Christmas: Of Joy and Sorrow

Why is it that Christmas can open a floodgate of emotion?

Memories seem stronger. Highs are higher. Lows are lower.

A universal flood of emotion ranging from the highest of highs to the darkest of lows seems to engulf. Inexplicable grace springs forth, newly unearthed retribution sprouts. A heart's dormant garden suddenly blooms its fruit.

Perhaps it's because our Lord's emotion was poured out on this day of gift giving.

Perhaps, just perhaps, as light was declared to divide the darkness with His utterance, and it shines from that day forth, this day, the day of his firstborn, was declared as His day of emotion. This was our Lord's decreed day of vengeance and forgiveness, anger and happiness, joy and sadness.

Perhaps a flood of mixed emotion is showered upon us during this season.  He loved us and in acting upon that fathomless love, the child He named above all men was sent to us, but not without the knowledge of the unmeasured heartache that both He and His child would pay.

Perhaps during this season we impassionately call Christmas, that emotion still pours out. It rains. It snows. Sprinkles upon all of us.

Perhaps this day is our Lord's one weakspot. Perhaps the remembrance of that day, for Him, causes both a wince and upturned lip.

How possible is it that He has forgotten that day?

I cannot be persuaded that our Lord does not have emotion.

I cannot be moved from the thought that this is both the most glorious of days and the saddest.

How worthy we must be in his eyes.

"I will punish my son that you might go free. My pure son. He has done no wrong. My firstborn. My only."

We've all had that freeze-frame moment. You've had it. Where, for however brief or long, the standstill of time blurts in, stops you in your mind, and you're halted, frozen, overcome by confusing clarity. A breath-taking instant of crystal vision you could not begin to describe to a sane other. A moment you cannot truly explain to yourself. 

It's the Lord's knock on the door of your intellect. And you're stripped of reasoning for a moment. A heaviness in your chest overcomes you and for a measured time you realize the world is larger than you.

It's His tear-bought embrace.

Hold on. Give in.

And then rejoice.

You're in his wings.

Psalms 2012: Children in the Playground

Help, I cried.

And there was no one to hear.

It was a silent voice, I know. A voice expressed in my eyes, a cry in the sag of my shoulders. Who could hear?

Who could decipher what I had, for so long, coded?

Sometimes the thought of giving up on people creeps in.

Sometimes the wonder of the worth of chores and labors of love seep into the once quieted mind's places, and just evaporate.

I wonder what my Lord felt while here on earth. I wonder what it was he felt when here, among us, trying to explain who he was to his creation.

Pain and humiliation began long before the cross.

How blind the blind! How prideful the turned away necks of the self-satisfied.

How satisfied we are with the now. How like children we are, in having the large portion of blocks! 'There are no more than these,' we say, with greedy, scooping arms. 'And there are no more to be had.' Ignorant of how wooden blocks are made.

Blind to the forest beyond where our playground lay.

Who will lead them?

Who will lead me?

No real help comes from men.

Friends offer but sincere condolences. Excuses drip from their lips.

Trust only in hearts turned toward God.

Conversation 4: Snip

Dad was a pruner.  He could be ruthless. He'd hack away at anything he didn't understand, thinking he was shaping a plant. He had this little group of 'shaped' plants sitting in the bay window. Every week or so he'd grab the yellow handled pruning snips and go at them. He called it his window garden. We called it Dad's stick figures.

He'd say, “Pruning's a thing of love, son."

I'd nod. I knew he sincerely loved his plants.

He'd say, "See this little sucker coming off this branch? It’s gotta go." Snip, went the shears, and the new branch fell to the floor.

"Now what?" I'd ask, scratching my head.

"Plant's better off."

"I see," I'd answer, not understanding.

"Something better will grow." he'd clarify.

"What if that sucker was something the plant needed?"

"It wasn't." he'd answer.

"What if it was going to be a strong branch and grow something beautiful on it?"

He'd just look at me.

"Maybe a beautiful flower..." sometimes I persisted.

"Beautiful?" he'd cock his head toward me.

"Yes, something new, different. But beautiful."

"There was no flower in that sucker, son."

"But what if—"

"No, pretty sure there wasn't. I can tell."

"But maybe—"

"Then it'll grow back."

"Why wouldn't you wait—"

"Son, you ask a lot of questions for someone who's never grew a plant."

"I just wondered what would happen if you waited a bit..."

"Waited a bit? Wait? Son, that's the problem with most folks, they wait. Then it's too late. The whole plant gets messed up.  You ever hear of 'nip it in the bud?' It's a law of gardening. You don't wait to prune."

