A WRITTEN CONTRADICTION

From time to time I will post pieces that might best be desribed as story-essays. Maybe I’ll call them stessays, or essories… or fictessays…fictessories…essayictional. Perhaps real writers have more elegant names for such things. Some columnists do it and call it journalism. Some CEOs do it and call it creative accounting. Some politicians have done it and called it justification for war. Preachers do it all the time in the name of the Lord. I just do it to tell a truth. I’m not pretending to report the news to you, or ask you for your vote, or convert you. If I were, I would have a strong responsibility to be as accurate as possble. But in this web log, I’m just telling you things that are meaningful to me, in a way that is meaningful to me. Hopefully you will find them meaningful as well. I leave it to you to pull the truth from the tangles.

These writings generally begin with and follow the details of real-life events. The mountaintop story pretty much happened that way, at least as it lives in my memory. The Chicago El story is accurate too, except that at the time I had no vision of God as an Asian woman, and I couldn’t possibly have gotten all the dialogue correct. And I don’t think the Fullerton stop is on the Red Line. That’s the way it works. I mean, when Frank McCourt tells us in Angela’s Ashes about a conversation he overheard when he was six, I don’t believe for a second that it actually went down that way. Doesn’t mean the story isn’t true.

The truth isn’t always in the data. More often than not, the truth is in the telling.

I’m not attempting to fictionalize the events to deceive or manipulate. I’m not selling anything. It’s just that as I recall these things I can’t always remember all the details, so I fill in the blanks. Also, I think about the meaning of the events. What the story means is as real as what physically happened. If I want to dramatize that meaning, I can. It’s my blog and I’ll do what I want. If you don’t like it, argue with me in the comments section, or add me to your prayer list, but for God’s sake don’t talk to me about the Truth unless I'm your president or pastor.

I happen to believe that there is a Truth “out there,” separate from our experiences. But I also happen to believe that such a Truth is pretty worthless. The only truth that matters is the one that’s “in here,” emerging through our stories and our relationships. Anything else is just a weapon. If it has to start with a capital letter, it’s probably used way too often to inflict blunt trauma.

If you’re the type to get your panties in a twist over what’s “true” and what’s not, here’s my advice: relax your grip on all the things you think you possess. First because it’s pure folly to think you really own anything anyway. And second, just because you think you control it doesn’t make it yours. Just sit back and enjoy the reach.

I heard singer-songwriter David Wilcox talk about putting God in a box, and how absurd that was.

“That’s like trying to put the wind in a box. You open the box a few days later, and you go ‘Damn, he was just here’.”

Kris Kristofferson might say these stories I share are a written contradiction: partly truth, partly fiction. Me? I’d say if Kris Kristofferson said that, he’d be mostly right.



COMING IN FEBRUARY: Book Reviews and…Politics (I think I’m finally ready to talk about it again.)

I'VE BEEN TO THE MOUNTAINTOP

I had never thought of my dad as old until August 2, 1992. I remember the date, because it was the day Betsy and I celebrated our seventh anniversary, and it was the year my parents turned 60. We were visiting their home in Colorado Springs, so Dad and I decided to take advantage of the opportunity and hike to the top of Pike’s Peak.

As I write this, I recognize how strange it was that I went hiking with my dad on my anniversary.

Dad enjoyed the mountains. He was pastoring a small Baptist church in the Springs that gave him time to be outdoors and to pursue an impressive fitness streak that he maintained for about six years. From about 1990 to 1996 he ran a minimum of two miles every day, without missing once. He was physically fit. Strangely obsessed, perhaps, but physically fit. He had done the Pike’s Peak hike a few weeks earlier when a college intern that was working at the church for the summer had made the trip with him. The intern had joked about Dad’s age and stamina before the hike. The intern’s youth was sucked out of him by the mountain, leaving him faint and stumbling. My father taunted him most of the way for being shown up by the old preacher. The young man had paid in lungs and muscle; he would also pay with his ego. Dad can be brutal that way.

The mountain can be brutal as well. Barr Trail runs from the Springs to the summit of Pike’s Peak (14,110 ft. elevation) over a distance of 13 miles and an elevation gain of 7,500 feet. It is not a journey for the faint of heart or weak of leg. I was in pretty good condition, but I was a little concerned about my ability to keep up with the man. It never occurred to me that things would turn out as they did.

