophet. Second, I missed Nicole like crazy during the funeral and wanted to tell her that I love her for the whole day afterwards. I am not sure why exactly, but I do know that the pit was enormous in my heart. Which is funny because Bishop Burton (I think) spoke of having a gorge dug into your heart and filling it with compassion. That is God's main purpose for heartbreak I think. It makes you more understanding and more capable of loving in the future. And third, I felt grateful that I'm alive and that in the end, everything works out for the best. President Hinckely knew it, President Eyring knows it, and I'm becoming more and more sure of it everyday.

Due

It seems fitting this morning that the American flag bows its head at the loss of the Prophet.

Trying

A good friend told me that she hoped I would one day meet someone that I would just love without ever having to try. I hope not. Adam never got to hold Eve in his arms, look into her eyes, and say with a heart full of tenderness, courage, and exhaustion, "I still love you," while they were yet innocent. I believe they didn't learn to love until love was necessary. Until they saw each other's imperfections, felt a shrinking in their hearts, and then stretched out their souls and decided to love anyway. I am looking for a human being. A beautiful yet imperfect girl that will forgive me when I am small, and will let me forgive her, too. We all dance within the Garden walls while in love, but it is only when we are thrust out into the lone and dreary world that we learn to carry each other. I believe in a perfect marriage. Two imperfect people trying their hearts out over and over and over and over and over...

Sunday Message 2 - Love

Every day for the past little while I have been praying to know how to love. Because although I've been married and have an angel daughter, I still don't think I have it down. And that is a hard and embarrassing thing to admit. The pride in my gut shouts, "Don't try to tell me what love is! I of all people know, even if by circumstance alone!" But perhaps circumstance is the harvest of the weak seeds I've sown. Maybe I am where I am because I thought I knew what love is, but never took the time to really find out.

I couldn't get a scripture out of my mind when I woke up this morning. Paul says that the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, and temperance. So love isn't a standalone matter. It is a fruit, or a gift, of having the Spirit. This much I can say I have learned through experience. I have never felt so loving, as well as in love, as I have when virtue garnishes my thoughts and the Spirit swells in my heart. It is likely that you cannot love another human being any more than you love the Lord. And vice versa. But to practice that everyday is the point of life. Simply learning that the principle exists (like I have done) is barely a beginning.

In our relationships in this life, even to love completely is not enough. As well as learning to love, I need to learn to be loving. I believe I love Ellie with all of my heart. I only want what is best for her at every moment. But I know (and this thought will torture me at any given moment of the day) that she does not always feel loved by me. I am a bumbling fool. I show impatience when what I mean to do is teach. I show her tears when what I want to show is need. I raise my voice instead of my level of charity. And for her, knowing who she is, and knowing her situation, the only lesson really worth teaching is that she is loved. In every detail. And at every moment. And forever.

I have lost too much already because I am so slow to turn the key. I lost a marriage because I loved weakly. If I lost my child today, I'm afraid she wouldn't know how much I love her. And I just lost the most beautiful person in the world because I didn't know how to cherish. Not only that, but upon love hangs the first and great commandment. And the second, too. So I pray for it every day now. If love is a gift, then I can pray for it. And if it's a skill as well then I can practice at it. And one day I will love a wife like she hopes to be loved and I will love my children like they deserve. And if I should still lose them, it will hurt not because I didn't love enough, but because I did.

Sunday Message

Inspired by Elder Tingey's fireside last week, I've been thinking about what I know to be absolutely true. First of all, I know that God lives and that Jesus is the Christ. No doubt about it. I also know that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true. But aside from the very basics, I've thought of 5 things that are rock solid true in my life:

1) Happiness is completely independent of money
2) Love is a skill, as well as a blessing
3) The Lord fulfills ALL of his promises
4) Honesty is worthless without truth
5) The greatest answer to any prayer is always "Be still, and know that I am God."

New Feature for the New Year

This blogger has been anxiously awaiting the rollout of a new feature that I think you're really going to enjoy... Interactive Polls! I know it's what you've been waiting for. Please think carefully before answering because I fully intend to live my life based on the results of said polls.

