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…