He'd then sweep up the snipped branches and leaves that had fallen to the floor, using a glossy ad insert from last Sunday's paper and dumped the whole thing into the kitchen trash.

"Oh by the way," he one time added. "Your mom tells me you signed up for a new club or something after school."

"The cooking club."

"You ever cook before, son?"

"Well no, that's why I thought—"

"Seems to me a cooking club would be for cookers."

"And people who might to learn to—"

"Doesn't sound like a good idea to me."

"But Dad..."

"Thought you were going to be an artist?"

"Yes, but..."

Snip

Relocating

My brother is coming home soon.
He’s been away visiting Dad.
We’re in the process of relocating,
and he’s been away preparing our new place.
When all is ready,
he’ll come back to pick us up.

He says it’s gorgeous.
That means a lot coming from my brother.
He’s seen a lot.
Good, bad, you name it.
You can count on what he says.

We’re here.
Eagerly waiting,
Preparing to leave.
I can only wonder what lies ahead…
It’ll be a new start.

He’s said be ready.
The move will be quicker than we think.

Praise Instead of Complain

Frustrating day.

Still learning, trying to practice praising my Lord for having brought me through...

Tonight I will thank him instead of bringing my troubles before him. I will tell him I love him rather than ask if he loves me. I will trust him instead of asking him 'why?'

I asked him that yesterday.

He smiled that smile that only loved children know. The tolerant smile that says, 'One day you'll understand.'

His answers don't anger me as much anymore. My patience has slowly grown. 

I'm a dad. I'd love to hear my children, on days that did not go their way, thank me that our home is still here. It would be incredible if they said 'I have no idea what you're doing Dad, but I know you're doing it for me.'

"I know it's been difficult. One day it will all make sense," I'd tell them.

"Today was the worst..."

"Tomorrow's another day, I promise I'll still love you."

There's a beautiful song that I must look up tomorrow. 'Because He Lives.'

Brothers (11 and 12 years old)

Psalm 133:1a, 3b: How good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in unity! ...for there the Lord bestows his blessing, even life forevermore.

“Am not!”

“Are too!  Man, look at you. You mess everything--I mean everything--up!"

"No, I don't..."

Yeah, yeah you do... you're in the way! You’re a fudge-squashed screw-up!”

“No-o-o…”

“I’m warning you, if you mention to Mom anything--and I mean anything--about me kissing Cathy, and that’s it. I swear I’ll beat you everyday for as long as you live.”

“Yeah, right…”

“Oh, no? Don’t believe me? Don't believe me? How ‘bout I start on your face right now?”

“Go ‘head and try…”

“Ah-h-h what’s the use. You'll still be a screw-up. You’ll always be a screw-up. You have no idea what it means to be a man.”

“I’m only eleven...”

“Yeah, you’ll probably always be eleven. You know they mixed you up at the hospital, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t even belong here in this family. The nurse mixed up you and this other kid. Gave mom the wrong one. Ended up giving me the wrong brother…”

“They can’t do that…”

“Oh no? Then how come you’re so weird? How come you’re so scared to do anything? You don’t even have a girl friend yet…”

“That’s not weird.”

“How come you won’t ever do anything for me?”

“I don’t like lying.”

“That’s what I mean. You won’t do anything for me when I ask. You don’t know how to love like a real brother.”

“Why do you ask me to do the wrong thing?

“The wrong thing? The wrong thing? How is keeping me from getting in trouble the wrong thing?”

“Mom said no girl friends ‘til we’re twenty-five.”

“So you want me to get punished?”

“She’s gonna ask me…”

“She’s not gonna ask--.”

“She always asks me…”

“That’s ‘cause you’re a little tattle-tale.”

“I don’t like lying is all.”

“Yeah, well, then I don’t like you. Sounds like you’re gonna get me in trouble again. Sounds like you’re gonna screw everything up for me again. Sounds like you don’t really love me. Sounds like you have no clue about being a man. Real men know when it’s important to lie.”

“I’m only eleven.  And I’m not the one who gets you in trouble.”

“Oh no? Really? Then who gets me in trouble?”

“Why can’t you just wait ‘til you’re twenty-five?”

“—Cause… ‘cause Cathy loves me. What am I supposed to do? It’s not my fault.”

“You’re only twelve—”

“I’m a man, okay. A real man! Don’t forget it. Maybe you’re not and maybe you have no chance of ever being one, but I’m a man and the only question is if Mom asks about Cathy, what are you going to say? Are you gonna tell? Are you? That's what I want to know. That’s the only thing that matters.”

