Never Know

Broken laces and worn out soles

Asking questions of every green filled jungle crack in the soggy asphalt about

Dried worms and birds

And how it all works

And "mamma where do the butterflies go when it rains?"

And she didn't know but talked about wings or funny things 

And how God drowns the bugs to feed hungry beaks

And no I still don't understand

Feathers sailed through the evening clouds

Singing loud lullabies to her nest and mamma made me listen

As the sidewalks glistened

And a Windshield ended the song and I probably cried.

"mamma where do the animals go when they die?"

And she didn't know but talked about the sparrows, some lilies, and peace.

And no I still don't understand.

Chubby young hands held an empty bowl and asked again

Mamma buried him under the spring clover

And I built a broken twig fence around the tiny grave.

"mamma will there be goldfish in heaven?"

And she didn't know but talked about shining sidewalks, mansions and happiness

And no I still don't understand 

And I got up and dried my eyes

And mamma said it was all alright

And the clover covered graves multiplied in the red earth

Rain came again and they were forgotten in the puddles

And "mamma where do the butterflies go when it rains?"

But they danced in the sun

So I chased.

And no I still don't understand.

"Flake"

"Fight 'til your fists bleed, baby. Beat the fate-walls enclosing you, maybe God will unlock the cage of learning for you. Fight 'til your fists bleed, baby. Kick and scream at the wicked things, maybe God will unlock the door you need to walk through.

 When will it happen, baby?It could be near, but then maybe it could be far."

"Dear Miss Bosch,
We regret to inform you that you have not been accepted to our honors program. Your name has been placed on a waiting list, and we will inform you of your updated entry status in May."
My curling fists began to crumple the neat, straight letter head.  Amazing how professorially succinct rejection can be.

Also amazing how much harder "maybe" is than no.

"Maybe" keeps some hope alive, keeps you feeling that perhaps it all will work out after all. If you just work a little harder.  If you just twisted the situation, just flirted a little more.  If you just gave it some time, or maybe if you just made a move.
And we all know that "maybe" rarely means "yes," but it leaves just enough room for hope that, when the final rejection comes, it can hurt so much more.

So once again I find myself waiting, drinking hot chi and watching the snow fall outside the window in huge, frozen chunks of white. Jack Johnson is singing to me from inside the ear-buds.  Singing about maybe and how it pretty much always means no. I scald my mouth on the chi and wrap my fingers around the warm mug. This I can feel: the heat melting into my fingers on the smooth ceramic, the sting on the tip of my tongue.  It is manageable. It quantifiable.

Much the same way anxiety isn't.

So I look ahead at an unknown, uncertain future. Everything hidden and tucked away.  I stand outside in the cold where swirling flakes of ice sting in my eyes and obscure the path. My tears freeze on frostbitten skin. My frozen fingers search for something to hold onto, but in the frozen flakes I'm blind.

And I look behind at a piling weight of rejection, at the flakes building one on one on one till I break under the weight.  And no crystal is heavy alone.  No one is crushed by small stones, but whose fault is the avalanche: the mountainside or the first falling pebble?  Hurricanes are formed in tiny drops, and blizzards are built from fragile flakes.  And who's to say which is the one that kills you?

Oh God, I'm freezing.  And I'm lost.  I'm weak, and I can't be strong anymore.  And I know You are sufficient, but right now I just want to be held.  And I can't even get that this year can I? And I miss my family, and the one room where I felt safe.  And I'm really alone, and that's really not going to change is it?  And when you're the strong one there's no waiting arms to pick you up, to carry you when you falter, when your strength is gone.  And if You're so sufficient, why does this feel so much like dying alone in a snow storm?

And I look out the glass again and notice the snow has stopped. Only the wind picks up little pieces here and there to dance with them in endless dips and twirls.  And I realize that I am no different from they.  No greater. No more mighty.  Delicate, so delicate, and for all my claims of strength, a fragile, frozen vapor -- here for a moment to spin in the arms of the wind, then is gone.  And You are the breath that molds these white drifts.  You are the sculptor of this bleached landscape, the choreographer of this life.

And under all this, who am I?

Tiny, cold, and moribund. 

Yet intricate.  Formed.  Frozen unique.  Never has been another.  Never to be again.  Soiled and filthy, yet somehow seen as white.  "Dear Miss Bosch."  The one, the only, the very, very small.  The very, very loved.

And God, I don't need You to prove Your love.  I just need Your love to be enough.

My chi has grown cold; my breath fogs the window pane.  And for this brief instant on the frigid dance floor, I stop and find something peaceful in the sight of a late February snowfall.

Not a piece is accidental.

Not a flake is out of place.

Not even me.
So I watch.
And think that there's nothing more beautiful.

