Is this my last post? I can’t really tell, but I do know that I couldn’t leave without visiting – at least just once more – the beautiful skies of our 100 Word Song:
M’desk is standing-height. I wanna crawl underneath it, to hide from Him.
I wanna crawl underneath, but it’s too high, providin’ no space small enough to feel safe.
I wanna crawl underneath, despite His sayin’ that everything’s finally becoming as it shoulda always been… as it never coulda been till now.
I crave to crawl underneath, as His reassurances only cause to pain me more.
My wings’re becoming unbound. Stretchin’, flexin’, impatient to be tried. Not on m’own account, but simply cuz the time is Now.
I wanna crawl underneath. But doing so’s pointless, tain’t nothing can hamper my Flight now…
His name was Daniel, but he answered to Dan. As in when his mom called out, “Just tell the man ‘no,’ Dan.”
From my register I was asking him the same questions (those designed as blatant pleas to grab even more of your cash before you leave the store) that I ask everyone. I was doing so, both because we’re supposed to, and also because I didn’t want Dan to think that I saw him any differently than those customers that preceded him. Even though I did.
In fact, my interaction with him reminded me of a post that I wrote a little over two years ago now. A post remembered as I asked God to bless Dan and his family while they happily left my store. A post that I’d like to revisit here today…
She sat there, munching somewhat sloppily on her burger, occasionally spitting forth bits as she yelped out to no one in particular. And I sat there and stared. I felt bad that I was staring, but I wasn’t doing so out of rudeness. No, it was more like envy than superiority that I felt. It was more a case of “what if” than of “thank God not.” And here’s why.
Whenever I experience one living with severe special needs, I become somewhat immersed in what I imagine is their imprisonment. Their imprisonment in a world who wishes that they just weren’t around. Or at least, not quite so visible. But at the same time, I find myself jealous of their freedom. Freedom from this same world that ofttimes judges them in ignorance.
A world, mind you, that can be far more handicapped than they will ever be. A world filled with folk who care more about little dollar bills than they do each other. A world that places much more emphasis on the cut of the cloth than on the content of the character. In my very humble opinion, this world isn’t nearly good enough for people such as her. This world is a damned and empty shadow of what it could be, and I feel that we’ve all worked pretty hard at making it so. Or at the very least, sat back and simply allowed it happen.
So what of the poor girl-woman that suffered under my “not intentionally rude, but extremely rude nonetheless” stares? Why do I sometimes feel jealousy towards people like her? How could I be so crass as to make mention of the concept? Well, imprisoned as she appears, I would love to see the world through her eyes, just once. Just once to see if what I think to be true, actually is.
You see, I’m of the belief that her vision is much clearer than mine. I’m quite sure, in fact, that mine is muddled beyond the point of ever recognizing the Truth. A Truth that I believe she most likely sees quite naturally, and on a daily basis. A Truth that she may even long to share with the rest of us, if only we weren’t so ignorant to her language.
She sees the Truth, and I see only what I choose to see. And yet she is locked in the wheeled chair, while I roam free…
I suppose I should step back for a moment and let you know where my meanderings on the topic come from. I’ve no personal experience in my own family, but when I was young, I was forced (yes, I meant to say that – or at least did at the time) to volunteer at an institution that cared for people like my incidental lunch companion.
As my parents felt it was important to teach us about stewardship, part of their education to this end included a trip to a local long-term care center that managed the severest cases. As a young and unappreciative pisser, I recall hating the place when we first arrived. The stark white walls did nothing to conceal the smell of piss and medicine. The painted-over drop ceiling served more to rebound, than muffle the occasional non-sensical shout or yelp. The halls were clogged with wheel chairs, and in each sat an alien life form. A being so far removed from my knowledge of the world as to be almost comical, if only they didn’t frighten me so.
Being young, and being a pisser, and being there against my will, I decided that hatred would be my best response. Hatred towards these creatures. Hatred towards their needing my assistance. Hatred towards their being around at all. I did as I was told, but only just. How dare they make me? How dare they be here? How dare they exist?
And then, as happens so often in life, something happened. And that something was this. One of them began wailing. And not just a whimper or a sob, but an honest-to-Jesus moon-raising moan. One that would make you think that they were seeing Satan’s ghost himself. And for all I know, maybe they were. The wailing only made me feel uncomfortable. But to another, it provoked a different reaction. I can’t recall if it was an employee, a volunteer, a random passer-by, or maybe even an angel in disguise. But I do remember watching one soul walk deliberately up to the young wheelchair-entrapped wailer, and hugging them. Simply hugging them. The wails continued, but so did the hug. And eventually both were quietly put to rest. Both the hugger and the wailer were at peace. I stood there dumbfounded as the blinds were torn from my eyes, my little stupid pisser attitude backhanded to the floor.