“Why do I have to lie to make you think I love you?”

Conversation 5: Evolution and this thing inside

“Of course there’s evolution, son. How stupid do you have to be to argue against something as plain as the nose on your face as evolution?  Change.  Change, son.  Evolution has nothing to do with fish and birds or monkeys.  Don’t you believe in change?"

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Then you believe in evolution.  Hope, son, it’s all about hope.  Where is your hope? Don’t you know we’re all about to evolve again? Yep, another change is coming.  The big one.”

“I don’t think you’re talking about evolution.  Not in the way….”

“Oh no? What do you call it, mister?”

“I’m not sure but…”

“But nothing.  You think humans are going to be around for ever? You think we got anything to say about it? We don't don't have the last word in this one. You don't think you've got the last word, do you?”

“No, I guess not…”

“There’s something inside you, son.  Inside all of us.  Something living. It’s about to come out.  You’re going to lose that body one day.  It ain’t fit for what’s to come.  Everything will change…”

“That’s more like metamorph—“

“Oh I see.  Now you got a new name for it. Call it what you will, but the big change is coming.”

“So what’s this thing inside us?”

"Can't say for sure. But it's all new, son.  All new.  You'll get yourself a new body. This one won't work no more when the change comes.  I'd like to think my new body's going to be one of them muscular types.  You know, like rippled and such..."

"Really?"

"Yep, that's what I'm thinking..."

"But this thing inside.  What's that?

"You ask a lot of questions son. Some thing's are harder to explain than others.  This thing inside you is alive. It's really not part of your body.  Your body's just sort of holding it together.  It's the part of you that thinks.  And talks.  And feels things--you do feel, don't you, son?"

"Of course."

Well then that's the part of you I'm talking about.  The 'real' you.

"And what happens when it comes out?"

"Son, that's why you'll need a new body."

Oh It's You

 

Well, what do you know, it was the little girl again.  Seemed she was going to make a habit of popping in when you least expected. Bobbed hair. Dark brown hair. Freckles. Eyes looking up to me without tilting her head. She wasn’t happy.

“So this is how it’s going to be?” she said. No. Accused, in that bird-like, whisper of a ten-year old.

“Sorry?” I asked. I really didn’t know where she was going with this. “This is how ‘what’ is going to be?”

She twirled her hair. The finger in curl thing again. “You know what I mean.”

“No. No I don’t.”

“Writing to us when ever you want.”

“When ever I want?”

“When it’s convenient for you.”   She started the swaying. Finger out of her hair now, shifted down to her lip. She wouldn’t look at me directly.

She had a point. It had been a little while since my last post. But a lot had happened. The Lord sent a lot of new work my way for which I was incredibly grateful, my daughter had a birthday, everyone came over, the storm—I’d been baling seeping water for days… “It really wasn’t my intention,” was all I could muster. It would have to do.

“The Lord?”

“Yes, the Lord.  He seemed to change my course. My work, my…”

“You’re talking about God?”

“Why are you being so incredulous?” This girl was too smart and playing too dumb. I wasn’t sure she even knew what the word ‘incredulous’ meant or, for that matter, or what I meant in saying it.

Her eyebrows raised, “Well,” she began, the whole of her almost cartoonish, the head shudder, the clicking of tongue against teeth. “We were waiting for you.”

“What do you mean ‘we’?”

She shot her eyes at me. “ ‘I’. Okay? ‘I’ was waiting…”

“I’m really sorry…”

“You can’t just start talking to people and then disappear…”

“It’s just a blog…” I offered, my own shoulders shrugging in innocence.

“Just a blog!!?”

“Sorry, not just—“

“It’s a relationship!

“Yes. Yes. It is. You’re right. It’s a relationship. But I really—”

“A relationship!!!”

“Okay. Okay.”

She wasn’t going to calm down any time soon.  I didn’t know what to say. I simply wanted to explain that I had honestly wanted to keep writing. It was about encouraging people in the Lord. He is there for us. He’s always there and I wanted to be able to say—

“You just disappeared…” she said.

“No, I really didn’t.”

“Hmm. Yes you did. Seemed like it. Sure did seem like it. Seemed like you wouldn’t be back.”  Seemed like she was beginning to pout. “And now you want the same people that you had promised to be in relationship with to come back and forgive you for breaking that relationship.” She waited.  Her timing was better than Morgan Freeman. “And now you’re sorry.” Her tiny shoulders heaved in and up. She spun to face completely away from me, preparing to leave.  Then she looked back. “I thought you were about encouraging people.”