I had never considered my dad as anything but strong. He was one of those men who could do whatever he set his mind to. He knew how to do everything and he had an answer for every question. If a threat or a problem ever presented itself, he rose to the occasion and took care of business. I had faith in him. When I was younger there were times I didn’t like him very much, and times I challenged his authority, but I never doubted his strength.

Once we nearly came to fisticuffs when I told my mom to shut up. Before I even had the words out of my mouth, the side of my face stung from his open hand. I was 17 and had been lifting weights pretty seriously for a year or two. I was playing football and benching 210 at the time, so when I instinctively came out of my chair and pushed him, it was no surprise that he hit the floor. But even then, after I retreated to my room in shame, I didn’t view my dad as weak. If anything I considered myself lucky. I thought the only way I had escaped a serious thrashing was that the Baptist preacher had risen up to calm the former truck driver and sailor in him.

So when we made our start on Barr Trail, I fell in behind him just hoping to keep up. The plan was for us to make our way in a single day hike to the summit, where the rest of the family would meet us, and we would drive home together on the Pike’s Peak Highway.


Barr Trail

The day was beautiful and the hiking was good, but not particularly wild. With the city sprawled out below and the Summit House Visitors’ Center and Gift Shop perched on top, civilization always seemed nearby; but it was still one of the most grueling treks I had ever taken. We reached the halfway point at Barr Camp and we were feeling pretty good. The only awkward moment was the brief rain shower that sent us under an A-frame shelter that we shared with a couple of dudes, who I can only assume were looking to treat their glaucoma with some of nature’s painkiller. We declined their kind offer for a hit (“Our eyes are fine.”) and got back to the trail. Never thought I would see marijuana and my dad in the same place.

Shortly after that, we started to come out above the tree line. Even though it was summer, the air grew colder, oxygen was in short supply, and the clouds began to roil. My body was hurting, but the pain was tolerable. Inspired by Greg LeMond and Miguel Indurain, I had been training pretty hard on the bike that year. I just kept envisioning myself pounding through the Alps in the Tour de France. All of a sudden I realized Dad wasn’t beside me. I looked around and saw him laboring fifty yards behind. I assumed he had stopped to relieve himself or tie his shoe, so I sat on a rock to wait. It didn’t occur to me that he was struggling. As he got closer I could see it on his face.

Before I continue, I have to tell you that there is risk in my writing this. My dad is still alive and well. In fact he is incredibly well for a 71-year-old man. If he reads this (of course the only way he will is if you or I show it to him, since he won’t have anything to do with computers) he may dispute my account of the events. He may challenge my story and claim that I am full of it. He is a proud man. And the truth of the matter is that my perspective may have been skewed by some unconscious journey, some deep emotional urge to weaken my dad as a way of strengthening myself. The Freudians and Jungians among you can fight over that one.

Regardless of what was really happening, I was unsure what to do. I didn’t want to take off and leave him, but I also knew him well enough to know that it would bother him if I held back. So I tried to do both. I went on ahead, then explored off-trail for awhile, allowing him to catch up.

Then the storm hit.

Both of us had spent a good amount of time hiking in the Rockies, so we knew it was important to be off the peaks by noon. Storms roll in nearly every day, and it can get nasty. In our hubris, we had tested the limits. It was after 2:00 and things were getting lively.

When it hit, it hit hard. The sky darkened, the wind picked up, the rain fell, and the lightning began to explode around us. You see, when you are in a storm near 14,000 feet, lightning doesn’t have far to travel, and there is nowhere to hide. If you haven’t been in the midst of such natural violence with no shelter available, it can be a terrifying experience.

We had reached the "Sixteen Golden Stairs,” a series of steep switchbacks that were not far from the top. I could faintly make out Summit House from where I was, but the exhaustion and the prospect of being blown apart by the storm were shaking my resolve to make the final push. I felt like I would have to dodge enemy bombs to make it to safety. I was reminded of a line from the Bob Dylan song, “Brownsville Girl,” when the Dylan sings, “I didn’t know whether to duck or to run, so I ran.”

We hesitated for a moment. Do we stop and hide in the cleft of a rock, or do we run like hell? We ran. As I reached the back entrance of Summit House, I felt the pain of the journey run through my entire body, but I was exhilarated. Mostly I wanted to dig into the “world famous” Summit House doughnuts. I expected Dad to be right behind me, but I didn’t see him immediately.

