Spiritual Battle

A friend and I talked this morning about spiritual battle. I know this is a concept that many people disregard.  No one likes to think we are walking around constantly stalked by evil, and so many will just say, “That’s bunk.” 

And, that is fine.  You will either get what I am about to say – or you won’t.  You either sense it to be happening in your own life – or you don’t. 

It is easy to miss that you are in a battle.  It is easy to forget it, too – even once you have caught on.  THAT – forgetfulness – is actually a battle tactic.

If you want a good introduction to what I am hitting on here, read C.S. Lewis – The Screwtape Letters.  That should get you going.  Or, maybe it won’t. 

I once told a gal at the park, with whom I was inadvertently having daily playdates (Peeved was 3 years old), to read The Screwtape Letters, and she did.  I couldn’t wait.  I wanted to sit on that park bench forevermore with her – after she read it – so we could have juicy conversations about spiritual battle.  Bring the coffee, and let the deep talks roll!  Yummy!

She came to me a week later, and she said, “I have no idea what I just read.”

Hm.  Well.  That was a bummer.

I forget every day that I am in a battle; sometimes I go hours without realizing I am in the middle of a specific battle.  I can be feeling very strongly opposed to something, and the something can seem so insignificant, and I will wonder why I cannot just go and do it, but I will feel a force. I don’t feel the force straight away, mind you.  I move around ambivalent and oblivious for a good while. I will be trying to gain momentum, and a force pulls me, and I keep fighting to gain momentum, and the forces keeps pulling me back, and I finally – finally – will snap out of it and say, “Oh…I am in the middle of a battle.  There must be something more at stake here.”  I recognize there is a force, and I have to decide the source of the force.  This cannot be done on my own because I am just a human, after all, and so I have to pray.  I have to say, “Lord, I am trying to do this thing, and I cannot seem to get there.  Is that you slowing me down, or is that evil slowing me down?”  Usually, rather quickly, it will be made clear.  No, there is not an announcement across the bottom of the TV, but it does come.  I have learned to look for it, and it comes in all sorts of ways.  It is like a treasure hunt actually.  It can be rather fun to seek a sign.

This sequence of events happens to me a lot with regard to being social.  The entire world thinks I am an extrovert, but – to be honest – I need a LOT of me time.  I do give all I have in social settings, but it exhausts me.  I leave social settings spent.  I need alone time to regroup.  This regrouping can become indulgent.  I mean, how long do I really need to regroup?  I fear there is an invisible line between regrouping and regrouped, and if I cross too deeply into regrouped, without socializing, I am going to become unhealthy mentally and spiritually.  I wish I could tell you that I – by myself – can do wonderful spiritual works.  I cannot attest to this.  I, by myself, can dig one heck of a hole, into which I fall.

And so.

I need to get out of the house.

But, it needs to be the right kind of “out” because I am also very evil sensitive, and when I get in a setting with too much of a bad thing, I leave nearly sick.  Sometimes, I realize I have to go into these settings, and I put on The Armor of God, and I go.  However, if I am unaware, and I just go waltzing in, it doesn’t end well for me.

And so, it means a lot to me to know where I am going and who is going to be there.  I repeat the safe bets.

It is when I have somewhere to go that is new or is perhaps a repeat safe bet, but it is evolving, that I pick up on the force as I prepare to go.

Does this mean there is work for me to do there, work that God has me in mind to do?  And evil wishes to stop me?  Or does this mean I am not designed to handle what awaits me, and God is trying to protect me?

Here, I would like to insert lyrics from the Clash:

Should I stay or should I go now?

Should I stay or should I go now?

If I go there will be trouble

An’if I stay there will be double

So come on and let me know

Should I stay or should I go?

You never knew you could sing that song to God, did you?

Praying doesn’t have to be boring, folks.  

Glue

To follow up on my last post, I am going to talk about glue…

Super glue.

You quite likely have had a Super Glue incident,

when you accidentally got a glob of glue between two fingers, and you had that panicky moment when you remembered your mother cautioning you that there is NOTHING created-yet-by-man that can get your fingers unglued, should you bond them together, with this Super Glue.

