In case of WOLVERINE

I love.

I love.

And it’s on nights like these that I love best, and most deeply, and most purely. George Winston’s “Autumn” is spinning languidly on the record player. I have a cup of cinnamon tea. And upstairs, Beth and Justin are talking, loving each other.

Just when I think I’m too hurt or too scared to go on, quiet moments like this come to me and I’m wrapped in a circle of unbroken love – my friends stand strong around me, my family clasps hands in a wider ring around them, and our God binds us all together. Nothing bad can happen to me. I’m safe.

And with that safety comes the beautiful freedom to love back, to give back. You can’t pry yourself open; I’ve tried. The harder you wrench at your seams, the tighter they knit themselves shut. Nothing opens them but love. You do have to try, but you try with love. Not desperation. Not fear.

It’s a weird metaphor, but I feel sometimes like the X-Men. Specifically, I feel like Rogue. I feel like a poison to everyone I want to help, to everyone I try to love. I keep people away; I want to touch them, but touching them will hurt them. Sometimes, I wonder about the creators of X-Men and how they could be so awful to create someone like Rogue. She embodies, in one way, one of our most fundamental fears – that we are our own enemy.

But, in their infinite grace, the X-Men people also created Wolverine. And Wolverine heals. He can heal himself, yes, but he can also heal Rogue.

Wolverine can heal himself and he can heal Rogue.

He can touch her. Does she hurt him? Of course. Inevitably. But he heals.

God has given me dozens of Wolverines over the years. Maybe hundreds. He put the ability to heal inside everyone. Humankind is entirely made of Wolverines and Rogues.

Sometimes we’re more one than the other. That’s our war. But we fight it and so does everyone else. Everyone. We don’t have to fight alone.

And on nights like these, I’ve been touched by a healing hand, not a poisonous one. I’m wrapped in a circle of unbroken love. I’m open. I love back.

I love. And I'm not Rogue, tonight.

In case of LITTLE GIFTS

Yesterday, on my way in to work, I noticed a man looking curiously at a bench.

He seemed stumped, perplexed. He looked around several times. Then, when he noticed me staring, he hurried off, dismissing the bench as uninteresting. Uh, I wasn’t looking at that bench. I don’t know what you mean.

When I grew closer, I saw why he was so captivated.

The bench was strewn with books.

Books, perhaps ten, all tattered and well-loved, sitting quietly there. Completely unattended. They might have been patiently waiting for the bus. But it wasn’t a bus stop. It wasn’t anything. It was just a bench. A bench and some books.

And, standing there, I was felt a surge of affection for Monrovia. I love this town. Although I haven’t lived here long, I’m constantly discovering new and beautiful things about it.

The restaurants, cozy, locally owned and incredibly diverse. The cute streets and colorful residents. The street fair every Friday and Family Festivals in the summer. I love getting out of work, inhaling the smell of funnel cakes and barbeque, and lazily beginning my walk home. I love that by the time I get into my room, the ceiling fan is spinning, Beth is home, and the sun is setting out our window.

I run into my neighbors at the bank, at the grocery store, at the little frozen yogurt places. I run into my friends, and my brothers and sisters from church. Sometimes, in the evenings, Justin plays music at Monrovia Coffee Company. And I walk there to see him. Normally, when I get there, the room is already full of people, sipping warm coffees and looking at whatever new artwork is on display. It’s always like they’re waiting for me, somehow.

I mean, I’m sorry to gush like this, but to me Monrovia is the place we all kind of wished we lived. It’s a simple place, full of young people, and interesting people, and history. It’s quiet and lovely, away from the frenzy and paranoia of Los Angeles. It's the kind of town that would have a statue of Mark Twain in front of the public library. It’s the town Upton Sinclair called home, anyway.

So I stood there for another minute, wondering what Monrovia meant by leaving these books here for me to find. I looked around, to see if someone had intentions to come and retrieve these books, but all I saw were a few couples eating breakfast on the curbside café tables in front of The Monrovian. No one paid me any attention at all.

And, well, what would you have done?

I took a book. And no one stopped me. I consider it to be a gift – one of many, many gifts – from Monrovia. My Monrovia.

And it’s called, appropriately enough, “Oh The Glory Of It All.”

In case of MARMEE

I like to fight.

When I see some injustice, some wrong in the world, I want to fix it.  I want to make the people who did it PAY.  I want to crush the offenders utterly – by verbally steamrolling them, psychologically tormenting them, or physically beaming them with my American Lit. book.

In my life, I have actually said these words:  “I will never forgive him for that.”

And I’ve meant it. 

