Carmichael

So, I have this truck.  It’s old and I’ve only had it for a year, but I’ve come to love it. It’s been though the toughest year of my life with me and given me some of my greatest joys in the midst of it. I’ve filled it with people I love, travelled across country with my son, looked at the stars lying in the bed, moved, and generally looked real manly. I feel like myself when I’m behind the wheel.

As I said, it’s old.  The paint is chipping, the body is dented and scratched, only a few seat belts work, and the celling liner is falling in - held up by buttons that have pictures of things like marilyn monroe, willie nelson, and a crowbar (a series of crows at a bar).  These were things true before I got the truck (well, beside the buttons. That was my idea)

Since I’ve had it, it has endured much more abuse.  He’s been broken into twice, having his back window busted out and his CD player ripped from his dashboard.  As a result, he has had to endure the rain coming in and his cab filled with leaves.  Though that was great fun for the boys as leaves were flying about the cab like we were heading to Oz.  He went from a driveway to living on the street but served me well every step of the way.

This past week he had to get towed from Westchester because of a seized water pump.  $400 later I also learned that the whole front end needs to be rebuilt.  $2,000 worth of work for a 13 year old truck.  Everyone says the same thing…it’s time to sell.

Friends have been researching new trucks for me.  Some are really cool.  There are even some great red ones - my youngest has asked for a red one.

I understand the logic.  It might cost me more in the long run to do the work on my truck.  He began his relationship with me much more fresh than he is now.  I struggle with feeling a bit like an jinx…like maybe he was better off before he met me.  He has suffered a lot of abuse this past year - so have I.  I could end my relationship with him now, cut my losses, celebrate the good times, and move on.  He has been broken.  Truth is he could kill me.  If I don’t take care of him now, the damage done to him will cost me.  I will be stranded or in a ditch or worse.

But this is my truck.  I don’t want to give up on him. It would take time and yes, I could still end up getting hurt. 

I tend to do that.

I know, it’s a truck.  Everyone tells me it’s a truck.  It’s a tool.  But he reminds me of me.  I’m also a little worse for the wear. I feel like my truck. I feel like I’ve been broken into and have given more than my design.  My body and spirit are showing the signs of the miles.  I’m in need of a little attention.  Some have already given up. In some ways I’m not the man I once was - but I think given some time and a little work, I can stay on the road and go a lot more miles.  Put the right parts in me and I could even be better with age.

I’ve always believed love doesn’t give up or turn it’s back.  Love invests.  Love knows it could end up getting hurt in the end - but considers it worth the risk.  After all, we aren’t just tools.

Love showed me something else this week.  Sometimes a soul just needs to finish its journey.  When my headlights went out a friend said - “Maybe your truck is trying to tell you something.  He’s tired.  He want’s to rest”.

I need to let him go.  I will sell him and I will take the money and invest in the next truck. In this he will give me one final act of service.  He doesn’t want to hurt me or my loved ones.  If I keep pushing him he will.  I need to celebrate what he has given me and move on. I can never pay him back.

Really, I guess thats love. He gave to me and the people I love and didn’t ask for a single thing. Giving more will hurt him….and me.

Goodbye, friend.  You have been a faithful companion.  Rest…and I’ll pray you are recycled into something beautiful.

Kal

Give a guy a name like Kal-El and there are expectations.  Apparently dad did a little research.  Most guys on my planet had names like Zark or Vbldt.  No, my name is from Hebrew - an ancient earth language used by the majority of the religious.  Kal-El…all that God is.  Really.

It’s cool being a god for a little while.  Everyone needs a god. Life get’s tough and a god comes in and saves the day.  The problem is that it becomes who you are.  You are the person who saves the day.   My house is called the fortress of solitude for a reason.  I’m the only one who can know me.

This sucks.

Ever stop to think what happens when Superman has no one to save?  I’m just a guy in a strange outfit.  No one minds blue spandex and a cape when stopping an speeding train.  Try buying bread with a giant “S” on your chest.

Truth is, sometimes I don’t want to be Kal-El or Superman…or even Clark.  I like Kal.  I guess it means “all that I am”.  In other words…just me.  “Hi, I’m just me”.  I don’t want to save anyone today…I just want to hang out with someone.  I want to tell them about me and hear about them…not where they were when I defeated Doomsday. Crazy to think that Superman is afraid to be without his tights.

Maybe that does make me more “all that God is” than I think.  People worship him like he is the candy man.  I wonder if he ever feels like me…just wants to be with someone.  Maybe he wants to be less “saviour” and more savored…enjoyed for more than his powers.  His power is his heart.

I don’t mind saving people…and I guess neither does he.  It’s nice to know there is someone who understands.  I hope he loves Kryptonians too.

Prodigal

I think he gets a bad rap.  Someone needs to go to bat for the kid that has become the archetype of every person who hits the open road in search of something more than what they have in whatever version of a two-bit cow-town they find themselves. Upon any return to the land of their birth the inevitable phrase rolls from haughty lips with the pleasure of a stolen cupcake.

“So, the PRODIGAL has returned”

Prodigal.  The word conjures up images of a wild child on a drunken binge learning that the good people back home were right - you would never make it out there on your own.  Best be comin’ home, settle down, and stop this fools errand.

There is a couple of things I’ve learned about prodigals this past week.  First of all, the word prodigal doesn’t mean loser or sinner or irresponsible or even lost. It just means lavish…especially where it comes to spending.  It simply means someone who needs to live past the margins and can’t color inside the lines.  Someone who believes the phrase “go big or go home” to a dangerous degree.  It describes a person who hears the call of the road and is constantly wondering what is over that hill in the distance. Whether the term is a positive one or a negative one all depends on who is saying it.