And so, regretfully aware that you have disregarded yet another of your mother’s premonitions (she KNEW you’d do this), you hold up your two fused fingers, and – yep – you’re an extraterrestrial,

and you take that first step toward acceptance…that you will have to live like this.

Then, you realize. 

You can use nail polish remover.

And your mother is an alarmist.

In life, we experience a lot of these panicky moments, when we think we are glued to something, when in fact, we are not.  We also experience that moment of acceptance, when we say, “I am just going to live like this.”  Sadly, many people live like that…forever.  Many people are not taught, from the youngest of ages, how to discern what is for them and what is not for them, and – more importantly – how to steer clear of or break free of what is not for them. 

More important than academics, I try to teach my homeschooled children how to break free.  I think society has a lot of gluey, sticky pockets, and your kids need to know how to get through without being fused to something burdensome, worrisome, or – just plain immoral.  Also, your children need to know themselves well enough to know what isn’t for them in terms of their unique skill set; their God-given potential, and their future contributions to the world. 

If your child spends too much time stuck in the wrong education, it is likely that your child won’t have ample time to dig deep into the right stuff – for him or her.  There is no such thing as too much of the right stuff when it comes to learning.  This is how we foster brilliance, genius, and…well… Bill Gateses.  I don’t think Bill gave too hoots about his English Lit class.  I am not sure.  I am just guessing.  I bet Bill just wanted to get back to the garage.

We should let our kids hang out in the garage, their garage, as much as they demonstrate necessary.  We have no idea what kind of greatness is brewing in there, and – no – I don’t mean your kid is making beer in the garage.  You wish.

I MEAN – we don’t know what we don’t know.  Your kid is following his or her gift, and it is like a delicious roller coaster of fascination, with dips that give them that funny little feeling in the bottom of the stomach.  THAT is what learning should be.  It should be that funny little feeling – that feels like jumping out of bed in the morning because you smell bacon.  It should not be dread or anxiety or depression or doubt.  Your kid should smell the bacon, every morning.

IN COMES MARRIAGE (how's that for a segue?).

It is perplexing.  Our society is made up primarily of people who are glued to jobs they hate, BUT…they will lose their marriage if it doesn’t provide the "free-fall" state of plummeting down a hill of love.  

I think we have this backwards.  We should require our jobs to be the thrill ride, and we should understand that our marriage is the work.

Yes.  You read it correctly.  Marriage is work.  

You go to your JOB to take a little daily vacation from your spouse, also known as your “rock tumbler,” the device that will smooth out all your ugly imperfections.  And – yes – you are ugly.  If you think you are not ugly, then you have even MORE work to do, in your marriage.  The LEAST you can do is come into your marriage knowing you are a mess, unfit for heaven, and wanting someone to help you.  If you come into it thinking you are sliced bread and you are looking for someone to remind you of your perfect slices…well…then we are really going to have to get out the sandpaper.

We must teach this to our children.  It is very simple:

1)      Your JOB is enjoyable.

2)      Your MARRIAGE is work.

When we get this backwards, we are in big trouble.  

If you go to your job that you hate, and you get psychologically beat up and thrown around and tortured, you are not going to be in any condition to come home and have that happen to you again.

You will break.

Many break, and when they DO – they find a new spouse – instead of a new job.

Hm.

IN COME THE CHILDREN.

I would like to redefine your children for you.  Your children – herein – are called THE GLUE.

No…they do not glue you to your job.  Your children super glue you to your spouse.

I mean, the sacrament of marriage actually glued you to your spouse, but since you cannot SEE the sacrament of marriage running around your house in a saggy diaper, then I am going to give you the visual –

your children are the visible GLUE.  

And, not just glue…your children are SUPER GLUE.  Thas right.  You and your spouse have been further irreversibly super glued together – you are a unique alien being- one big lump of ugly, and you can thank your kids.

And – this time – nail polish remover does nothing for you.

You can even get divorced.

Your kids still glue you together.

Get used to this.

Every time my husband and I have gone through a particularly rough patch in our marriage, and by particularly rough patch, I mean a time when the sight of his face made me physically ill, yes…every time we got in one of those patches, God sends glue.