“I am. I mean—I want to be.” Now I was halfway crying. “But I didn’t disappear. And yes, please, if they came back that would be neat. Look, I’m sorry… What do you want me to do?”

She looked at me, little dark eyes flitting back and forth, measuring me, examining as a lie detector, skinny hips swaying as background theme to the examination, waving as a nervous flag. She had me. “Write more often,” she said, spun on patent leather heels and headed off.

Another Season

My Father Sees

My father has incredible eyes.

He sees what I cannot see.
He sees inside me, inside my heart.
Finding treasures I have yet to discover,
or black secrets hidden purposely,
to which I’ve turned
a blind eye.

Nothing escapes Him.
He sees everything. 
Beginning to end, broad stroke and detail,
an artist knowing the masterpiece
while it is but a thought, a sketch.
I search His disarrayed palette
intently,
hoping for clues.

The palette does not seem much
with which to work.
Vibrant colors gone, tainted, blended,
turned to mud, smeared by complements.
I ask, “What can come of them?”
He continues to mix.
“Patience,” He whispers,
to all I ask.

Now and then, He allows a peek.
He turns the canvas, shares his vision.
For a moment, fleeting understanding approaches.
Ah, yes, sense to the mixing of colors.
The instance passes, turns back
to His eyes only.
I am myself again, bewildered
Safely trusting His ability.

He tells me one day
it will be finished.
I’ll grow up.
No longer fixated on the palette,
but the splendor of the canvas itself
I’ll see what he has been mixing.
I’ll rejoice
in His finished work.

Thoughts of Wavering

To think I waver in all of this.

A storm tossed wave
Seeking familiar shore, thinking it safe
To think I fear the clouds
When they thicken and quake, dark as soot
How quickly I forget
His blood-sworn promise

I cannot quiet my soul
I cannot cause myself to sleep
The earth shakes and I tremble
As if I were forsaken
As if I’ve never read
Never heard
Never felt
Him

I must remember my father is many things
A king, lord, master, creator
He presides over all
He will set straight was has been broken
Rescue what has been lost,
Restore what has been taken

Wild waters will again know their shoreline
Rampaging winds will calm to gentle breaths.
Season will submit to season
graciously
Each will know its place
The senseless will rhyme

And I will not waver.

Introduction Part 1: The Little Artist

Before getting too far along here, I suppose some attention must be given to an introduction of myself.

Graphic Design and Art Direction is how I’ve been earning a living for the past 30 some odd years.  Twenty-five of those years I’ve been self-employed. My career has spanned the whole transition from magic-marker layouts and rubber-cement mechanical paste-ups through digital press ready PDFs.  Three of the past years have been extremely rough, income-wise.  But there are signs of hope; signs that the business may survive the last two years of operating at a loss.

I grew up loving to draw. I started out sketching birds, dogs and the animals in the jungle because there were great color photos of them in the set of Britanicas my parents had bought for my brothers and me.  I knew early on that I had at least a little talent because my second grade teacher would march me around the school, into other classrooms—before fifth and sixth graders--and introduce me to them and have me show them my art. That didn’t last very long however, because I learned not to bring the art I did at home to school, and especially not to show it to my teacher.  Don't get me wrong, I appreciated her encouragement immensely--there wasn't a whole lot at home, but she was way more enthusiastic than I, and I really didn’t care for the whole ‘sharing’ thing with the upperclassmen.

I got to work on all the special holiday bulletin boards every year through high school, I think. By fourth grade I would answer ‘commercial artist,’ (which, back then, was pretty common terminology for 'an illustrator' in advertising) when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up.  That, or a cartoonist.  I loved Walt Disney.  I had a couple ideas for comic strips that I played around with on the blank back pages of my notebooks and doing large illustrations of them in color on the brown grocery bag papers we used for covering our text books.  My favorite was ‘Butch and the Canines’—inspired by ‘Top Cat’--(I’ll have to see if I can draw up from memory the group of characters I had created.)

I got into drawing sports figures.  Baseball, basketball, especially football—I loved the colors, the uniforms, the bodies and muscles in motion.  And besides, reference photos were much easier to come by.  (Britanica Encyclopedias had become off limits for me, once my mother discovered missing pages) The back cover of the Daily News could always be counted on for great material for a new sketch idea.  The Sports Illustrated magazines at the doctors were the best. A lot of my friends liked my pictures to the point they would request specific teams and players for me to draw for them.  I didn’t mind. It was cool.  They said I was going to be a famous artist one day. 

I never let on that what I really wanted to be was a shortstop for the Yankees.