The problem is that I DON’T correct injustices.  I often can’t.  And so these things, these (perceived) wrongs, build up inside of me.  They eat at me like acid.  And the perpetrators grow large in my mind, they become monsters, and I will carry a sword against them forever. 

I will never – NEVER – forgive him for that.

There’s this scene in Little Women.  Amy (Kirsten Dunst) comes home from school one day with her hand bruised.  Her teacher has struck her for some petty misbehavior.  Her mother, Marmee (Susan Sarandon), is furious.  Marmee writes a vicious letter to Amy’s teacher that goes something like this:

“Mr. Davis – If you hit and humiliate a child, the only lesson she will learn is to hit and humiliate.”

Meanwhile, Amy’s sister Jo (Winona Ryder) wants to “beat the tar out of Mr. Davis.”

Marmee sharply reprimands her, “Jo!  We must not embrace violence.”

This, by the way, is a scene that unfolds with fair regularity in our apartment between Beth and I.

Because, apparently, we must not embrace violence.  That drives me wild, but I think it’s fundamentally true.  I think Jesus thought so.  So I kinda have to think so.  Even though watching Fight Club totally turns me on. 

I am not a pacifist.  Maybe someday I will be.  But there must be a way to do this, to not lie down and take things, to not violently rise up against things with anger and wrath, but to take the middle road of reason and faith.  Yes, there are things that cannot – should not – be endured.  But our response must be a better one.  Must be more mature.  Must be born out of a desire to actually fix things.  We cannot simply set about bashing perpetrators to correct their wrong-DOING.  We must set about correcting their wrong-THINKING. 

Later in the movie, Jo sits awake, writing a story.  Her sister Beth (Claire Danes) wants to know what will happen next.  Jo smiles sadly.

“I don’t know.  It’s all madness and gore.  Damsels in distress…

Oh, Beth, truly.  I don’t know if I could ever be good, like Marmee.  I rather crave violence.  I wish I could be like Father and go to war.  And stand up against the lions of injustice.”

Beth lays her head on Jo’s arm.  “And so Marmee does in her own way.”

And so here, in the quiet of this moment, I’m sorry.

To anyone out there I’ve fought.  That I’ve hated.  That I've privately, in the depths of my imagintion, beamed with my American Lit. book.  Tomorrow I’ll want to stand up and fight the lions of injustice again.  But tonight?  I just don’t.  Tonight I’m too tired to fight anymore.  Tonight I want to write a thousand letters to the Mr. Davises of the world.

Tonight I want to forgive.  

I want to forgive.

In case of THINGS THAT ARE STILL TRUE

July.3.2007
For the beauty of the earth

There is so much grace in the world. It’s so funny to me how we are always given enough grace. Always.

I say that it’s funny because I think life is generally comedic. Even when it’s sad, there’s an element of humor, of joy, of promised restoration. Even when you feel so low. Even when you don’t know if a situation will end well. Even then.

I went to a wedding on Friday. Beth described the evening as “romantic,” which just happened to be the perfect adjective. We all stood on the front lawn, bare legs and shoulders, toes eased out of uncomfortable shoes. It was one of those firefly evenings, in spite of California.  The suspense of gold champagne in glasses, hovering between mouths and fingertips. The elderly and middle aged (their eternal moments still shining, but stuck in some previous era) gravitated toward the house, sat indoors on the antique furniture, discussed, I don't know.  Politics, maybe. Maybe marriage. I’d like to give them credit, knowing they were once us and that someday we’ll be them.

But we were not them on Friday. Almost everyone under the age of thirty draped themselves on the front porch, cotton and silk dresses flowing down from one stair to the next.  It was like -- I don't know -- a declaration to the world that we were standing on the brink, the edge, perched and ready for our chance, but still indulgent, enjoying one another while we could. Laughing.  The wonder was not then and will not be lost on us, not for years.

Even a wedding, which some might think is the end of being reckless, is heroic, epochal! How could anyone be so brave to love so deeply? How could anyone sit on the steps in the waning sun and laugh when we have lost wallets and keys, minutes and hours, built and burned bridges, inflicted and felt wounds? And some of us have lost friends. And some of us have lost faith. And some of us know that the house we’re sitting on will deteriorate, succumb to entropy, and that so many circumstances are, even now, not kind and not warm and not forgiving. How dare we dance, loop arms around waists, lick chocolate frosting off our fingers?

Why was I sent a quiet friend to sit with me, unjudging, when I have been so wrong? Why was I even allowed to hold the hand of someone I hurt so deeply?

Grace. Only grace.
There is so much grace in the world. 

In case of 400 YEARS

I really love mornings at my apartment. 