Not kidding.

I know, I know. I know you wanted to picture me with my pregnancy test wand, in the bathroom, crying tears of great joy, calling in my fabulous husband, embracing my supportive husband lovingly, thanking God for my wonderful, fabulous, supportive husband.  I know you wanted that image.

Sorry.

With the exception of our first TWO children, both of whom were conceived and born before the proverbial Shih Tzu hit the fan....

After the Shih Tzu…

the occasion of learning of my pregnancy was less than pleasant.

I would be struggling through my days.  Praying incessantly…a walking rosary on repeat…begging God to get me through without maiming my husband, and I would stop dead in my tracks. 

A loud, clear voice would speak a very precise question,

“When was your last period?”

Long 

Long Long 

Long Long Long Pause.  

A walk to a calendar.  

Counting.  Recounting.  Counting again.  Going back to previous months.  Counting every day in the past year.  

Counting again.  Hm.  Yes.  Well then.

Back home.

To bathroom.

To toilet.

Pee all over your shaking hand.

I would place that pregnancy test wand on the bathroom counter, and I would fall to my knees – FALL to my knees…like the REAL DEAL…when you actually don’t plan a theatrical display…you FALL, unannounced…to your kneecaps.  And, from that place on the ground, I would CRY OUT, “Let it be done to me according to your will,” and I meant it, people.

We are Catholic…conservative Catholics…NO birth control.   I mean…we throw in a little NFP for good measure, but we are humans.  

We are OPEN to children. 

This word – OPEN.

Do NOT be confused.  This does NOT mean we are delirious or delusional.  I am not overconfidently, arrogantly thinking, “I – because I am superwoman – can raise 25 children.” 

NO.  

I am open and thinking, “I know nothing.  God knows everything.  God will entrust me with whomever he will entrust me, and whoever comes will be a gift beyond imagination, and I will give all I have and all I do not yet have, and will be all I can be, completely dependent on God.  This child will remind me how much I am completely dependent on GOD.  This child will bless my marriage in ways unimaginable and infinite…much like God’s love.  This child is LOVE.  I am open to love.”

SO, there I would be, on the floor, in my bathroom, bawling over God’s love…

feeling very little love, 

“I do not like my husband.  How am I going to like him with mind bending morning sickness and debilitating exhaustion?”  

I would then come back up from my knees, ready for the announcement, and I would see that I was pregnant, 

and I would go back down to my knees, like a mole burrowing into a hole – for however long it took – to find the will to get back up again – to get back up and face love. 

Face love.

No one broken is ready for love.  We are ready for anger.  We are ready for battle.  We are ready to fight, with claws out.

Love.

Hurts.

The Ugly.

Sometimes, I was down there until someone came looking for me, and then I would have to lie and say I dropped something and was looking for it,

and the wee visible glue that came looking for me would say, “Mommy, Why are you crying,”

and – as usual – I would say, “I remembered a sad song.”

My kids think I listen to a lot of songs.

God sends the Super Glue.

God sends it.

Because you are coming loose.

Because you need LOVE.

And at your worst, you need the MOST.

Let us review:

1) Your JOB is enjoyable.

2) Your MARRIAGE is work

3) Your CHILDREN are glue.

And maybe your mother wasn’t an alarmist; she was just coming unglued.  

That’s when we tend to overreact.

Blind

I write this poem for my Husband, on Father's Day.  I love him.  I thank him for taking me from really selfish to increasingly selfless (notice I just wrote "increasingly," so that doesn't really quantify my selflessness...).  He is my greatest blessing.  Many friends come to me with troubles in their own marriage, and I urge "STAY TOGETHER.  STAY TOGETHER."  There will be days when the pain of staying together will be the greatest pain you will ever know - you will think no one else on the planet has ever suffered so much in a marriage, and you will nearly shut down...the pain will be that overwhelming.

THIS is when your soul is undergoing the most change.

It will feel like torture, but I PROMISE YOU it will end well - it will end supernaturally well.  It will end way better than you could have ever imagined in those torturous moments.

Stay together.  Stay together.