But that’s not the most important thing I learned about prodigals this week.  I learned about love.

Like the prodigal, we all live with labels.  The word prodigal isn’t found in the biblical story.  In fact, the only thing that identifies this kid is one word; son.  Someone, somewhere in the 15th century gave him a label and sermons were preached and books were written about how God loves his boy EVEN THOUGH he was…

…prodigal.

It’s the “even though” that struck me this week.  I’ve heard a lot of “even thoughs” in my life to get the message that I don’t live up to the standards of others.  It sounds nice.

“I’ll let you play even though you stink.”

“I’ll pass you even though you did horribly”

“I’ll love you even though…” (that’s the worst one)

What I notice about the Father in this story (who represents God) was that there was no “even thoughs”.  There was just love.  The father didn’t love this kid “even though” he had squandered his wealth or “even though” he had become an embarrassment or “even though” he was a sinner.  The father says very little, but what he says has more to do with love than a million “even thoughs”.

“My son…is here.”

The father loves his son.  Period.

What I’ve discovered this week is that real love lacks the “even though”.  Someone can look at our journey and the choices we have made and choose to show us love “even though” it’s assumed that our past disqualifies us of love.  We go through with that kind of love feeling small and unworthy and wondering if we should be grateful that we are loved anyway.  It sounds altruistic and charitable.  Like it might be actual love.

What if love is actually different that that. What if love sees the journey and sees us and just loves…well, us. Looking through the eyes of love you see the way one is meant to be seen and realize that they are entirely…

…Beautiful.

I don’t want to be loved “even though”.  I want someone to look straight into my soul and love my entire journey because they know I have been walking toward love the whole time.  I want both haves of me - the sinner and the saint - to be kissed.  They are, after all, me. My journey hasn’t been perfect.  I’ve had days where I’m proud of my actions and days I know I could have done it better and days I should have been locked up. Love looks at me and sees all of me and knows that every moment was spent in the honest pursuit of what comes from the hand of God.

Our message from the younger son of the father is this…

Look for love that sees the real you - and starts running.

watching the long walk

I know it wasn't the first time he has done it, but it was the first time I could watch him all the way. He was just walking to the convenience store to but water for his brother, but I saw him walk to high school, college, get married, laugh, dream, fail, suffer, celebrate, and watch the next generation do it again.

He is a good man. Life isn't easy. It's a long walk.

I'll be watching as my father watches me.

Mobile Blogging from here.

day of rest

This morning I write from Bill's Luncheonette in Plainfield. It's my favorite local diner. It's one of those time warp diners that refuses to change. Even the menu's front cover is a 60's style drawing of two well dressed happy couples enjoying a meal much different than anything you can acutally buy at Bills.

I was just reflecting on the morning. Me and the boys woke chatting, slowly got dressed, and decided to walk the 8 blocks to Bills.

It's a beautiful day. Cal brought his toy trumpet out with him...a compromise after being told he couldn't blow inside. We found some almost deflated baloons left in the park from the day before that had just enough heilum to hover above the ground. Tied to his toy trumpet, we became our own spontaneous parade as we walked to breakfast. It was full of smiles and peace.

There was no rush, no agenda.

So many Sunday mornings are stress filled. My career means that Sunday mornings are work. There are places to go and things to do. In our rush we often miss what a day of rest can be. In our commitments to things we do "for
God" it's easy to miss the graces given.

It was a great breakfast, a beautiful walk back, more play in the park, and an afternoon of Speed Racer and Stratego. We will go to church tonight and then Ill introduce my boys to my tradition of live jazz after.

Tomorrow it's back to the grindstone. They go back to school and I go back to work. But now, we just enjoy rest.

I wonder if this is more of what God had in mind when he created a sabbath.

mobile blogging

Mobile Blogging from here.

So I downloaded a new app for my iPhone called iblog. That means I can write stuff anywhere...like the train to Plainfield.

He he he.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Waiting

Here I’ve come to this
waiting room of the world

Chairs of leather and metal
Not designed for comfort.

Old magazines, television running talk shows, musack

They say there is healing inside…
When my name is called.
Why hasn’t my name been called?

The sliding glass…hope?
Someone else’s name.

Maybe I’m supposed to heal myself?
Take two aspirin and do the right thing.
I’ve done that before.

This time I will wait till my name is called.

Maybe I don’t have the right insurance.
Could it be that everyone knows I’m…
Terminal?

I’ve loved well.
I’ve even fallen in love.
Prayed that love would rescue me.

I wait for love.
That would heal me.

Right?

Why is it so cold in here?
Coughing and moaning
So many sick around me.

“I’m really tired, nurse”
“Me too…were all tired here”
This waiting room of the world.

Tell the Doctor I’ll be here…
…waiting for him.
Just like it’s always been.

love sweats

It’s only found in the gospel of Luke. Even there, it’s not found in most of the early manuscripts. All four writers agree that Jesus was in the garden, that he prayed, that the disciples fell asleep, and that he wanted to have the “cup” pass from him. Luke adds this detail:

“He prayed so fervently and he was in such agony of spirit that his sweat fell to the ground like great drops of blood”.

He wasn’t running or lifting heavy things. It wasn’t a hot and humid summer day. He was sweating from sheer passion.

There isn’t enough conversation about sweating. All we usually hear about sweat is how to avoid it and stay “extra dry”. I’m the first one in line to want nice dry shirts as I go through my day, but I don’t want to avoid the sweat that means I am really living. People who sweat for right reasons do so because they are doing something extreme. Sweat is your body’s way of helping you survive while you go the extra mile in whatever you are doing. Sweat is always the result of doing something uncomfortable. You exercise, you sweat. You have a stressful job interview, you sweat. You have to wait outside of the principal’s office because you lit a trash can on fire, you sweat.