I usually wake up around 8:30.  Not because I have to, mind you, but because I’ve been going to bed so early these days, I simply can’t sleep past 8:30 anymore.  And by 8:30, Beth and Jes are already gone.  So it’s not like there’s a line for the shower.

But Rachel is usually up.  On my favorite mornings, Rachel is already up and sitting at the kitchen table.  She’s reading.  A steaming mug of coffee sits in front of her.  I notice that there’s another inch or so of coffee in the pot. 

“Is that for me?”  I ask.

“Sure,” she replies.

I pour the coffee for myself and pad out into the living room (aka My Office).  Why do I pad, you ask?  It’s because I’m wearing my slippers.  Of course.  I’m also still in my pajamas.  Why?  Because I can be.  Work doesn’t start until the afternoon.

I take a minute to appreciate our beautiful view…

…and then plop down onto the couch (aka My Desk).  I set the coffee on the coffee table (FINALLY using that piece of furniture to its exact purpose!), open my laptop, and get to the day.  The day is inside the laptop.  The day is job hunting, paying bills, e-mailing people, getting e-mails back, watching LOST, and writing writing writing.  And if it’s a really good morning, there’s already something in my inbox from Michael waiting for me.

You know, I can bitch and complain about money all I want.  I can fret over not making my bills, bemoan the few hours I get at the after school place, and beat my brains out hunting for a job.

But there’s a simple joy in the mornings now.  A joy of stillness, of not rushing, of being able to open my eyes up slowly to every new day.  

Last night at church we talked about this.  About how, just before the New Testament and the birth of Christ, there were 400 years of NOTHINGNESS for the Israelites.  400 years of waiting.  400 years of the profound, empty silence of God.  That’s so long to wait for even the simplest word from the Almighty.  How many generations lived and died in that silence?

So, yes.  I really love mornings at my apartment. 

But here's hoping that there's a point to all this waiting.  Here's hoping that into the silence of my life here in California...God will finally speak.  

In case of INVINCIBILITY

On November 26, 1992, my mother told me that I was about to turn 6. I burst into tears. (I don’t like growing up. At all.)

There are so many wonderful things about being young. You get to goof off, be irresponsible, be imaginative, be cute. People laugh when you make mistakes and they help you out. Your parents grant you grace. Your friends are young, too. Nobody gets married. Nobody can’t come out to play because they have to work. Nobody has children to take care of.

But I can’t stop growing up any more than I can stop the earth from spinning.

So here’s my salute to youth! 21, you were a great age. I liked being you. Let’s get together and reminisce, shall we? Yes. Let’s share some memories and then we’ll go our separate ways. Okay? Okay.

Let's start with the time I turned you. Remember that? And even though we were under contract, we went out to that pub in Pasadena. But, of course, the bartender wasn’t even going to card me. So I told him that you and I had just gotten together and so he asked to see my ID and checked you out? That was really great. Rian bought me a cider and snapped this photo of Beth and I, this one that is “too cute to be allowed.”

And then there was that cocktail party, which would later be crowned the best party ever, when I felt you because, hello, it was a cocktail party! I thought, I must be 21 because I’m drunk and wearing this super nice dress in a tiny apartment full of other drunk, classy people. I really felt you then.

And right after that I graduated from college!

And remember when we got involved with Derek, who was so much older, but it was okay because you and I were together?

And we directed a high school musical?

Ooo, ooo! And we bought that car in New York, you and I, 21, we flew to Utica and drove back across the state. And then, later, we drove across the country. And if I’d been with any other age, 21, it wouldn’t have been cool. But you were the perfect companion.

I like, too, how you and I have never had any money. You didn’t bring me any money, but I’m okay with that. I was never with you for the money anyway.

Man, I really loved you.

But, you know, you didn’t bring me all joy, either. You and I did have to bury my Grandad together. And we did lose Kevin and Katherine and Rian, even after everything. And we hurt a lot of people. And we didn’t do all the things we planned and so much hoped for.

But you were always there. And you showed yourself in so many ways. With you, 21, I perfected my karaoke technique, drove to Pennsylvania and Virginia, scoffed at people who were getting married, boomeranged to live with my parents, vacationed in Bermuda, got involved in a string of crazy relationships, flew to Orlando all by myself, stayed out late and all night if I wanted to, joined my friends in being concerned for anyone who drank responsibly, moved into an apartment in California, paid bills, took strange jobs, bonded with my brother, and slept on couch after couch after couch. All because of you!

And let’s remember our last night. Wednesday night. When I sat at the computer and watched you leave me, so quietly, minute by minute.

21, we were great together. Thank you; I’ll really miss you.

But this is goodbye.

Goodbye.