You are working on each other.

Stay together.

Even if you cannot see where you are going.

Go.

Blind.

********************

A Poem For My Husband...

Blind date.  You walked to the car where I waited, cynical, strutting, willing to try.

Ogling, surprised, we coyly reacted. 

Nervous laughs. 

Attractive physique…accidental sighs.

Uninterrupted courtship, day after day, dreamlike-hypnotizing-butterflies.

Coffee-mug-long afternoons,

outlining thoughts,

paving paths on a barefaced love affair high.

Incredible adventures, impromptu, sampling surroundings, the entire East Coast

“I do not choose to be common;”

we bow to no master;

a proud, indulgent, youthful boast.

Elegant matrimony.  Off to the wild west – Texas – an unconquered state with few laws.

Immediately with-child. 

Stability requested. 

Self-serving voyage takes a necessary pause.

Morning sickness beyond imagination –clinging to normal; boring automatic mode

Curious phases;

remembering independence,

begging for mercy and adjusting the load.

Jobs and more jobs – nameless and faceless – others from elsewhere getting the pay;

“Don’t they know who I am?”

Ego deflated;

frustrations mounting; humbleness stays.

Scraping; fighting; sacrificing; sleeping on sofas - wishing me gone;

Loving; crying;

begging for grace;

forgetting the courtship - just holding on.

Children come in a pattern; a girl…a boy…a girl…a boy; we’re broke again.

Completely surrendered;

forgetting the courtship –

just running the business, barely friends.

When out of the heavens,

disaster;

awakening –

shaken to the core

when his body fails. 

Surreal interpretation; months of deep silence; sensing the messages; saving our tails.

New start. 

New love. 

New appreciation. 

New hope. 

New view.

More mature ways.

New laughs.  New sighs.  New paths.  Less hesitation. 

Holding hands walking in a new phase.

Remembering the courtship.

Remembering the courtship.

Remember your courtship.

I can see you again.

Rebuilding; renewing; reintroducing – “Hi, remember me?”  Avoiding mistakes;

For children –

giving everything –

ignoring your limits –

giving flight to their futures - whatever it takes.

Together, a journey – a quilt of flaw and potential; a masterpiece in the making;

Amazing grace.

Together, we are parents

We are lovers

We are friends like no other;

And wiser now,

So much wiser now,

In a meaningful, contented, well-informed space.

Blind faith.  You walked to the place where I waited, in awe of me, in awe of you,
promising we could fly.

Over them; over it; over it all,

appreciative laughs;  

aging physique…supernatural sighs.

Blind.

Sipping

Today, like yesterday, and probably much like tomorrow, I sat for hours under a large beach umbrella, shaded perfectly, sipping iced tea.

While I sipped, I doted on Baby Child, listening to the soothing sounds of my kids playing with other kids in our community pool. 

The breeze was constant.

And though the temperature was solidly in the 90s, I never so much as broke a sweat. 

My kids ran back and forth from the pool to me to the snack bar, and I was able to give them dollar bills without much thought.  They ate taffy, and each enjoyed a hot dog, and I was relieved that lunch was covered.  I didn’t feel even an iota of discomfort; I didn’t experience any stress.  I felt internally organized, which increased to clarity; I was moved to pray repeatedly.  I prayed as I watched each child.  I stared at each of them; I didn’t attempt to find the perfect thoughts. I just sat and stared and sipped.

Even a gaze is a prayer. 

I gazed and breathed slowly, allowing the Spirit to read my heart as I committed to memory these images of my children. 

So much love, expressed silently, transformed into pleas.

Allowing them to feel independent, I stayed back and stealthily kept watch on each child, as I covered them in prayers.  I was amazed and proud when I caught a glimpse of their many athletic feats and abilities – I could envision their futures; their best moments; their times of glory and fulfillment, occasions when their efforts would pay off.  I started to cry, just imagining it.  My heart swelled…with merely the recognition of their unlimited potential. 

I relished that I had five children.  Five. 

How could I deserve this…how could I - the me that I know - be the recipient of this…

God can see inside of my heart, my thoughts, my soul…He therefore knows what a wretch I can be; what a fake I can be; what a hypocrite I can be…

Yet, Five.