The most beautiful sweat however, is the sweat that falls for others. You’ve seen the commercials of the marines trudging through a forest or desert carrying 70 pounds of gear in full dress. The dirt streaked by lines of sweat running down their faces. Consider firefighters, running into a building that people are running from - sweat.

People call it brave.

I call it love.

Bravery is love, sweating.

Ever notice that Superman doesn’t sweat? He doesn’t need to. He is the man of steel. Whatever fight he is in, he is going to win with very little effort. Superman is strong, powerful, and incredibly helpful - but you could never call him brave. Bravery requires the potential of suffering - even of loss. We could call him heroic - maybe. After all, Supe lost his whole family - his whole world. He could have been justified in coming to earth and just living. No one would expect him to serve humanity. So, it could be argued that he is heroic. Bravery is another matter.

That’s why my favorite superhero is Batman. Batman is the one superhero that is anything but super. He has no powers. He can’t fly, his chest is as much flesh as mine, and one stray bullet will take him out as quickly as the rest of us. Batman is the way he is because he sweats. He punishes his body and disciplines his mind so that he can be a hero. When he goes out into the dark night, it isn’t as Batman - it’s as Bruce Wayne. Each time he goes there is the very real possibility that this could be his last night…and many times the bad guys get away.

Clark Kent is a way to hide Superman’s true identity - the cape and cowl hid Bruce’s.

Batman sweats.

When Jesus is in the garden he is feeling what’s about to happen. He knows he is about to suffer, he knows it’s going to hurt. He knows that it’s going to get dark. He knows he will be alone.

He gives himself to God.

He sweats.

I know he feels alone. It’s one of those nights that he just wants someone to be with him…maybe even to hold him and tell him that they will love him no matter what he has to do. He asks his closest companions to do that with him. They sleep.

Notice why they sleep.

“…He found them asleep, exhausted with grief”.

This night was hard for them - no one would deny that. However, to deal with their hurt they checked out. They chose to not feel. It was their way of self-medicating.

Jesus, on the other hand, was man enough to feel it all and take it to God and do what had to be done. That is unmeasured bravery. That is love sweating.

The road was clear - love’s calling to Jesus was clear. The rest of the story was a blank canvas. Jesus could do this great deed and no one would come. It was entirely possible. That’s what makes it brave. Love sweats because it pursues the good, suffers for love, and accepts the possibility of loss. Brave souls love for loves sake and act, not for what they get, but because sweat is the natural byproduct of a man who loves.

Powder Blue Suits

People say things at funerals.

They say things like; “I’m sorry for your loss”, or “He was a great man, or “If there is anything I can do…”

I’m watching my uncle say respond to the words that people say when people have no idea what to say.

“We expected it”

It’s true. We knew for a long time that my grandfather was going to pass. He was suffering from a myriad of health problems and had been in hospice for the past week. I had been thinking about how I would be traveling and what it might be like to say goodbye to the man who raised me. However, when the call came from my mother to let me know that it had happened, the tears still fell. I was glad for the light rain the windshield of my truck. It seemed appropriate.

Now here I was, days later, sitting in a funeral home trying to work up the nerve to say goodbye.

I was here once before. It was 30 years ago. I was a child then, sitting next to my grandfather dressed in his powder blue suit. I was on one side and my sister on the other. My mother was on the comfy couch up front where they sit widows at funerals. My grandfather was like a strong tower keeping these little kids who had just lost their dad from blowing away. We moved in with my grandparents after the funeral and I spent the next 10 years learning how to be a man from him.

He, in very real terms, became my father.

Life has a particular irony sometimes. Today I sat next to my sister in the same place I left my father. This time, there was no strong tower between us. He was up front. The coffin was powder blue, like the suit he wore 30 years ago.

He picked the color.

It just makes sense that he will leave this world dressed in a powder blue suit.

After the minister said all the words that ministers say and the people began to mill about saying the things that feel necessary, I walked alone to the casket. I found myself wondering what I was to say.

How do you say goodbye to the only father you ever really knew?

How do you say goodbye to the man who taught you to fish, or laugh, or how to be strong for your family, or how to work hard for others, or how to add “facts” to stories to make them a bit more interesting, or whistle, or fix stuff, or dream you can be anything?

How do you let go of a man who was proud of you? Who loved you?

This man made me love Hank Williams, classic television, space, and going for walks.

How do you say goodbye to the man who taught you how to be a man?

I paused there with him.

I place my hand on the cold, hard case near where I thought his hands might be.

“Thank you” will have to do for now.

I walked out into the unforgiving heat of a St. Louis summer. My clothing became instantly wet as my east coast body reacted to the weight of the air around me. It dawned on me that I have my own work to do, people to love, stuff to fix, songs to sing, stories to tell, and maybe even a few fish to catch.

I reached in my pocket and felt the silver compass that I had brought with me. When I was a kid I used to love to go into his room and play with that compass. As I was getting dressed today I wandered into his room and saw it on his dresser. I put it in my pocket.

It reminded me that I still need someone to show me the right direction…and that there are people looking at me wondering which way to go.

I have little boys who need to be taught how to be men. It’s my turn to be a strong tower.

I just wonder if I’ll need a powder blue suit.

Good.Pain.

I got my first tattoo this week.

Yeah.

It’s a bluebird. A bluebird is a symbolic tattoo given to sailors who have travelled 1,000 nautical miles. Which I have not…but my grandfather has.