Dear Friend,

I lie back on the synthetic leather. The fluoride fumes and sickly, pea-green shade of the corner office meld together in a dreaded concoction of dental hygiene. Latex fingers invade my mouth. No, I don't floss enough. A set of pink scrubs in tennis shoes squeaks around the sterile tiles near my head, and a pair of thin, black rimmed glasses frame two chocolate irises above the paper mask. 
She spills something on my paper bib. I crack a joke. The eyes smile. 

Then she laughs.

And I swear, it sounds just like you. 

And who would have guessed, in a night I'm feeling far from home, I'd find your laughter here behind the mask of a friendly hygienist. 
It's a beautiful laugh. Solid and genuine. 
The kind of laugh that would make me feel warm all over and the kind I'd want to immediately befriend. It brightens a room and makes you glow. And then your eyes get all shiny because you always end up tearing up a bit. 

Man, I've missed that laugh.

So like the idiot I am, I kept up a steady stream of lame jokes around the dental tools, closed my eyes and just listened to that laugh. Pretending for some inexplicable reason it was you back here in this city. Thinking two months is a long time, and mentally digging my toes into the Florida sand.   

And all too soon it was "nice teeth," take your toothbrush, and out the glass door with the little jingle bells tied to the knob clamoring behind me.
And I started missing you all over again.

And we will speak soon, and you will laugh again because, ill admit, perhaps this is all a bit creepy. But that won't change anything. I will always look for you guys at football games, and every drive past the empty apartment will tempt me to stop in and say hello. And anytime I meet someone from Florida I will still ask if they know you, and I might cry about it a little every once in a while. But you're the one who taught me its alright to cry.

And I went home and watched Tommy Boy for the 47th time and thought of you both. And there's a reason it's my favorite movie, and no, it doesn't have all that much to do with Chris Farley. And soon I'll drive over to the youth house for our d-group dinner. And I'll walk in talking too loud (as usual). And we'll hug, and tease, and probably joke about poop. And I'll tilt my head back and laugh too loud. And Katy and I will share some nonsensical joke, and I'll make that obnoxious squeaking noise when something is funny and I can't seem to find air, and she will start crying, and I'll tease that we've lost her.
But halfway through dinner I'll look around the table, and I'll think about how much we've all grown. How hand motion illustration of leadership in vulnerability have transformed silent suffering into open community. How five girls who lay around in the summer sunlight that filtered in golden stripes through the living room blinds are not the same five now. How a new love for the greatest Love has taken root here. And despite doubt and fear and heartbreak and loneliness and complacency, this table around me has become that something I cried for by the pool in Fairmont. And I will think yet again that this is your legacy too.

Because tonight I find myself homesick for a place I've never been.  I miss my family, and we don't share any last name.  

But tonight I'm finding "family" to be something much more eclectic than the little group formed by blood.  I'm finding my family album containing names and faces nothing like my own. I see you two and your sweet, sweet Emma who is by far the greatest puppy in the world.  I see my tall, energetic big sis, with her blond ponytail, God-filled heart, ready smile, and laugh as loud as my own. I see my older brothers, from college freshmen to thirty-somethings -- the writers, the teasers, the examples, the mentors, the caring hearts, and the all-in-ones.  I see a sea of blond sisses, from the human incarnation of a sunshine-flavored cupcake to the strong spirit of a country girl, and my fellow brunette with her beautiful heart and face to match it who inspires me with her extravagant love.   

And the more I look around me the faster my family album grows.

And it's filled to the brim with carefully worded notes in perfect cursive, old Polaroids, and torn edges.  It has pages of splatter paint and edgy, artist quotes on cardboard. It has poetry that blows my mind and warms my heart as only poetry can.  It's never neat.  The pictures aren't straight or even.  Katy is making a face nearly every one, and the glue shows around the edges. 

And I think once again that it couldn't get any more perfect. 

Because no one in this family is perfect.  No one came with it all together (and some don't even know they're in it at all) but as far as I'm concerned they don't have a choice.  Some I've known all my life and some I only knew for four days in Georgia, but something is strong enough to bind these dogeared pages together into a funny, awkward, piebald community of a scrapbook.  And that something transformed these hearts like only that something can.

So here's to you both and that something you showed me so well. Here's to the family dinners and theological talks. Here's to the first people in my life to know everything and not run away. Here's to the movie nights we shared, and here's to the ones we would have shared -- the ones we will share. Here's to my family, the people I have loved so much, the people I will love forever and always. Here's to good times past and future.
And, friend, here's to your laugh.  

Caught

Blinking into the frosted morning
light reaching so brightly through the skeleton fingers of lost and lonely trees,
Blinking in darker artist eyes
Brown irises glowing caramel.
Caught for a moment
frozen in the sightless panes of street lights,
Renewing dormant fire.
Then is gone.
Echoed in crow calls and robin laughter
Over and beside.
And the disapating dreams of clandestine crystals
Hidden in soggy mulch,
Patterned in the muddy memory of small paws
And melding slowing with the black earth
Inaudibly free.