Five.

Thank you…thank you...thank you…. 

I am sorry…I am sorry…I am sorry….

I noticed Shirtless had perfected freestyle, which he swam enthusiastically each time he jumped into the diving well, where he was the youngest kid by at least three years; he was high-fiving teenagers.  Pixie was learning to dive, too, and she visited me the most, coming by cheerfully to check on me and to reapply sunscreen according to the manufacturer’s recommendations– so responsible, so together.  Peeved and Tuber were strutting around, having come to this playtime straight from swim practice.  Their posture and their attitude communicated their thoughts:  they were trained professionals in a pool of recreational swimmers.  I had to laugh out loud.

There I was.  Sipping. 

How did I get there? 

So much before there. 

I would have never dreamed. 

There.

And it was not lost on me.

And it was not lost on me that while I sipped, my husband was in fire-retardant, heavy coveralls in a barren field of over 100 degrees, surrounded by loud machinery, without his family for weeks…

To purchase these sips -

For me.

So much love, expressed silently, transformed into pleas.

Thank you.

My Trip To Sea World...To Be Read in Vincent Price’s Voice.

You will need water.

It will cost $2.89 a bottle.

You will try to sneak it in.

They will stop you.

You will flock to water fountains.

The fountains will be grimy with the thick slobber of a million parched civilians.

And you will decide it is better to die of thirst,

than to die of whatever is living on that silver fountain doohickie.

You will see the whale in all his glorious aquamarine water.

Yet, you will have none.

None of that….water.

The whale is trained to mock you.

Remember, he is a killer.

Don’t buy his stuffed animal.

If you ever make it out of the park alive…hydrated…

you can find that blessed stuffed whale at every Garage Sale in America.

For 25 cents.

Instead of $15.

But, why would you want a memento…

Dig an empty Dasani water bottle out of the trash…

Put that on your bookshelf…

That’ll bring back memories.

Remember the sing songy shrill screeches of the whale,

“See the water…wouldn’t you like some water…aren’t you thirsty for our water…you are drying up like a prune without water…it only costs $2.89 cents for 12 ounces of water...Dasani…Dasani is our water….”

And you will remember the moment…when the giant tease almost splashes you…just almost…even though you are sitting squarely in the Splash Zone, with your hands outstretched, praying incessantly for just a drop of refreshing water to splash on your sizzling forehead,

But no. 

There is no water here.

No water for you.

And so you go back out to the pathways of black asphalt,

where you walk along hotter than you have ever been in your entire life,

pushing a howling baby in a stroller that is weighed down by bags and bags of items you snuck into the park…so much that the net compartment on the bottom of the stroller is actually dragging on the black asphalt as you plod.

You are making sparks.

But you didn’t sneak in water,

Because they will let you bring in anything at all,

salty chips…melting granola bars…crack cocaine…

But no water. 

They will confiscate all water at the gate,

And they'll dump it into Shamu’s tank.

And you continue plodding on the steaming black asphalt, moving forward to another “show,” and you see the actors beside you on the black asphalt walkway, smiling and talking happily and hydratedly...

minions, paid by the Big Whale, to confuse you, to keep you going.

You smell your skin cooking, and you notice you smell just like McDonald’s French Fries.

You sicken yourself.

Yet, you crave fries

Then, just when you are at the end of your rope, 

your husband, who did not go on this trip with you, calls your cell phone, and he will say in an annoyed, accusatory, calloused voice, 

“ I see 25 charges of  $3.15,” 

and you will pry your parched lips apart to say,

“The Dasani…

and its tax….”

Why...oh why...are the pathways black asphalt?

Why not cobblestone or mulch or dirt?

Or something whimsical?

Okay...Okay...Why not plain ol cement....

Whatever happened to plain ol cement....

You drop an egg that you have scavenged from a nest,

And it fries up nicely on the blacktop,

And  your children, dehydrated like jerky, crack (seriously, they are cracking) a smile and try to cry happy tears over the frying egg, but they cannot produce tears.

You spray more sunblock on their skin.