William Harry Keeran got his bluebird tattoo as a Navy airplane mechanic during World War 2. He got it on Okinawa, his ship being sent there from Texas after the island was conquered by the Allies. It wasn’t a big tattoo, probably done very cheap and not with the health department approval that mine required. I could see it peeking out from the sleeve of the white v-necked t-shirts he used to wear. On hot days I got the singular thrill of seeing it in full as the white t got exchanged for one of those ribbed undershirts that people call “beaters”.

My family called them muscle shirts. That made sense to me since I believed my grandpa was the strongest man I ever knew. This was the man who raised me. This was the man who taught me how to be a man.

The tattoo was in honor of him, as was the muscle shirt that I wore to get it.

Before I got it done everyone wanted to weigh in on the pain level. Some told me that it didn’t hurt very much, some told stories of crying or passing out. The most vivid was one who said “It’s not that bad, just like having a cat scratch your sunburn”.

That doesn’t sound good at all.

I sat in the chair and watched as the artist prepared the equipment. It was like watching a nurse prepare to take blood. Things were getting unwrapped from sterile plastic and latex gloves were going on. A little disinfectant applied to the skin and we were off.

And yes…it hurt.

Actually, I wouldn’t really say it hurt. It didn’t feel good, but I wouldn’t describe it as hurt. It was just pain. I sat in the chair for an hour of getting a tiny needle injecting paint into my skin, I thought about how this pain felt kinda…well…good. I realized in that chair that I would be writing about good pain.

C.S. Lewis used to say that pain was God’s megaphone to rouse a sleeping world. His point was that pain is an instrument to tell us something is wrong. That there is something that needs some attention. A change needs to be made.
Obviously the body uses pain to let us know that we are sick or the fire is hot or that you aren’t supposed to put needles into your skin.

Unless you have a goal.

An objective

We deal with pain in a lot of ways. Mostly, we try to avoid it. In many situations in life this is a wise policy. It keeps us alive

However, some pain brings us good things. My tattoo hurt, but the pain was going to end with a tattoo that honored my grandfather.

Good pain.

Productive pain.

I didn’t want a sedative or pain reducer. I wanted to feel all of this. It was real and got me where I wanted to go.
Plus, I trusted the artist. He was the one hurting me. He knew what he was doing. He won’t hurt me any more than he has to - and the result will be beautiful.

That is good pain.

When I experience pain I have two major choices. I can mask the pain through whatever my drug of choice might be or I can choose to feel it all and find out what needs to change. I must admit that I have not been a stellar example of this my whole life. I have a history of self-medicating and avoidance. What this does is only masks the pain without addressing the source.
It was only when I decided to follow the pain that my life began to heal. No doubt that it hurts. It hurts like hell, but like the tattoo I believe it ends with something beautiful.

But you have to be honest with the pain.

Don’t look for a quick way out.

Trust the One with the needle.

Morning Walk: FULL DISCLOSURE

     I was awake earlier than conventional wisdom said I should be awake. It had been quite a night. I had gotten my first tattoo, hung out at an apparent “hot spot” with my aunt and sister spotting celebrities, hitting some Karaoke places, and lots of general walking around the lower east side of Manhattan until falling asleep on the floor of the Bowery Hotel dressed in a hotel robe and matching slippers. It was a night that seemed to require sleeping in, but here I was, 6:00 am, wide awake and listening to the low hum of the city below.

It might have been simply where I was sleeping. As my eyes cracked open, I was met with the morning sun rising over the buildings visible from my 12th story room window. It’s as if the city was inviting me out to play. How could I say no to such a gracious offer?

     I slowly got up off the floor, letting last night settle in my body properly. Late nights take a minute these days to manage. I quietly stretched all of the moving parts and acknowledged the slight sting in my arm where a bluebird rested permanently and tiptoed to the bathroom.

After showering and putting on last night’s clothes I wrote a note of thanks to my family, left the hotel, and entered into a conversation with New York City.

     Having regular conversations with a city seems strange to the average person, I know. But not to me. The mix of concrete, glass, brick, and steel somehow give the city a personality and a language that I can understand. This morning I’m filled with questions. I have questions about identity, my future, and my marriage. I want to talk to her about the choices I’ve made in life and if there is forgiveness and how does one live forgiven. I want to ask about the good things in my life and how to honor them and if they are even mine to honor. I want to know if there is room for me in my life anymore.

     I walked through the doors of the hotel and pause looking at the street. This is normal for me. When I’m here I seldom have a clear location that is my aim. Instead I enjoy the dialogue by being navigated by stronger forces. Today, the forces move me north. I saw the Empire State Building in the distance and figure I’ll just head toward it - the train home is close.

I started asking questions.

     It was the kind of morning designed for questions. Early. Most of the city is fast asleep - having headed to bed just hours earlier. It’s an incredible feeling to have New York City to one’s self. The weather was right - sunny and drying itself from a 12-hour rain the day before. The light from the wet concrete give the city an extra glow - like beach goers with a tanning mirror.

     My conversation takes on a cadence best described as meandering. I never walk a straight line - and neither to my conversations. I want straight answers, something I can just do that will make everything ok, but it seems she always just says the same thing to every question I have;

“Keep Walking”

     I saw a street I recognize and make a turn, catching a glimpse of Washington Square’s arc in the distance. My walk will take me there.

     On the way one of the world’s orphaned children who have taken up residence in this city asked for my help. Just a sandwich. It was one of those “Buddy can ya spare a dime?” moments. I don’t care if it’s because of a recession, or this man is unwilling or unable to work, or if he is going to use my money for something that gives the “good” people of the world a reason not to love. I’d been asked to give. It’s only three wrinkled dollars (maybe I should buy a wallet), but it all I had. He returned the favor with a grateful and strong hug and assurance that I am loved. Hearing “I love you” from anyone is worth more than my three bucks - but especially one who has been well worn by life.