I Am...

I Am

I am wet knees angry shivers bathtime, I am
four bites ninety minute supper, I am
out of milk back turned bedtime, I am
guilt stricken off days reveler, I am
bruised ribs blanketless bed sharer, I am
awkward princess high pitched play date, I am
late night lone time sanctifier, I am
trembling hands teary eyed hairdresser, I am
tired father. I am
tired, Father.

You Are...

You Are

Sometimes late at night
I hear the shuffling of your paws against the carpet
As you climb into my bed
To snuggle with your pop.
You are my baby bear cub.

When you’re in the bath
And you show me how you can hold your breath
And kick your legs
And wash your arms,
You are my singing mermaid savior.

When our eyes get tired
And we can only read two books tonight, or maybe three
You rock me to sleep
With your fading laughs.
You are my front porch swing.

And when you aren’t here
And wolves and ghosts howl through my house
I close my eyes
And count your lights.
You are my starry night sky.

The Favorites / Movies

My 10 Favorite Movies (in no particular order):

1) The Shawshank Redemption

2) Whale Rider

3) Groundhog Day

4) Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon

5) Annie Hall

6) The Wizard of Oz

7) The Sound of Music

8) Citizen Kane

9) To Kill a Mockingbird

10) The Little Mermaid


Honorable Mentions:

Mannequin, The Great Escape, Big, The Odd Couple, My Fair Lady, Beauty and the Beast, It's a Wonderful Life, The Last Emperor, Life is Beautiful, Little Shop of Horrors, LA Story, Disney's Robin Hood, The Ten Commandments, Ghostbusters


And 3 movies I wanted to kill myself in:

Pearl Harbor, Titanic, Eight Crazy Nights

The Favorites / Songs

My 5 favorite songs of all time (in no particular order):

1) Crazy Love - Van Morrison
2) Kiss - Prince
3) Hey Jude - The Beatles
4) Suite No.1 Prelude - JS Bach
5) Time After Time - Cyndi Lauper


5 more favorites you may not have heard of:

1) New Hampshire - Matt Pond PA
2) My Lady's House - Iron and Wine
3) The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades... - Sufjan Stevens
4) Blood Bleeds - The Helio Sequence
5) Quelqu'un m'a dit - Carla Bruni


And 5 Guilty Pleasures:

1) Where Does the Good Go? - Teagan and Sara
2) Perfect Gentleman - Wyclef Jean
3) Icky Thump - The White Stripes
4) Angel - Sarah McLachlan (that one is really embarrassing)
5) Crazy - Seal

For This First Sunday of the Month

Elder Ballard has asked us all to defend the Church in all mediums that are available to us. So here's mine. I believe in Jesus Christ. I believe that he speaks to Gordon B. Hinckley. I believe that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is Christ's church. Like all people, I begin to justify my actions when I sin, and consequently I start to wonder about the wisdom of all the rules that we are asked to keep. But each time that I look to Christ for forgiveness and make even the smallest effort to get back on track, I feel infinitely better about every aspect of life. Abraham Lincoln said, "When I do good, I feel good...That's my religion." I don't know if I can say it any better than that. No matter how small the tenet, how minute the rule, how seemingly insignificant the teaching of the Church, I ALWAYS feel better when I keep it. Always. And that is how I know these things are true. I know that the Gospel we teach in this church will lead anyone and everyone to heaven if followed. And I know that Jesus Christ is the reason.

2007

This was the best year of my life. Maybe I had more carefree ones when I was 5 or so, but this was the happiest one that I can remember. I was in love like a Van Morrison song and that kind of thing doesn't happen every year, or sometimes ever depending on who you are. I danced around inside that love like a kid playing in the rain. It was great, and it was swallowing, and it was bigger than I dared hope for. And even though the boat got washed ashore in the end, I am grateful to have been in the ocean. And I am grateful that my shipmate rowed with me from beginning to end.

For nine months, my daughter had a best friend who wasn't boring like her dad or selfish like her equally aged cousins. She loved someone outside of her family, and that is the greatest thing she could have learned this year. She is still saving a third of her Christmas candy for that friend and that floors me. I love Ellie exponentially more than I did a year ago. Than I did a day ago.

