Smile to a Frown

One's act of desire will never cease. It shouldn't and therefore you shouldn't hold yourself to the expecation that one day you will cease desiring harmful indulgences; it will only serve to stifle the natural abilities you posess to combat those harmful desires.  Begin indulging... searching... reach out...

Skip rocks, skip down the street, dance like no one's watching, jump into your loved ones arms, sit in someone's lap, run your hands or a stick along a fence, scream "THANK YOU!" to the Heavens, tell a stranger how beautiful they are, hug your boss (or maybe not), smile to a frown, say "yes" with your body language, sleep in, stay up all night, build a fort, have a pajama party, listen to music, listen to a symphony, make a snow angel, splash in puddles, lie in the grass, go for walk, sip your favorite drink with your eyes closed, lie in a hammock, smell your grandmother's perfume, hug your pillow; scream into it, fall in love for a day, fall in love for the rest of your life, smell the rain, listen for the crash of the waves, walk barefoot and wiggle your toes, search for nostalgia, eat something you've never tasted before, drive to a place you've never been, explore.

Explore every area of yourself that you've forced dorment in fear.  Fear of rejection, fear of reality, fear of what others may think, fear of the unknown.  Dare to be you, dare to be uncomfortable, free yourself from fear.  Pour light into each corner left in darkness.  Decide for yourself whether or not you like brussel sprouts, Metal, red wine, cats, dogs, badgers, iPhones, email, Democrats, leather, high heels, being barefoot, the smell of gasoline, or broke and balding older men.  Don't allow fear to make any choice.

Open your hands, arms and subsequently your heart follows.

Reach Out

Guaranteed salvation. Ever present comfort, everlasting faithfulness, zero limitations, unconditional love, serenity. All of these luxuries, promised to you in something so simple as a hand and an embrace never beyond reach.

Reach out. Stretch your fingers, face your palms upwards, extend your arms. This is outreach, this is prayer, this is the promise that you are loved and that you are never alone not in this moment, never in eternity.

The softest of touches that envelopes your fingers, slides over your palms and lightly follows your outstretched arms, finally reaches around to engulf you in an embrace that brings peace to your soul. Breathe. Rest. This is peace.

Not just offered to the weak, weary, angry and depleted. But also to those who are simply tired, frustrated and disappointed.

Reach out and and be comforted by outreach.

Proverbs 3:11-12

It’s been a damp, icy and uncomfortable walk- especially because the expectations of this journey were so high.  The scenery is droll and unpleasant.  The waves impossibly huge, which broke high upon the beach forcing me to plod across the rougher portion of the shore which was laden with sharp pieces of shell, rock and sea vegetation.  The wind, harsh and unyielding, blowing salty ocean spray and bits of sand into my face and mouth.  I met this journey with displeasure, rebellion, and resentment.  I looked to the sky for a reprieve, it was an oppressive gray, cloud low cloud coverage that seemed to begin and end with the horizon, leaving no escape from the gloom of the landscape.  I stared back at my unforgiving environment with a scornful twisted face; my eyes squinted and unkind.   I allowed the burden of my circumstances to settle heavily upon me and as my resentment grew so did the weight I carried disparagingly upon my shoulders. 

My steps were increasingly uncomfortable; I could feel each sharp small object as they embedded deeply into the sensitive meat of weak feet. My hope was diminishing.  I eventually ceased looking to the sky.  There is no light and that is why I was certain that it was not coming.

Suddenly, a small break in the clouds, a beaming ray of sunshine escapes and illumination a sliver of the scenery in my path.  The sea, suddenly an appropriately picturesque green that twinkled brilliantly, I began to take comfort in each step of sand warmed by the sun.  I gazed around, my shoulders no longer so incredibly hunched by such an oppressive load, I began to gaze about.  Ahead, I could make out sugar white sand dunes intertwined with beach grass..  I smiled, and felt the dried salt from the sea spray crackle on my face.  I smiled wider.

I drew closer and through the dunes I spied a dilapidated boardwalk.  I could see that it zigzagged right, then left and right again until I was unable to determine where it lead.  I arrived at the entrance and I was shocked by the presence of a sign;  Worn and washed-out, almost unreadable if not for the sun illuminating the outlines of the faded letters.

Keep off the dunes and beach grass

Resentment arose, and I began to rationalize reasons as to why I was entitled to the privilege of walking along the comfortable sand and scenery of the lovely dunes. 

The sign was so decrepit that it clearly showed that the owner must not care enough for the threat trespassing on His property if He wasn’t diligent enough to care for the sign to make make his wishes known. I became even more appalled when I took a closer look at the entrance to the boardwalk, the wood weathered and splintered, rusted nails exposed along the expanse, the railings were completely missing in some sections and numerous boards along the walkway were warped, cracked or completely broken.  All this evidence to show that the owner didn’t care for His property at all! Not even enough to repair nor upkeep the walkway that kept intruders off of his “precious” dunes.  Who did this guy think He was, anyway?

It’s settled. No way was I walking that treacherous path in exchange for a comfortable jaunt through soft sand for someone who couldn’t even manage the upkeep of a simple sign, much less an entire boardwalk.