I left having been embraced by this city and hearing “I love you”. I thought “This is a good conversation.”

     After an experience like this I always have more questions. “How do I love these people back”. “How do I embrace the broken without programs and plans or sermons?” I see men, broken by the harsh realities of life. Yet in their brokenness they seem more real than the man emerging in his blue suit from one of the row houses of Astor Place. He seemed more real to me because he has chosen to feel it all. It made him grateful enough for three dollars to gift me an embrace. Maybe it wasn’t the three dollars. Maybe I gave him dignity. That is worthy of love.

“Keep walking” she said again. I was still aiming at the park.

     At the arc I took time to reflect. Men were gathered there to dream. The arc speaks of triumph and I am all about listening. This has been a place of life for generations - good life and hard life. Dylan has sang here, Ginsburg and Burroughs were beat here, kids tried stopping wars, and their own pain. Today there are a handful of people broken by their life yet reaching for their humanity. The carry a beauty seldom seen by those who sleep or walk quickly to their responsibilities. One played guitar.

His song says that it’s better to play a guitar than to go to church without a guitar.

Who could possibly argue that? His logic is flawless.

     I walked on through, covering paths that reminded me of the last time I was here. Last time everyone was in costume…except me. There is an irony in that. It was the fall of my waking. So much joy and pain, all living in the same space. I remember longing and loneliness. I’ve never hurt that bad. It’s so much easier to live life in costume. People celebrate and take pictures. When we are all in costume we are all safe. The tall man in just a grey hoodie and jeans is wild - and very unsafe. But that man was beginning to live, and feel.

He was raw skin.

What a terrible night. What a wonderful night.

I asked more questions about that. Seasons have passed since then. I need guidance.

“Keep Walking” she said again.

     Heading uptown I passed people, gardens, and buildings. I admit to her that I’m scared. I’m scared to go where I want to go and scared to not. My life lives on the other side of this river…it seems so far away.

“Can I stay with you?” I asked. I already knew the answer.

“Keep Walking”

     I headed in the direction of the train. Saturday morning on the PATH is a long process. But it’s ok. I realized what the city, (OK, maybe God) was trying to tell me. Life is about walking - even more than it is about arriving. We are always in such a hurry to get to places that we think we need to be or places we think would fulfill us or make us happy or make the pain go away. Even if it is true that those things really will bring us joy and fill us in ways that right now seem out of reach we can’t take shortcuts there. There are things we need to pick up on the way. There are life lessons that are crucial to learn as we walk toward love so that we learn how not to abuse it so that it will last forever. We learn how to breathe on the road. The road is where we learn how to walk, run, love, cry, laugh, and embrace the beautiful and reject that which is not. Our unique path, some more challenging, prepares us for what is ours if we are willing to listen. The walk allows us to love well and be loved as we are finding our way home.

I say to you what I heard from her: “Keep walking”.

Morning Walk

Good Morning, Friend.
     What say you today?

I saw you through the 12th floor window.
     You looked beautiful
I knew there was no sleep left for me.

I want to join you.

A quick shower
     Yesterday's clothes
         A note of thanks
             I'm out

Streets that only an hour or two before bore your children
     Some natural
         Some adopted (like me)
But you care for all of us without judgement and give us a place to
     Play
         Love
             Fight
                 Choose
They all sleep now

I like to just talk to you like this - the sun warming your skin and forgiving last night's transgressions

I want to hear what you have to say to me...
     especially now.

What say you, old friend?
     What say you of Love?
         Or Grace?
              Or Happiness?

Should I believe?
     Or am I on my own?
Is hope worth...
     Hoping for?
Will they be OK?
     Will I be OK?

You always have the same answer…

     “Walk with me”

But I’m tired…

     “Walk with me”

I’m so scared, friend…

    “Walk with me”

Where are we going?

You walk me through the park.
     Memories of longing…
         Pain.
             So close - but worlds apart.
     Everyone in costume.
         I, for the first time, without.

As we walk you ask me to take care of one of your kids
     I give all I have.
         He gives more.
             You have always given to me that way.

I see the empire rising in the distance
     I celebrate perfect days and walk on.

Thank you friend…

Rain

I walked out into the rain tonight.
Started to dart between the raindrops.

Like everyone else.

Racing for shelter
Like dodging bad news

Forgot that it was beautiful.
It’s easy to forget about beauty…especially when it’s called “storm”

Reached the door…locked.
No shelter
Just me and the rain.
I was wet
But it was clean.

Cold.

My t-shirt clinging to my skin.
Making me shiver.
Changing my temperature.

It was dark.
With flashes of light.
Beautiful.
There is beauty in the storm.

Raindrops landing…dancing

Too cliche?

God whispers in the storm.
He feels close.
Hope feels close…

You were there with me.
I could feel your heart…
All of the longing for beauty
Wonder.
Peace.
Truth.
Tonight I allowed myself to be baptized again.

I remember faith.
Songs continue as I drive away from the sanctuary.
Percussion on sheet metal.
Marriage of tire and pavement and water.
I’m still wet as I walk…

…through the door.

Truck stop Called Love

This past week I went on the journey of a lifetime. I took my eldest son Taylor on a week long road-trip back to my hometown of St. Louis. It was one of those father-son things.

Our goal was St. Louis, via D.C., Nashville, and Memphis, and stops in between. We heard great music, ate great food, saw amazing sites, and had a ton of fun.

But that wasn't the best part of the trip

The best part of the trip was the journey

Taylor and I woke in the back of my Dodge Dakota pickup on Monday morning after driving through the Virginia night. Both of us saw the lights of the truck stop at the same time and decided this was the place to say. As I lay in the back of my pick-up with Taylor I noticed the name of this truck stop.