This year I received the most selfless kindnesses from a person I thought could only ever hurt me. And I learned to forgive. Because she made it easy. I am not in love with her, but I know that God is. And so is her daughter.

I found my friends again. My friends that I had hid from in a comfortable cave. I found them on rocks and on skis and in Sin City and in Mexico and online. And I found them calling me when I needed someone to call me. They are holy white elephants in the temple of my need. They are family like nobody's business.

I am cautiously grateful to start a new year with a broken heart. There is fathering that needs improving and a relationship with THE Dude that can only get stronger. And more piercing. And I am eagerly awaiting another round with Van Morrison.

My Politics

I've been accused of not being involved in or concerned with politics enough. Guilty as charged. Like the teenager who vandalizes because the consequences are too distant for him to care about, I plug my ears to the political ruckus that surrounds me because I just don't know how to care. No matter who becomes president next November, I'll still wake up groggy, pee standing up (except late at night), love my daughter, and laugh with my friends. But to appease the masses, here's my stance (however watery it is):

I gladly pay taxes because I'm grateful to live in America.

I receive a tax return because I'm poor at managing my own money.

If you're for ending racism, I'm for you.

If you're for ending racism through racism and hatred through hatred, please don't use my name in your brochures.

I claim Thomas Jefferson, although I don't know what party he was from.

Some wars have to be fought. And some wars can't be won.

If Democrats are getting a Christmas bonus this year, sign me up.

Republicans always get a Christmas bonus, so please leave my name on the list.

I won't need welfare when I'm 60, but some people will.

Kissing babies is awkward and creepy.

The FBI, CIA, DHS, and big W himself can listen in on my phone calls. I've always liked an audience.

The saying "If you don't like it here, then leave" is more shortsighted and ignorant than even my political views.

More people are cured of cancer each year than travel to space. Let's keep it that way.

I would like a personal fee waiver to get into national and state parks. Thanks.

For Technical Purposes

What Love Might Be

While shots were being fired on the presidential cavalcade, Jackie O reached back onto the trunk of the convertible and grabbed a piece of her dying husband's skull.

The Blank Page

The blank page. Sand on a campfire. If anything can extinguish the nearly indefatigable spirit of an aspiring writer, it is 24 lb. Bright White Bond. Or perhaps the pale glow from a computer screen.

On the bus I construct labyrinthine yarns involving myriads of people whose lives are interconnected by fate or love or religion or serendipity or a cold cup of coffee. I direct movies that finally stab issues like today versus yesterday versus tomorrow in the heart. That ragged man leaning against the statue of James Joyce – I know his life. Let me tell it to you. It’s a comedy. No, a musical. It’s much more Oklahoma than An American in Paris. You’re going to love it. And then I get off the bus. I take the pencil out from behind my ear. 24 lb. Bright White Bond. An empty street. And another day without writing.

25 things que me gustan

1- Trying new restaurants
2- Sitting and rapping with my friends
3- Backyard football
4- Armwrestling
5- To Kill a Mockingbird
6- Waking up early to play
7- Traveling…anywhere
8- People who speak several languages
9- Tipping big
10- Sleeping under the stars
11- First snowfalls
12- Getting packages in the mail
13- Christmas service
14- When you can’t feel the air outside
15- Sunday naps
16- Sneaking into places
17- Smell of coffee
18- Planning vacations
19- The idea of being a writer
20- Lingering at parties
21- Savants
22- Avocado on sandwiches
23- Good storytellers
24- Extreme weather
25- Everything about my daughter Ellie

25 things que no me gustan

1- Watching people get busted…for anything
2- Salespeople
3- Spiders on ceilings
4- Pretense
5- Waking up early to work
6- That song that goes “I believe in the sand beneath my toes”
7- Smell of old dudes
8- The term “good times were had by all”
9- Cartoons these days
10- Phones
11- People who don’t tip enough
12- Waking up from bad naps
13- Swearing to sound hip
14- Liver
15- Being a few cents short
16- Shaving
17- Real racism
18- Making resumes
19- Going into Victoria’s Secret for anything
20- Unnatural dialogue in movies
21- The name “Tears for Fears”
22- Freezer burn
23- Scary movies
24- Freezing toes when snowboarding
25- People talking to me when I’m on the phone