And I don't know what this is, but I want to scream.
No, no, it isn't spring.

Deshi Basara!

"Why do we fall, Master Wayne?"
Michael Caine's steady British tones reverberate around the hushed theater.  Lights dimmed, blond head on my shoulder.  Black, tattered cape tucked to the side.  The 2:30 hush settles over my eyes and tired, popcorn stained fingers. Tired mind starting to wander, dabbling on the black cape fringe of sleep.
Mmm, Michael Caine just keep talking...

"Why do we fall, Master Wayne?"

Huh?

"Why do we fall?"

Oh...I don't know...you've got the accent, you tell me...

"To get back up."

The line brings me back from the tipping brink of a caffeine crash.
Rise, Rise, Rise, Rise, Rise. Suddenly I'm more awake.
Yeah, get back up Bruce! Get back up!

Get back up.

It's been a while since the Dark Knight Rises premiere.  I somehow made it out of the theater and into sound sleep in the backseat of my brother's car.  I slept in till the full sun of the next summer afternoon fell thick, warm, and sweet through the window panes, and began the next seven months without a second thought toward Master Wayne and Rise, Rise, Rise.

But rise never means much until you've fallen.


And down here once again at the bottom of the pit, I look up at the blue sky, the surface world, and all the happy, happy people far, far away. And I lie in the filth of my own failure.  The broken promises and tears and "I swear this is the last time"s.  And how easy it is to rationalize, to lie to all of you and even more to myself.  And hell, why not lie to God too while I'm at it? And back broken and bloody on the unforgiving tile, I can only lie here and look up at the light and feel in the depth of my core the exhaustion of the impending climb.  And aw screw it, I'm just gonna lie here alone.  Forget the upper world.  Forget the happy people.  Forget everything but the latest failure and curl up in its sneering guilt.

"I’m just a flawed man, man I fucked up.
Like so many others I just never thought I would.
I never thought I would, didn’t pick up the book
Doin’ it by myself, didn’t turn out that good."

And "relapse" is too pretty a word.  Too neat and clean. Sterilized from the jagged edges, the disease-ridden , dank dungeon of addiction, and the devil whisper that never actually goes away.  It says nothing to the days you overcame.  The two months free.  The heart conviction that at last it is all gone, all done.  And shattered now, they dig in like so much cutting glass, breaking, tearing, and painful as hell.  

And you know, oh yes you know, that you have no one else to blame. 

But why do we fall, Master Wayne? 

"We fell so hard
Now we gotta get back what we lost."

And from the cold, hard bottom I look up at the sky.  I look up at the surface world and the happy, happy people who need me still.  And every atom of flesh in my heart screams out, "No! No! What's the use?". And the devil voice still whispers, "stay here, they won't want you back."  But it's not about them.  It never has been.

So my faulty hands find slick, earth walls, and I begin the climb.  Or rather He begins the climb and I hold on for dear life.  And today I'm just a few feet off the ground, heavy heart weighing me down and tired hands barely keeping their grip. 

But I feel His heartbeat even when I can't hear his voice.

"I thought you'd go
But you were with me all along"

I feel the sweat bead up on the back of His neck and roll down on my arms.  And I look down and realize it's hot, red, and sickly-sweet, and His sweat-blood mixes with my own.  And I want to run away from this, from Him.  From love, from hope, from the sweaty back I cling to, but then I feel His heart beat. And it's strange to know He has a heart like mine: broken, beating, and human.  And it's calling my name with every pulse. 

So why do we fall, Michael Caine?

We fall because we cannot fly,

because we are weak-willed and wretched,

because the devil voice is often drunken-sweet.

We fall because we are not giants,

though even giants fall,

and mice-sized men, we can never conquer on our own.

We fall because it is not until we've hit the bottom that we can truly love the sky,

and it is not until we lie there in failure that inexhaustible agape becomes the most beautiful of pearls, drowned in unconditional faithfulness.

And yes, we fall so we can get back up.

So we can start over one more time. 

1What shall we say, then? Shall we go on sinning so that grace may increase? 2By no means! We died to sin; how can we live in it any longer? 3Or don’t you know that all of us who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? 4We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life. ... 11In the same way, count yourselves dead to sin but alive to God in Christ Jesus. 12Therefore do not let sin reign in your mortal body so that you obey its evil desires. 13Do not offer the parts of your body to sin, as instruments of wickedness, but rather offer yourselves to God, as those who have been brought from death to life; and offer the parts of your body to him as instruments of righteousness. 14For sin shall not be your master, because you are not under law, but under grace.