Then there he was, battling through the rain and exhaustion. Made it.


View from the summit.

He seemed smaller as he stepped out of the storm. He moved in slow motion. Absent was the look of accomplishment and joy. Instead he looked ill. As I made my way to counter for doughnuts, Dad headed to the restroom. I saw him returning down the aisle. He did not look well. When he got near me I swear I smelled the hint of vomit. I offered him a doughnut, but he just shook his head and sat down. I had to look away.

Who was this man I had followed all my life? This prophet. This king. Dare I say, this god. Who was he and what had he become? My center wasn’t holding. The effect was dizzying.

Who was I and what had I become? What was I becoming? I realized I didn’t know the answers to these questions. I didn’t know the answers, because I had not been asking the questions. I was a young man with a strong father. I didn’t need to have those things worked out. I felt like I was lost.

It seems that God has a way of delivering important messages on mountaintops. Abraham was asked to sacrifice Isaac, Moses received the 10 Commandments, Jesus’ Transfiguration…to name a few. I made a discovery on the mountaintop that afternoon. I discovered that I was on my own. It shook me with fear but also with anticipation. I mean, what value is there in grace if there is no risk? I had been living within an illusion of protection. All the mystery in my life was ultimately controlled or explained by my father. That mountaintop taught me that he is a victim of the storm just like me. I had always been able to count on my dad’s strength. When he became weak, I was able to see him in truth, and become strong for the first time in my life.

I return to that mountaintop—in my mind if not in person—from time to time, and I feel the fear of a little boy who can’t find his mommy or daddy, the disorienting feeling of losing your meaning-maker. I know now that the fear is the gateway to the strength. When I can let go of all the things: relationships, possessions, reputations, routines, answers, etc. that give me comfort and provide meaning for me, I am able to embrace the beautiful mystery that is faith.

For a long time I have resisted telling this story, because I didn’t want to hurt my dad’s feelings. But I know him, and I know the greatest gift I can give him is the truth, and the story of how I found greater strength and faith in his weakness.

Not long ago I visited the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis with one of my daughters. The end of the tour brought us to the spot in the Lorraine Motel where Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot. Before we reached the spot of that tragedy, we came to an exhibit that brought all this back to me. It was about the speech King gave in support of the striking sanitation workers on April 3, 1968—the day before he was assassinated. His words became my words.

Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.

I recalled the fear and the freedom I had when I stood on my mountaintop. I could only imagine the feeling of fear giving way to freedom on Dr. King's mountaintop. I couldn’t help it, I wept. I felt the deepest sadness and the presence of the deepest glory. At that moment I probably didn’t look very strong. To my daughter I might have even looked...older.

Dear God, may she find strength in my weakness.

"EL" IS FOR LOVE

My wife and I were spending a weekend visiting friends in Chicago. We were taking the elevated train from the south side of the downtown loop to meet our friends for drinks and Indian food. I must tell you that I love public transportation. One of the things I enjoy most about traveling in cities like Chicago or New York is learning the train systems and finding my way around, unassisted. I suppose it’s a neurotic need for independence, but it gives me a deep sense of satisfaction when someone asks me for directions and I can spout them off, complete with numbers and colors.

So, imagine my impatience when Betsy kept trying to get on the Orange Line rather than the Red Line to go north to Lincoln Park. Come on. I mean…sheesh. Wasn’t she paying attention? Didn’t she see how important it was that we look like we know where we’re going? Didn’t she know how important this was to me? People will think we’re tourists. We had long ago broken ourselves of carrying cameras around our necks and maps in our hands while craning our necks to see the tops of them big ol’ skyscrapers. We had gone native. We were wearing black for God’s sake.

As we boarded the crowded train, the tension between us brought silence. Not that it was noticeable. People don’t talk much on trains anyway. Only urban neophytes run their mouths on trains, so it suited me just fine. We stood holding the pole and looking around so we didn’t have to make eye contact with each other.

From my vantage point I surveyed quite a collection of folks. It was almost comical. I felt like we had stepped into the new reality show, “Stranger on a Train,” where great pains had been taken to artificially represent every imaginable group. It seemed that every race, culture, and orientation was represented.