10 things I'm not sure if I like because I haven't done them with the right person

1- Going for walks
2- Playing pool
3- Watching foreign movies
4- Picking grapes
5- Waking up early to watch the sunrise
6- Dancing
7- Running out of gas
8- Las Vegas
9- Shopping for new furniture
10-Watching hockey

for technical purposes

The Radleys

We all, in a self-censoring way, believe we are Scout. We aspire to be Atticus - strong, noble, and godly - but realize we will always be children looking up to an ideal. But here's the hard truth: we are all just Boo Radleys. Nothing more, and nothing less. We are all forsaken, misshapen, scared, and scary. We hide out in the dark corners of our lives - coming out only when there is no one to truly see or recognize us - to drop small pieces of ourselves in the hollow of a tree. And in the end, if we do anything worthy or noble, it is to expose our ugly selves in order to carry another. This is love. This is that vulnerable, lonely, awkward power that alone coerces us out of our house at the end of the lane.

Credo

I believe in erring on the side of mercy. I believe in the great and terrible and wonderful humanity in us all. I believe in personal experience. What else do we know? I believe that each of us is as ungodlike as the next person.

I think that every person should keep their religion, no matter what it may be. Catholics should stay Catholic, Muslims should stay Muslim, Jews should stay Jewish, Mormons should stay Mormon. And each person should keep their religion...each person should give their souls to the moral framework that they believe in. But this is not an absolute rule. I believe in changing religions when the time is right. I don't like the word "conversion" because it sets up an ideal that only gets broken over time, but to leave your religion for another one can be the most courageous and noble thing a person ever does...when the time is right. The time is not right when one religion offers a slackened sense of responsibility or moral firmness. The time is not right when one religion justifies your current actions or thought processes better than another. The time is not right when conveniences are afforded or non-spiritual things are to be gained. But the time can be right when one religion fills your spirit more than another. When a person seeks self-sacrifice, discipline, faith, honesty, humility, and above all love...then the time may be right. A Catholic may need to prostrate himself five times a day in prayer and submission towards Mecca. A Muslim may need to wait with faith and eagerness each year at the Passover table for his King to come. A Jew may need to wash herself clean in Christ's bloodsweat. And yes, A Mormon may need to taste the bloodwine of Mass and cry to a Gentle Mother rather than an angry Lord. What are we doing this religion thing for, anyway? We long to be one of God's people. We ache to stop aching. And we starve to fill the countless holes in our hearts and to silence the screaming ghosts from our past.

Me personally, I believe in a Father full of light and a Mother driven to silence by heartache and love. I believe in Jesus the man and Jesus the God. I believe in a broken body and a forsaken heart that maybe, just maybe, understands mine. I believe in a power to heal, and a faith to be healed. I believe that after this life, the human battles that I fought in the cluttered space of my head and on the horizonless landscape of my soul will be the only topic of conversation, the only source of regret, the only reason to smile, and the only identity I will have. I don't expect fanfare when I arrive or iron gates to shut me out. I don't expect to hear "Thou wasteful fool," or "Thou good and faithful servant." I only expect to be held.

Pity Party

I have recently become aware of the fascinating duality that is the human soul. How at once we can know precisely what we should do...and unequivocally decide not to do it. It is as if humans were the most illogical creatures of all. And yet I do believe that the opposite is true -- we are the most logical by far. What other of God's creations can conceive of and understand so many angles to a single situation or circumstance? What other creature can dress up an abstract idea like "love" in such definitive and lasting words? We are logical to a fault. And still...we can throw aside all reason and logic and surprise even ourselves. An example from the quotidian of life: I know that righteousness is the ONLY happiness. I believe it and know it and breathe it. And at any given moment, I can be seen doing something - anything - completely indulgent and sinful. I actually choose unhappiness.