Thinking of Dad

Can’t get Dad off my mind these recent days.  Today’s moving day.  I’ve decided to have him moved from one nursing facility to another.  It’s been explained the new place is better equipped to handle his condition. Dementia, a touch of Alzheimer’s.  Mixed in an unknown amount of loneliness and fear.

He moves today.  I’m wondering how much he understands.   

He’s been at the other place four years.  I can’t be with him during the transition.  Deep down, I think I’m relieved.  I’ll visit tomorrow.  He’ll be settled in.  Deep down, I feel guilty, helpless.  I pray as I try to imagine what it is he feels.

I pray for the Lord to comfort him, to reassure him. Somehow, somewhere in my mind I hear the Lord telling me you comfort him.  You reassure him. 

 “Ah, Lord, I’ve never been good at comforting.”

You’ve never tried much.

“I’ve never learned.”

You’ve never tried much.

True enough, I must admit.  Growing up, somehow our family had accepted the fact that we each needed to learn how to comfort ourselves. It’s just how it was.  Each of us, Dad, Mom, the three sons, each of us had our own individual methods.  Reaching out, opening up, touching were not included in our ways, not good options.

“Will you help me, Lord?”

Mention my name to him. See where it leads.

Sometimes I wonder if Jesus understands that I’d prefer Him to handle it. Sometimes I’d prefer He not put me in the middle of it.

Beginning a Blog: Questions, questions…

It’s taken almost a year to finally begin this blog. Right from the start, I let myself be assailed by questions. What would I write about?  Maybe I could write about my hobbies; art--painting, photography, the montages I had been creating. Music? Sports? No, I wasn't sure I really knew enough about any of them to get me past a dozen or so posts. Maybe about my relationship with the Lord?  And then who would want to read what I've written? Pretty presumptuous, no? I'm really not that smart. Probably too old anyway. Isn't blogging just for young folks?  Isn't blogging just another Facebook thing? (Not that I understood the workings of Facebook) And is it safe? 

I got very introspective.  I prayed.

And after figuring I was closer to talking myself out of the whole idea, it came to me that perhaps I could at least read up on the craft of blogging. So, I headed over to the library and got a couple of books, one from the ‘Dummy’ series and another from the ‘Visual QuickProject’ guides. Gradually, I began to feel a little more confident about the whole thing. It seemed fairly simple--not that it was ever the fact that I was afraid of not knowing how to use a computer or anything--heck, I work on a computer. I'm no techie, but I know my way around it.  It was more the question of 'should I?'

Anyway, both books helped to tear down a lot of my doubts and both seemed to express that Blogger was probably the best place for a beginner like me to start. I finally decided to charge past the fears, doubts and questions and just begin.  It probably won't and doesn't have to be best, the most incredible, most read blog on the web. And that's okay.

So, like a little kid at the back of the diving board, I began to run the plank's length to the edge, take a deep breath, and launch myself. Jump in. Just do it for-- 

“So why did it take you so long to start?” the little girl asked.

“Well, you know…”

“Scared?”

“Not scared.  No. Just cautious. I don’t jump into something just ‘cause everyone else is doing it.”

“Hmm…”  You could tell she was a bright little thing by the way she tilted her head to the side and wrinkled her lips in contemplation. Freckles recklessly dotted each side of her nose. Black bangs, two side braids framed clear blue eyes. A little 'Darla' look-alike.

“So what finally got you over your caution?”

“I prayed.”

“Prayed?”

“Yeah, for guidance, direction…”

“God?  You prayed to God?” This was something for which she obviously wasn’t prepared. Her little fingers were interlaced in a ball in front of her.  Raising her arms above her head, she spun around, ballerina-style, in her shiny patent leathers. “I can dance, you know.” She explained.

“I can see.  Ah, yes, you’re very good, too.  Do you take lessons?”

She looked at me, her head still quizzically askew. I could tell she probably wasn’t going to answer my question about dance lessons.

“So you think there’s a God, I guess?” she asked.

“Well, sure,"  now I was taken back. "Doesn't everyone--don't you--”

“What if there’s not?”

“Not what? A God?”

“Right.  What if there’s not a God?”

“Hmm.”  I had to think about that one.  “Well, I guess I just wouldn’t have prayed, is all.”

“Would you still have started a blog?”

“I suppose.  But you see, I do believe there is--“

She was skipping away before I could finish.  She got five or so skips away, stopped and turned back to me.  “Good luck!” she exclaimed with a smile and then performed the ballerina twirl again.

"Thanks," I waved, as she ran off.  Somehow I knew I'd see this one again.