There was the morose glam rocker. His mohawk, piercings, guitar case, and torn fishnet arm stockings webbed between his fingers told me this guy was not down with The Man. No sir. Judging by the condition of his eyes and the failure of his black-on-white makeup to maintain yesterday’s attempt at androgynous concealment, he appeared to be making his way home for the night, even though it was late afternoon. He didn’t give a damn. He’d look to see if you were looking, then tongue his lip ring and defiantly reject your gaze.

Sitting next to him was a youngish Latina trying to contain her two little babies. She was wearing some sort of working-class uniform, and I assumed that meant she was coming from or going to her mother’s house where she had picked up or was dropping off her kids before or after work, because I kept hearing “abuelita,” which I think is sort of like saying “granny.” She looked tired, but that didn’t tell me her destination; I was getting tired just watching her. Feeling the weight of the world, she roughly yanked one of the kids to her lap and began to assault him with a rapid-fire string of what I can only assume was Spanish profanities.

Standing next to her was the impatient businessman. He wore a finely tailored overcoat and carried a supple leather attaché case. He kept looking from the window to his Rolexy-looking watch, acting as if the world was a big inconvenience to him. I remember wondering why—if he was such a big deal—is this guy taking the El instead of a cab? Why rub against the common folks if you have so much? Then I thought, maybe it’s all a prop. It’s Saturday after all. Maybe he’s trying to impress someone. Maybe he’s just a paper tiger: a slob like one of us.

Two rows of college-aged guys sat across the aisle from the woman and her babies. Frat boys if I had to guess. They had the baggy eyes and raspy voices that betray the effects of late nights, social smoking, and alcohol-induced dehydration. But they wore their scars with a nonchalance and air of entitlement reserved only for the severely disillusioned, the socially privileged, or those emboldened by life lived within a pack.

In front of the frat boys sat an elderly Asian couple. They appeared to be in their eighties, and they weren’t speaking English. I couldn’t hear well enough to determine if it was Chinese (like I could anyway, with ten days in Sichuan Province as the extent of my cultural immersion). Their eyes and postures spoke of hard lives lived well. They held bags of groceries in their laps and chatted gently back and forth. They seemed at peace with each other, comfortable in their skin together, but apprehensive about the world around them. Right in front of me, but a world away.



I breathed in…ahh…the city. My homogenized home was far away.

Then I smelled it. And I hadn’t dealt it.

It was not the smell of a diaper. It wasn’t a surreptitious gas-letting. It was a pungent blend of body odor, bowels, and fresh vegetables. It was the old Asian couple. My suspicion was verified by the frat boys who were recoiling with opened mouths, smirky eyebrows, and waving hands.

“Mama-san and Papa-san shit pants!” said one.

“Clean up on aisle two,” added another, rounding his mouth and sticking out his front teeth on “two.”

They all began to convulse in their seats and stomp the floor in laughter.

Mama-san and Papa-san did not react. In fact they appeared oblivious to the ruckus. But the lines in their faces seemed to deepen. I stared at the frat boys in disbelief. I was struck with a deep desire.

What did I want? Justice. When did I want it? Right then. I wanted them to hurt. I wanted to open a can of Bigoted Frat Boy Whoop-Ass and throw down on the whole bunch of them. Violence fantasies cascaded through my head, but the better part of reason (or cowardice) prevailed, and I did nothing.

Just then, we came to a stop and most of the cast of “Stranger on a Train” began to spill onto the platform. Betsy, unaware of the vigilante fantasies dancing in my head, shuddered almost imperceptibly. She slowly shook her head as we sat in the vacated seats and the doors closed.

“Wow,” she said.
“Yeah,” I added knowingly as glam rocker, la familia, Mr. Rolex, Mama-san and Papa-san…and the smell exited the car. The frat boys left too, saved from the savagery of my vengeance.

The train lurched into motion. I could tell there was more on her mind.

“What?” I asked.
“I just had some kind of revelation,” she said. “Oh, but, it’s stupid.”
“What?”
“No, you’ll think it’s stupid. It’s just so elementary.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I just hit me when all those people were on here that God loves every one of them. And not one of them is loved any more or less than the other. No matter who they are, what they look like, or how they act. We can’t be bad enough or good enough to escape God’s love.”