"Love's"

Interesting, I thought...maybe that's my lesson for the road.

Let me explain...

We showered in the truck stop showers, and took to the road for an all day journey to Nashville. It was a long day filled with miles and miles of asphalt. I was reminded how often we live from destination to destination rather than the journey. It’s what we lose in an era of air flights. We have forgotten that the joy of living is not in the arriving but in the time it takes to get there and the gifts and joys we get along the way.

It’s not about getting there faster…it’s how you travel each moment.

If we flew to Nashville we wouldn’t have been able to see the fields of cows or comment on how many caverns there are in Virginia. We wouldn’t have stopped to visit D.C. or got to sleep side by side in the back of my pickup. We wouldn’t have had the talks we have had - the honest ones. I wouldn’t have experienced my son reading to me like I used to read to him.
We wouldn’t have passed through sun, rain, and snow all in the same drive.

I wouldn’t have had the time to consider the next leg of my life's journey.

I would have had the time to listen to my heart

Or to his.

Or to His.

There are miles left to go…

I never want to miss what the road has to say.

I have my own journey. I am learning to take the time to travel well...to listen to the road and those who join me in the travel.

I won’t forget to rest at the truck stops.

As long as they are the ones called love.

35 Dollars

I spent $35 dollars last night.

$35 dollars at the end of a staircase to the man sitting at the small table.

I got it at the A.T.M. at the bodega next door.

Fresh new bills.

Two Twenties

Had them for all of 2 minutes.

Got $5 in change.

$35

Took the last seat at the bar.

Wondered who else had sat here.

Miles?

Coltrane?

Now…Droege.

$35 earned me a red ticket…

The first drink.

Makers Mark…on the rocks.

I think that’s what one would drink in a temple like this.

An old man takes the stage.

His band shortly behind.

Red, Hot, and Blue.

Worship begins.

$35 to let my bruised soul get carried away to God.

Borne on the notes

$35 to hear back from Him that I’m worth loving.

That even if she never comes…

(She might never come)

…that I’m still worth loving.

$35 to know that I’ll be ok.

The first few notes of “Somewhere over the Rainbow”

the crown murmurs joy.

$35 to be reminded that there is hope.

Somewhere I belong.

$35 to adjusting my heart to love.

I love well.

I want to love well.

I just don’t want to be hurt again.

I might get hurt again.

$35 dollars to prepare for the pain.

I’ve made such a mess.

No way to avoid pain.

The notes scream again.

The music understands.

It says things I’m trying to say.

It’s the language of angels.

Or demons.

Either way…it’s the language of my heart.

I think God speaks it.

$35 to say stuff to God that I don’t know how to say.

The set ends.

Crowd starts talking.

Meeting each other.

Seeing old friends.

I’m alone.

Ascend the stairs from the temple.

I spent $35 and am entering into the night.

I worshiped.

My heart sang.

My heart cried.

I think He spoke back.

I say goodbye..

…and thank you.

…to my $35

Hey, What's Your Name?

I once had no name

I just existed.

I was created.

Unlimited Possibility

Then I was named

"Michael"

An angel

I was to be close to God.

That’s ok.

It fits.

I would want that without my name

At least I think so.

Then came "William"

A middle name

A family name

I was a son

I carried a legacy

A responsibility

Before I took a breath

I had a history

Then One More

This one wasn’t picked.

It’s weight

I was to be "Droege"

I have family

People who have participated in my DNA

Who want to have say

I have to carry this name on

I haven’t yet seen light

Felt cold

Yelled

But I have a job.

Who was I before my name?

When I was just possibility?

Who was I before I was “the pastor’s kid”

Did I have an identity before I was “the kid whose dad died”

“The man of the house”

Who says that to a kid?

Who gives them that kind of name?

I want to remember who I was

Before I had my names

Before I was "nerd"

Before I was "skinny"

Before I was "burnout"

Before I was "abused"

Before I was "pastor"

Before I was "father"

Before I was "husband"

Before I was "disappointment"

I was possibility

I want a new name

I want a name that fits

Drive me to the desert

Let me bury the name tags of my history

Cry with me

Then lets laugh

And dance

Speak no more our names

I’ll just see myself in your eyes

That will be my name

Only we will know.

Yes...weakly

Saying yes.

I find it one of the most difficult things I do in my life.

Saying yes means commitment.

It means I owe something.

I’m way happier with no.

No means I get to go do what I want

When I want

With who I want

Yes means you get to decide something about my life.

What I do I now do with you

For you

Because of you.

I really don’t like yes.

Unless I trust you.

Saying yes to someone I trust means something different.

Saying yes to you means that good things will come as a result.

Because you know me best.

You wouldn’t ask me to do something that would hurt me.

You want good things for me.

You know how to get those good things to me.

I think I’ll believe that someday.

Hello...this is Michael

I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to see Slumdog Millionaire. I saw Jon Stewart interview the lead charecter this past week and was reminded what an amazing movie I was able to see crammed into my nearly front row seat at the theater. Slumdog is one of those “films” that caused people to kind of curl their eyebrows when you tell them what you are going to see tonight. As I was heading out the door a teenager asked me what I was heading out to see…

”Notorious”? (The story of the Notorious B.I.G.)

“Underworld” (vampire movie NOT involving anyone named Cullen)…?

"No, Slumdog Millionaire”

"Is that even a real movie”?

Yes kids…and what a movie.

So, quick breakdown...

Jamal, an 18 year old from the slums of Mumbai, gets onto the Indian version of “Who Wants to be a Millionaire”.

Yes…It really exists.

He does something that no one else has been able to do…win.