More sunblock.

More sunblock.

More and More…

You freak out and start spraying strangers with sunblock.

Water, water everywhere,

And not a drop to drink.

Not even a drop to cry.

But you still know how to sweat.

Oh yes.

You are one hot sweaty mess of unspeakable magnitude.

Your body is kicking out the last water it has.

Gushes of french fry-smelling sweat go sliding down your back like rapids – the waistband of your bathing suit is a saturated sponge, and when you finally sit, you think you have wet your pants, and you have…just  not with urine…

because you have not peed in 12 hours…

and you may never pee again.

And you pull your bathing suit away from your sticky bottom – not even discreetly…you are way past discreet…

And…oh, by the way…you didn’t need to wear your bathing suit that is lodged now in your buttcrack

Because the waterpark is extra –

Thas right –

Your ticket does not permit entrance to the water park,

So the actors,

Squealing over yonder on the big waterslide poking into the clouds,

They are just taunting you, too…

If you listen hard enough, you can hear what the actors are squealing from the slides,

They squeal,

“Dasani.”

This is Sea Inferno.

No water for you.

No water in the Sea for you.

Unless you want to cough up

$2.89...

 ($3.15 with tax).

Writer's Block

I have almost too much to say. 

I am trying to poke a small hole in my memory so I can allow just a slow trickle of information,

but I do fear we are toying with an explosion here. 

I have not been able to blog, and the reasons are three: 

1) my husband came home from work for the first time since I started blogging;

2) my children had mysterious viruses,

3) we went to visit a dear friend, during which time we went to Sea World (shudder).

Now, which one of those do you want to dissect?  Cause…I’m leaning towards Sea World, 

hereafter known as Sea Inferno. 

Yes.  Let us pause for one moment, just in case you are reading this blog in your car as you are parking in the Sea Inferno lot:

Abort mission.  

Eat the $17 you just paid to park and run like the wind.  

Skedaddle -

Spurn Shamu.  

The Splash Zone is a lie.  

You don’t even get splashed.  

Evil Evil Whale.  Go.  Flee.  Live.

We will come back to that.

I could probably sum up the other two writer's blocks (Husband and Sick Kids) muy rapido.

Like, I could just say, “Guess what…no blogging when husband is home from work.”

And, no, not because husband is all, “Don’t blog, woman.”  

No…not like that.  Husband doesn't use WORDS.  

Husband uses UNDERWEAR.

He throws around underwear. 

Yep. 

I mean, NOPE…not like THAT. 

I meant - like this:

I meant husband doesn't put his underwear in the dirty clothes…

he literally just steps out of them when he is finished with them…and he must think, “Oh…where does this go,” and he sees a tissue dispenser near the sink, and he thinks, "There." 

And he also throws socks all around...sometimes even over a chair- any chair – and you are like, “Are these clean or dirty?” and he asks you to throw them at him, and you are happy to throw anything at him, 

and  you throw the socks, and he proceeds to SMELL them, so he can come to a decision about their status.  

And t-shirts are done similarly – we find them on floors and over chairs, and we are instructed to smell under the arms as an assessment.  

All this sniffing of socks, shirts, and…no, not underwear (I draw the line) is very time-consuming.  My house is a laundry obstacle course, with feats of nasal ability.

I am very busy when Husband is home.

In addition to sprinkling unmentionables about the house, Husband cooks great big elaborate meals that would be perfect for visiting dignitaries. 

He uses lots of pots, pans, patience, towels, and ingredients.  It is quite fantastic, but it can wipe out an entire day.  Seriously – it is a day-long thang. 

He rises from his bed and bellows, "Today, we will EAT."

Overachievers.

This day-of-eating has many parts:  there is the “anything your heart desires” development of the feast; followed by the shopping for the ingredients; leading to the preparing of the meal; resulting in the actual feasting, and ending with the pièce de résistance: the three-hour cleanup. 

All of this is carried out amid unutterable mêlée, and it is deemed “Family Time,”

Oops...not my family...

After which, Husband says little things such as, “Let’s drive to New Mexico,”

and he means…like…after you are done with the dishes.