I hunched my shoulders, re-furrowed my brow and rebelliously began walking into the dunes.  A plodded along, defiantly stomping my feet into the sugary comfort of the unbeaten path.  Slowly, I began to realize that each step was becoming more and more difficult.  I had become so upset that I was defying some silly worn sign that the fact that my journey had become exponentially more comfortable was completely lost on my senses.  I stopped.  I prayed.  I am made to be obedient.  I exhaled, loudly, more a sigh of frustration. 

I looked to the sky.

“Thank you,” I said. 

I made an about-face, walked purposefully from the comfort of the dunes and back to the mouth of the boardwalk and stood directly in front of the sign.

Please Keep off the Dunes and Beach Grass

Thank you

I raised my eyebrows. I hadn’t noticed that before.  I fixed my gaze back up to the boardwalk and considered the journey in front of me.  I observed that there weren’t quite that many missing boards, and if I were diligent enough, I could certainly avoid the nails and would I really even NEED the railing?  The actual path was wide enough to maintain my balance and if I did happen to fall I could easily climb back on. Surely the owner could excuse a few footprints if I were honestly trying my best to maintain on the walkway.

Determined, I straightened my shoulders.  I could feel the warmth of the sun on my back as I began my first steps.

I smiled. The realization washed over me; Obedience is key to my happiness.

"Grab your things I've come to take you home"

Dad,
Remember my green and white bike with the training wheels? You took those wheels off, raised the seat of that bike and decided it was time for me to learn. I think I must've protested. I was a hesitant kid, wasn't I? But we must've agreed at some point that it was, in fact time, for me to shed those worn out white plastic wheels that steadied my beloved little bike.

We walked up the driveway and into the street in front of our house. I mounted the bike with your firm grip on the back of my seat. You told me to pedal and ran with me down the street in front of our house. Your grip kept me from wobbling wildly for the first couple of runs. Patience.  You have more patience than anyone I know.  You reassured me you were still behind me, running to keep up while I pedalled on until suddenly, through my hesitance, you released your hold on my seat and called after me,

"Pedal, pedal, pedal!"

And I did, I pedalled valiantly until I abruptly collided with Mr. Ed's mailbox. Or was it ours? Some details escape me. I don't remember if I cried. Probably. I'm smiling at the memory. You probably laughed a little, I'm sure it was a pretty hysterical sight. You laugh inappropriately sometimes, like when you're nervous. Miranda does too and now we three share the habit.

I was a tangled wreck underneath the mailbox. You picked me up to my feet, reassured me that that was probably the last time I'd fall if I remembered to brake. I guess it was a lot to remember to steer, brake, and pedal all at once.

I can't recall if we lowered the seat to make me feel more at ease? I feel like you always seemed to raise my seat a little higher than I was comfortable with. Assuring me that the height was fine, where it needed to be. I remember whining that it was just a little too elevated for my comfort. I liked my feet flat on the ground and you explained the the proper riding stance was to be on your tip toes.

Is that a metaphor? Always raising the bar? Expectations? Urging me to stand on my toes, getting me away from my comfort zone?

Your hands that push to pedal on my own, the one on the back of my seat that steadies, and same that reach to pull me to my feet and into your arms.

Where would I be without you?

I love you, Bud.

No Need

I’m used to this.  I’ve grown accustomed to the sight of beggars standing in the midst of the exit for Freedom Parkway.  On my way home, while I’m forced to sit at the light and be begged by pitiful stares for whatever it is they need.   In just a few short months I’ve become proficient at averting my eyes.  Ignoring the trite signs that read “Homeless VET”, “Just Need Food” or some sort of derivative that clearly states,

“I need _____ from you, please”.

 Sometimes a request is offered; Perhaps a promise to work, most times not. One doesn't really have time to give a spiel at a red-light that properly conveys the series of events that lead to their current situation. These people are only armed with signs and open hands. I used to dig around for change or hand out Delta branded peanut pouches that I always seem to have stuffed in my pockets.  

Eventually, I allowed myself to grow cold and almost disdainful, not to be confused or mistaken for apathy.  I'm not apathetic. I'm... curiously skeptical. How deep is your need? How do I know you’re not lying?  Besides, once I give you just ask for more. These experiences and assumptions of their laziness and/or addiction I hope will somehow excuses my aversion and assuage my guilt. 

How much can I give? Every ride from work am I expected to give? And how can I choose?  

The guilt mounts as all the while I'm willing the light to change quickly so that the inner battle that wages in me will cease.

There are too many of you… don’t you know that I can’t give to all of you and how can you expect me to choose?  Ah, good, the light’s changed.  Out of sight out of mind- relief until tomorrow night.

However, as familiar the dance of my regretful if not disdainful neglect and subsequent mental battle with beggars has become, I was not prepared for my experience tonight. 