This duality - this inconsistency - this stupidity - weaves its way through every aspect of our lives. But I only want to talk about one specific manifestation right now...and that is the choice I make to feel pain. I have had plenty of opportunites of late to feel the most crippling pain. I have been absolutely paralyzed in every sense of the word for months at a time. It is not because of any situation that I've been in...not really...but simply because I have chosen to feel like crap. Believe me, I am fully aware of how to escape the pain. It's actually a ridiculously simply process. But I ignore that process just to keep myself in the scorching oven. Why?

...

Singling

There’s Dave and Rich and John Redd (John Redd?) hiking up the face of a mountain with too-heavy-for-carrying loads of firewood, a package of marshmallows, two Cadbury chocolate bars (because Cadbury melts quicker than Hersheys and Hersheys almost never melts period), a lighter (that cost two cents in Thailand, and yes it works), a Mexican poncho, two speaker boxes, unmarried grins, and a pocket full of phone calls. And there’s me. I’m there too. Carrying one of those ridiculous mounds of wood and worrying about getting cited for having a fire during dry season. “I wonder if we’ll get in trouble for starting a fire” I wonder out loud. Rich echoes my concern. But he’s not really worried about it. In fact, he’s not even thinking about it. There are going to be girls coming, and that single thought consumes three entire universes. My universe trails behind, balancing desperately on burning legs.

On top of Pete’s rock, we throw down our loads and half-heartedly make a fire pit. It’s 9 o’clock and the sun is dying fast, but we’re in no hurry to get started. Single people are never in a hurry, and tonight I’m single. Ellie is well taken-care-of with her grandma and Brooke is sitting by a pool in Sunny California. On second thought, let’s get this shindig rolling…I have a lot of singling to do before this night is over. I have no intentions of forgetting my wife and child, but “carefree” is plastered on the walls of my mind like indie-rock posters. I’m neurotic about losing my mind.

(to be continued...)

To Do List:

Cure AIDS. 8000 people per day die of AIDS. That means that in 1 month, more people die from AIDS than died in the southeastern tsunami. I can barely function when I consider what that really means. What if I had AIDS? What if I had a disease that no one wants to talk about, let alone be around? What if I was sitting in a hospital bed for months and friends got bored of visiting me and family lost hope in me and I was afraid to touch my fragile sweet tender endlessly beautiful daughter and my 5-year plans turned into fighting just for tomorrow and I stopped loving everything worth loving strictly as a defense and I finally killed God and Goodness and Life and Light and Hope and Hope and Hope? What if hope was the hollow echo of a child's musings? What if I were Eight Thousand People today, April 26, 2006? And Eight Thousand People tomorrow, April 27, 2006? What if I were Twenty-Four Thousand People not looking forward to this weekend? What if the leaves on this tree of life kept falling and falling and falling until winter was the only thing left?

rock-a-bye, baby, in the treetop,
when the wind blows the cradle will rock,
when the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
and down will come everyleaf everyone everything...cradle and all.

Hi

Some General Authority once told a story of how he was called to be a GA. He was called into the President's office and the Prophet asked him 3 simple questions. While this story would be better if I could remember all 3 questions, I can only recall one. That one question was, "Do you keep a daily journal?"

What? Can a journal really be that important? I'm not naive enough to believe that a daily log of life is all that it takes to be an Apostle. I'm sure the Prophet knew enough about this soon-to-be GA that a thorough interview was not necessary. But still, that story has stuck with me for years.

Someone (do you like how vague I am in my memory?) once said that writing is the ultimate medium for humans to communicate. It allows us to speak in the privacy of our own minds, and yet still share our thoughts with others. It is completely nonconfrontational, and yet a well-written anything can get right up in your face.

There are many people who write because of the privacy and intimacy inherent in a pen and paper or a laptop kept under passcode. Sometimes people write just to see what they are thinking. But I think everyone--down to the most awkward and introverted schlep--wants to be heard. Or better put, wants to be read. Or maybe not. But speaking for myself, if I did not want anyone to know what I think, I wouldn't take the time or the risk to make of record of my mindings. I write so that I know what I'm thinking, and so that you might know too.