Nope.  No blogging in the middle of THAT.

Now…reason numero dos for not blogging:  Sick Kids…Mysterious Viruses…

Well, I mean, does Sick Kids...Mysterious Viruses even need splainin? 

They stick their filthy fingers up their nose so they can extract boogers for snacks. 

There.  Explained.

So….

What are we left with...

The Place with the Whale.

We shall look now at the third cause of blogless days and nightmares at night:

Sea World…oops…I mean Sea Inferno.

Actually, I will discuss it tomorrow.  I thought I could do it today, but...

I am just not ready to reflect just yet.  Still licking wounds…I mean, burns.

I will say just this: 

Black Asphalt.

BLACK…people-cooking….

asphalt.

Sanctuary

A guy I knew from high school passed away a few days ago.  He was a friend to many. 

It is an exaggeration for me to say he was “my friend” because I never really hung out with him nor did I walk the halls with him at school…I never went over to his house for his birthday nor did I offer him a shoulder at any time.  We might have sat beside each other in a math class.  Unfortunately, that would be the extent of our closeness. 

It is usually true that when someone dies, folks attempt to highlight the connection between themselves and the one who has passed.  Many will abruptly elevate an acquaintance to a really good friend.

It seems we want others to understand we knew this person, and we feel like we need to exaggerate to facilitate this. 

Maybe we are trying to embellish how affected we are by this passing, in hopes that we will chisel through our own complicated layers and realize how fortunate we are to still be among the living,

And we will “snap out of it” – whatever “it” might be. 

Maybe we innocently perceive it as a chance to let loose some of the emotions we keep cooped up inside. 

Whatever it is – we experience death when we hear about it. 

Even if you ignore it, you are still responding to it – you are just employing denial.

But, I went to school with the recently-departed for 6 years – grades 7 through 12,  a time in my life when I was reading every face for clues – clues telling me who was harmless; who was triumphant; who was cruel; who was on my side…which person was the most like me.  I am sure I read his face a thousand times, so there is a familiarity. 

In fact, I can picture his face perfectly right now. I haven’t seen him in 25 years, so I try to age him in my mind, but he comes right back as being probably around 12 years old.  

He had a head of curly blonde hair, a kind smile; gentle eyes, and a bashful red flush that would come over his face; this bashful flush was disarming – observable shyness; I knew he would never do anything to hurt me, and that is probably why I spent less time getting to know him.

What a twisted approach to happiness I had.

Back then, I was in the habit of expending half my energy on outrunning unprovoked foes and the other half befriending a challenge. 

A shy, kind soul would have likely gone unnoticed by me in my constant tragedy mode, but I am certain he did not go unappreciated by all those more reasonable.

But, yet,

I am sure I was happy when his seat was next to mine, instead of a foe sitting next to me.

I am sure I was happy when his body stood next to mine in a line, instead of a challenge standing next to me.

He was sanctuary.

And so, for me, without ever realizing it until this minute, this shy, kind guy from high school is well-regarded in my memory.

We don’t often realize how vast, how deep, and how detailed our sphere of knowing is, and I am certain we don’t grasp how many people are inside of it and the roles they played then and play now in our daily interactions…how we use the most ordinary connections from the past to feed what we are doing right now.

For instance, if – today - I saw a man with a head of curly hair and a pink flush on his face, I would be disarmed, and I wouldn't even know why.

The people from our past are present in our today, even though we would never comprehend that as we go along.  Everyone we repeatedly interacted with…even on the smallest scale…has a place in our now.  Some of those impressions are positive…some are quite negative.  Most are somewhere in between.  But, they are here. 

Even when they are gone from sight…

Even when they are gone from the Earth…

Even as we are all getting closer to our own death.

And when I am gone,

I can conclude that only my children will mourn, along with a few relatives, and probably a small number of dear friends. 

But, maybe there will be faraway acquaintances that will remember me, too – people with whom I may not have spent much time or to whom I spoke few words,

but when I was near, their head didn't have to spin with doubt; I allowed them to feel safe, accepted, and relaxed:

Sanctuary.

I am thankful for every sanctuary I never knew I knew.