The fact that a kid from the slums is able to answer each of the increacingly difficult quesitons is cause for accusations of cheating. As Jamal tells his story, it’s revealed that he is so much more than a kid from the slums. Jamal’s experiences - most of them horrific - have given him the answers to the questions, but that’s not why he is on this show. Jamal is on the show for love….the kind of love that movies are supposed to be about.

See, when they were young, Jamal met a girl named Latika. From that moment he bagan to love her. When he lost her, he bagan a life devoted to finding her. Life had taken it’s toll on her - everytime it seemed they could be together life separated them again. Latika spent her life abused, mistreated, and never seen as anything more than a commodity to be traded and used for the pleasure of others. Jamal always saw her for who she truly was. He saw her beauty, the wonder that is her. Even with the choices she made in her life that seemed to welcome abuse without resistance - Jamal still saw the little girl who was caught in the rain.

Jamal’s story is of a good man on a reletless search for the one he loves - the one for whom he has chosen to be responsible. There seems to be no obsticle too big to find her. When he finally does he meets a woman who has resigned herself to her life. In many ways she had given up. She didn’t know she was being saught or believed she would be found. The first time he finds her is as an orpahn - and he chooses her. The next time he finds her she is a prostitute - he still chooses her. The next time he finds her she is the girlfriend of a gangster - he still chases her. Even though she had given up hope - Jamal always believed.

So, not only was I blown away by the size and scope of the love story - but I could clearly see our love story there. We too are saught by a lover. He has crossed time and space to find us. He has walked through tortures and trials only to find the object of his desire in the arms of others…trapped by our own life choises.

Like Jamal, Jesus knows the answers because of his suffering. Like Jamal, Jesus is relentless in his search...at great personal cost. Like Jamal, Jesus finds us in life choices that no longer demonstrate faith...and still picks us.

See, our biggest problem is that we don’t really believe we will be found - or that God is really looking for us.

One of my favorite scenes is the "phone a friend" scene. Watch Jamal's face. There is sadness as the call is made and no one answers, the world has given up. Then the one voice comes on the line...the voice that is the reason for the call. HIs whole face changes. She has answered his call...and he is overjoyed

"Hello...this is Michael."

Big Shoulders

Big Shoulders

The drive from St. Louis to Chicago is a highway named 55. It’s the superhighway that bypasses every little Illinois town that made it’s living from drivers taking the cue from King Cole to get their kicks on 66. The footprint of a once prosperous beltway is still visible in the tombstone billboards and rusty neon barely visible to a generation more familiar with broadband than the Sunday drive. It was still alive when my 8 year old eyes met the landscape for the first time. Well, maybe alive isn’t the right word – maybe just unaware that it had died. The green vinyl seats that were sticking to my legs exposed by a pair of late-70’s terrycloth shorts matched the paint job of the Plymouth Satellite that was taking our family on our first family vacation. We were heading to Chicago.

I grew up a pastor’s kid in what William Burroughs described as the “life-stealing” walls of suburban St. Louis. My world was school and my room. Really – my room was a vast sanctuary of ideas – red shag carpeting aside. That’s where I met Captain Nemo, The Sugar Creek Gang, and the scurvy pirates who fought over Treasure Island. Yes…I was a big, ole’ nerd. There wasn’t much else to do.

This was the time when good women weren’t liberated and men came home whenever they pleased – expecting dinner on the table. My father wasn’t a chauvinist in the sense that he was who he was raised to be. He brought home the bacon – and then retreated to his basement room where he prepared for his sermons – which he delivered with a fire that made him a sought over guest preacher all over the city. Sneaking downstairs and venturing past the paneled walls of his study was like getting an audience in the Vatican. Being close to the Father I never saw was pure joy – one I would learn that I should have savored.

I think that’s why this trip to Chicago was so great. Dad was excited. This was more than the couple of days mom could convince him to take us to Six Flags or Lake of the Ozarks – a hillbilly themed resort town in southern Missouri. We were going to a real place. We might as well have been going to Paris. Chicago represented to me the peak of big city action and life. I couldn’t even picture it in my mind – but I knew on some level that I would never be the same.

1979 Chicago wasn’t exactly a shining metropolis approaching from the infamous housing projects and urban decay that was the South Side. Having immigrant grandparents that lived in a self-described “bake oven” brick row house in the Tower Grove section of St. Louis made me no stranger to rough neighborhoods – but Chicago seemed to me an industrial war zone. Graffiti, high-rise projects, and the tattered and tattooed “L” train made me a little nervous about our family’s big-city adventure. Soon we were pulling onto the grandeur that is Lake Shore Drive and I saw the city by the lake. It seemed the whole city screamed in blinding sunlight from glass towers and white stone buildings. We were staying at the famous Congress Hotel – directly across from the Buckingham Fountain. We went up to the room – I had never been that high up before. I felt like I was looking out at Lake Michigan from space. I was a president – a king – in the city of Big Shoulders.

My Father was a good man – but family exhausted him. He had paid his dues in a hot car for seven hours with his wife, myself, and my four year old sister – whom I was skilled like a renaissance master at torturing. He opted for a walk – alone.

I stayed by the window the whole time drinking in the lake, the wind, and the noise of sheer power. People were going places in this town. Granted, I had no idea where they were going since the hotel room was my only tourist attraction. Soon the sky grew dark and the fountain transformed into a burst of color. My mother sat on the edge of the bed waiting for my Father’s return. She did that a lot – wait for my Father that is. She was ready to go have dinner the second he arrived. The look on her face wasn’t really impatience but veiled terror. Something that is true about my mother is that she is terrified that she will be left somewhere. Women like her didn’t drive or have maps. She knew she was in Chicago – but had no idea where that was. If he never came home – she was sitting on her death bed. I didn’t mind. The window allowed me to travel to every place I could see – all the way across the lake, far away to something new. Maybe I was aging in that window. Maybe I was being born.