All of a sudden I saw myself wearing my Kappa Gimme Gimme sweater, laughing at the poor and weak. I saw my face covered in Goth makeup scanning the crowd for someone to defy. I was an angry mother slapping my child. I was Uncle Rico, checking my cool watch so everyone could see I had a cool watch. It was too much. I was overcome. I felt the pain of every heart. The desperation of every soul to be loved like that.

Then I saw Him. Except he wasn’t a he, he was an old Asian woman. Time slowed. Everything got quiet as She looked at me like a mother looking into the eternity of a baby’s eyes.

It’s okay, son. You didn’t know. Thanks for wanting to protect me. Thanks for caring enough that you fantasized about beating hell out of those boys. It gives me joy that I mattered to you, that you thought about me at all. But you know what? Those boys matter to me. Their parents and I made them. Sure, they disappoint me sometimes, but you should see their hearts. Each one of them is the apple of my eye. And so are you.

Your stop is coming up and I want you to remember this. Never forget that there is no place you can go, and there is nothing you can do to escape me. Now, get out of here and be better than you were before.

And one more thing…listen to that wife of yours. She sees more than you think.

And there we were at Fullerton. Our stop.

Betsy got up. “This is us.”
“Yes it is.”

OF REACHING AND GRASPING

As a general rule, I despise the comment, “there are two kinds of people in the world.” Such remarks usually serve as prelude to idiotic observations describing a two-dimensional reality painted in red and blue and populated with paper dolls. So imagine my surprise when I discovered that…I believe the world is made up of two kinds of people (Whitman said, “Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself.”). There are reachers and there are graspers.

The differences between graspers and reachers are not easily discernible. They don’t have distinct speech patterns, body odors, or group affiliations (although some, like the leadership of the Southern Baptist Convention, are probably heavy on graspers). It’s just that there are people whose values trend toward a desire for certainty, finality, patterns, proof, knowledge, conquest, predictability, a sure-thing, tangibles, endings, decisions, efficiency, comfort, power, control, security, resting, precision, destinations, explanations, frowns, judgment, and big stuff. And there are those who seem to value risk, mystery, spontaneity, randomness, trust, adventure, beginnings, conversations, wandering, dancing, variety, diversity, long shots, underdogs, happy dogs, relationships, process, freedom, journeys, questions, laughter, grace, and small stuff.

Graspers are motivated by results, completion. Reachers are stimulated by impulse and whatever’s around the next bend. Of course all of us stumble around somewhere between reaching and grasping; but our hearts usually lie with one or the other.

I’m a recovering grasper. There was a time when I inhabited the far end of the grasping scale. I didn’t just hold on, I used my graspology as a cudgel to hammer people into my image. To know the truth and to bring others into submission to my version of it was my life’s mission. But I have been delivered (can I get an amen?). I suppose the source of my conversion may be the subject of future posts.

Don’t misunderstand me, I love graspers. Sometimes they have to hold on to the reachers in their lives to keep them from flying off the face of the planet. Grasping itself is not the problem. Like the overhead bars on the jungle gym, a strong grasp precedes a good reach. No grasp and you’re eating mulch. It only becomes a problem when we cease to reach. Like monkeys with trapped fists, unwilling to let go and be free.

Dan Fogelberg said it in bluegrass:

The higher you climb
The more that you see
The more that you see
The less that you know
The less that you know
The more that you yearn
The more that you yearn
The higher you climb

The farther you reach
The more that you touch
The more that you touch
The fuller you feel
The fuller you feel
The less that you need
The less that you need
The farther you reach

(“The Higher You Climb” High Country Snows © 1985 Epic/Hickory Grove Music-ASCAP)

It’s good to reach, but reaching can be dangerous. When we reach we stretch, exposing the weakest parts of the body to injury. Have you ever stretched out for something only to be poked in the ribs or otherwise taken advantage of while in a vulnerable position? It hurts. It also fosters distrust, making it less likely you will stretch as eagerly the next time.

I suppose that’s the beauty of reaching—it’s not without risk. We embrace the paradox and find our strength in weakness.

The aim of this web log is not to settle the issues of the day. The aim is to extend our reach. Who knows what I will be writing about? I suspect we will discuss religion, politics, culture, media, music, books, and the like. I will be too earnest and dramatic for some, while my natural flippancy and smartassedness will be a bit much for others. Sometimes I will be stretched out too far (or not far enough) for your tastes. Feel free to pull me in or push me further out. Just remember, watch the ribs.