I see a wheelchair backlit by the headlights of the opposite direction traffic.  I was hesitant to continue my gaze, but as usual, my curiosity overtook my need for preservation. I followed the wheels up and realized that the owner was legless. The lighting is preventing me from discerning anything but the shadow of an outstretched cup.  I squint. My heart is betraying me.  I start to consider my wallet and the fact that , oddly enough, I’m carrying cash.  Before I’m able to fully make a decision to give the light turns and I’m regretful that I’m forced to begin moving forward.  As I draw closer my headlights illuminate the owner.  She’s smiling wildly,  her white teeth are glowing in the night. I assess the clarity of her skin and the attractiveness of her face, the expensive braiding of her hair.  She’s bundled up and I’m disgusted to see a North Face logo proudly displayed on her jacket.  I follow her jacket sleeve down to the arm and the gloved hand that’s extending the large McDonald’s cup. She’s shaking it, expectantly, all the while wearing that disturbing smile and making unsettling eye contact.  Suddenly I’m glaring. Angry.  Incensed that she has the audacity to look neither uncomfortable nor upset.  No torn clothes, no dirt, not even a sign with a sad statement, a sentiment, an excuse. Just the sheer fact that she’s lost her legs enough of a reason to sit at my exit and demand my money.   She has no need.  She just has no legs.

These Are My Truths...

      Alright, so, I’ve decided to make ONE, yes ONE coaster/trivet/masterpiece/disaster. I’ve arrived at the sealing portion which just so happens to enlist the powers of (DUN DUN DUNNNN) POLYURYTHANE. Whoa, is that right? Do I really know how to spell that word? Hells yeah I DO! Okay, anyway, so OBVIOUSLY because it’s me you got kinda worried about me using polyurethane  (Oh, okay I DIDN'T know how to spell that word, but guess what? THE INTERNET DOES) SAID CAN IS a SPRAY can. I’m headed out to the back deck with said WMD (weapon of mass destruction(I spelled destruction with an ‘I’ at first… shhhh).

So I start thinking ahead, RIGHT?! Like I’m all “hey, maybe I should get something to put this on before I go spraying a substance that, judging by what I read on the bottle, can actually kill the population of a small polis. (CITY STATE! HISTORY LESSON!).

I’m simultaneously pre-congratulating myself for both having FORESIGHT and also considering giving a huge EFF YOU to Jeff, the landlord who doesn’t have a soul/will not allow me to have a dog by carelessly (passive-aggressively) spraying poly-SARS all over the back deck. DEAL WITH IT, JEFF! 

While all this GENIUS is taking place in my head I’ve somehow managed to work the cap off of Death (now conveniently sold in spray bottle) and read the REST of the directions.  With a furrowed brow I decided that I am fully capable of working this simple machine.  I bend over, extend my arm the recommended 12 inches from object, recheck my aim, level my head and CONFIDENTLY apply pressure to the tip of the spray apparatus while "LIKE A BOSS!" is being said like a mantra in my head.

Needless to say, I think we both know which I chose, right?

Now that I've engaged in a 45 minute thorough eyewash that HOPEFULLY saved my eyesight, I had to relinquish hold on the sink sprayer because OBVIOUSLY I have larger fish to fry. 

How the in the ACTUAL hell do I get polyurethane out of my hair?

Disclaimer: I am marginally inebriated, though I don’t think it factored. These are my truths.

"It's hard to dance with the devil on your back so shake him off"

It's cool enough to shoot baskets in the drive-way without having to take a shower before dinner and warm enough to sit outside to eat a meal.  A light jacket day.  One you race home off the bus, violently throw your book bag in the house and dart back outside, jump on your bike and race to a friend's house.  There's only three hours before dusk and you plan on making absolutely every moment of it count.  These are the memories I wish would flood back to me when I'm four hours into a sixteen hour shift and one day into my seven day work week.  These are the days I need when I'm terrified that I'm failing at life.

I'm standing here, trying, straining, desperate to recall a day spent this way, from beginning to end. I begin to picture waking up to my alarm clock blaring on my bedside table at 7:00am, dragging myself into the shower that my sister and I shared, throwing on clothes without real thought, shoving down a mom made breakfast... school? I remember gym, and recess.  I remember the smell, the people and I remember the principal's office.

How many of these days can I remember?  I'm dismayed.  I'm finding I can't, actually.  I can't recall an entire day.  I've not only lost minutes, hours... I've lost days.

I've lost days in another shameful fashion.  I've wasted them.  How many minutes, hours, have I wasted blowing off people I care about for people who have only spent minutes with me.  How many hours have I wasted by doing things I knew I shouldn't.  How many have I disappointed and dishonored by shoving them aside while I enact selfish need?

I give my head the smallest shake and the room slowly comes into focus, the kitchen of my parent's house, the faces of of my family, the slight tug of Maci and my clasped hands.

"We're about to say the blessing," she reminds me while looking at my face somewhat curiously.

"K," I'm smiling like I'm drunk, which I realize, is probably why she's looking at me like I'm a stranger.  Maci typically says grace, and she demands our rapt attention when she does.

"Thank you Jesus..." she begins.  With my eyes closed I somewhat drift away and attempt to count my blessings.

"One, two, six, twenty-three, one-hundred ninety-seven, 10,633, 1.9 million..." 


I won't stop counting.