Eventually my father returned and we had dinner and went to bed; the noise of a 24 hour city cradling me to sleep. The next day was probably the most fun we have ever had as a family. We walked through submarines and giant hearts, saw great works of art – both in museums and right out on the street. Giant bronze statues were around the city – seemingly for the pleasure of kids and pigeons. We rode the train, went to the top of the Sears tower and went to the planetarium. It was amazing. My Dad laughed a lot that trip. He didn’t laugh often – but it was a good laugh.

Less than a year later I sat with my grandfather at my Father’s funeral. When you are the first-born son people say stupid, well meaning stuff like “You’re the man of the house now – better take care of your mother”. My father died of cancer. I hate cancer.

I guess I was the man of the house. We sold our house, moved in with my grandparents and I started a new life – a lifetime away from the endless shore of Lake Michigan and the city that seemed like life to me. I now lived in a world I had only visited on holidays. This is who I am going to be for the next decade of my life.

It’s amazing how one man’s life means so much to another life’s whole identity. I was no longer a “preachers kid” who sat in awe as his father captured his audience. I was a kid who shared a bedroom with his mom and his sister. I learned to be a man from my grandfather. He took me fishing, taught me how to do “house” stuff, and taught me to drive. I never wanted another dad.

When I was 18 I went back to Chicago. It wasn’t a nostalgic trip – I was going to college. I didn’t put my last vacation with my father together with my new home – until I took a planned freshman walk with my new dorm floor. We walked to the Buckingham Fountain. There I was – with a group of strangers staring at the fountain that was the last symbol of a life that was. This time the Congress Hotel was the object of my vantage point. I could see the window that I stared out of 10 years ago. Chicago was with me again as I started a new life. Here I would wrestle with God, myself, and cry for the first time about my father’s death. Carl Sandburg was right – this city had big shoulders.

I needed a good pair.

Diary of a Tin Man

Week 1 of having a heart...

Sometimes I look back on those days with a hint of jealousy. Who knew what filling my hollow chest would cost? What kind of idiot wants a heart anyway? The scarecrow wanted brains - showing he was already a genius. The lion wanted courage - that would have made sense. Me? I wanted a heart. I wanted to feel.



Week 2

I'm not sure I thought this all the way through. Standing in the forest rusting solid seemed like a terrible fate. When I was found they oiled my joints. I could move, dance, walk, even work. I had companions and a yellow brick adventure.

Why wasn't I satisfied with that?



Week 3

What was I thinking? Maybe it was too many movies or poems or songs. Whatever it was, I dared to believe in what a complete rush it would be to feel what I was observing. I could be more than just a working stiff (get it?). I could be human. I could love, celebrate, laugh, cry, dance because I felt it...yes, a heart. That's what I wanted.

Idiot!


Week 4

I was thinking about Dorothy today. It was the day that Dorothy left that I really got a taste of the decision I made. When I was just empty - I knew it was empty and thought it should be filled - but it didn't really hurt. When my hollow can of a chest HAS been filled and then experiences loss...that is a whole other story. I shed a tear when the crowd was around, but when I got back to my room I cried all night. The pain just stayed there like a axe stuck in the trunk of a redwood. I wondered if it would ever stop.

It hasn't



Week 5

The weeks following this "heart plant" have just gotten worse. Insults have nicked it, hope seemed to stretch it - making it more fragile, memories haunted it. I've had enough. I feel tricked by the wizard. I wanted to feel good things...but this heart seems to just feel bad. I want to go back to the forest and rust. I just want the pain to stop.

God, I miss Dorothy. I know she had to go home and I had to stay and take care of OZ...but I'm just so sad.


Week 6

The Lion came over today. It's been a week since I've gotten out of bed. He just sat with me and talked with me. He told me stories of his adventures. It seems that this courage thing really has taken hold. He's done amazing things and made a lot of peoples lives better. Some of his stories made me laugh. I'm feeling something different today. I feel like I want to join him.

Is this courage? My heart feels stronger. Maybe I'll get dressed today.

I still miss Dorothy. But I'm glad she is happy.


Week 7

I saw Scarecrow in a village that Lion and I had rescued from a dragon. He couldn't be there during the battle (for obvious reasons), but was there to help with the rebuilding process. He just has a mind for that sort of thing. Really, he has a mind for every sort of thing. Even with his busy schedule he took the time to visit with an old friend.

We talked about old times. I told him that I might have made a wrong decision about the heart thing. I was just in pain all of the time. I told him that gaining courage from the lion was helping a little. At least I was using myself for the good of others rather than just wallowing in my loss.

He said some amazing things. I knew he was smart, but I had no idea. He just told me things that were true. He reminded me about the good things in my life...he called it a "blessing count". He walked with me through my hurt.


Week 8

I wake up every day now reminding myself of what I know is true. The knowledge of truth gives my heart a reason to hope. The courage from the lion makes me dare to believe in the future. I still carry the hurt - but I'm starting to be able to do more than just hurt.

I still miss her. That hasn't stopped. I realize that having courage and hope doesn't stop you from hurting...it just helps you celebrate the love that you have been able to experience, believe that love will find you again, and go chase after opportunities to love outside of yourself.

I'm getting better.


Week 9

DOROTHY CAME TODAY!!! I cried, laughed, danced, sang, and held her so tight she couldn't breathe. I never want to let her go. It was so worth waiting for. My chest is exploding like fireworks! She is more beautiful than I remember...her smile makes the emerald city look like brick tenement. I guess it's good to have a heart after all - without the capacity for the pain I could never have known such joy.

The journey was worth it.

There is no place like home.