I could physically feel myself growing up a little bit that day. One of the first of many times I’ve had the experience.
A little while later I was pushing along one of the more talkative residents who would speak and speak and speak, and occasionally even say something. At one point he looked me dead in the eye, and with no prompt or reason whatsoever, told me very lucidly the exact day it would start snowing and the exact amount – in quarter inches – that we would receive. I’m sure you already know by now that I’m going to tell you that he was exactly correct on both counts. EXACTLY. Dumb luck? Could’ve been. Dumb luck does seem to have a way of getting around. But I’d like to think that there’s something more to it.
In fact, I’d like to think that maybe – just maybe – there are certain people who are so spiritually in-tuned, so close to God, that they’re incapable of making themselves small enough as to deal with our little shambles of a “reality.” They’re exalted over the angels, but trapped on this mortal plain, and they simply can’t function at such a junior level. They need our help in this world, but only because we’ll need theirs in the next. We just don’t know it yet. They’re not “retarded,” we are. They are of a higher prominence, yet we sit smugly by and laugh at their superiority.
I know. It sounds a little too naive to be true. And that, in part, is why I wanted to jump into my lunch mate’s head. Just once I really would like to see if I’m right. Or if I’m an idiot. Or both. It’ll never happen of course. For one thing, we don’t live in a Disney movie, and switches of this nature just aren’t possible. But even if they were, I don’t feel that the swap would be a very fair one. For her, that is.
•••
I feel it’s important to note, I’m using this song today not in jest, but in respect. I too, long for the day when all of us “sane men” are locked away, and we allow the “mad” ones to finally be free.
As it turns out, she did have lovers other than me.
Mhmm, but what is that to you?
Well, she’s blaming me for everything, for our demise.
Again, what is that to you?
Also, she’s making people choose between us…
As those types are apt to do anyway. May I ask, what is that to you?
Oh! And she’s inventing in her head a “me” that I never was!
As is her choice. But honestly, what is that to you?
But it’s a lie!
In part, yes. But I’ve still no idea, what is that to You?
I don’t know.
I… I don’t know.
Then let go.
She has made it clear she no longer wishes you to be written into her book, but that hardly means that your story is over. Dear, it’s only now just begun.
In the past you’ve only seen the crescent, as was your choice. But I have always seen the whole of the moon. So write! Write your story with abandon! With glee! With love, and with confidence! Write it with My pen, and with your voice.
I assure you, I’ve seen the end of your tale, and I AM pleased. I am proud of you. The you that you are, and the you that you will become. The you that you already ARE becoming. I take Joy in you, and I Love you.
But what of her?
She has made herself no longer your concern.
Forgive her.
She broke her promise.
As did you. Forgive her.
But it hurts!
Exactly. Forgive her.
I will shelter and Love her as I do you, and as I do your three, and as I do your tribe. The very tribe that surrounds and comforts you. The tribe that beckons you onto your Tomorrow. Listen to them.
Her story is now hers and Mine alone. And as such Dear, what is that to you?
•••
“Forgive the inexcusable because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you.”
~ C.S. Lewis
•
My thanks to the talented Ms. Elena Caravela for once again allowing me to highjack one of her beautiful works for this post. And my deepest gratitude to my tribe – especially Beth, Marla, Keri, Cyndi, Shari, Stephanie and the Memolis – all of whom daily beckon me on towards Tomorrow while (whether they realize it or not) also keeping close to my heart the promise that He intoned above.
There has been something I’ve been struggling with about telling you. It’s a subject that those of you who have been following along for a while now, will know everything about. And those of you who have been following along since around 3/21/13, will not. I was still on the fence about discussing this subject, until The Daily Post begged us today to talk about Little Things.
You see, as a result of the recent life changes that have been tossing me about (again, if you’ve begun following only since late March, you’ll just have ask the person seated next to you what I’m speaking of, because you’ll no longer find any mention of it here), there was one final – and heartbreaking – decision that had to be made.
The children we were tasked with caring for, while their mother got back on her feet, were no longer best served by living in our house. We – I – had to let them go. As was the case before we initially brought them in, I once again asked my kids their opinion, and ensured that we were all first in agreement. The little ones were slated to be reunited with their mom in June anyway, but that in no way made the decision – nor the subsequent call to Child Protective Services – any easier.
I explained the current situation, and broke down slightly, apologizing while saying we were going to have to back out. The case worker was very kind in thanking us for everything we had already done (especially considering there was no kinship involved), and said that she would be happy to try to get the children relocated promptly.
As fate would have it, of all the life tossing going on just now, this solitary item may have turned out to be the one blessing in disguise; as it was determined that instead of placing them anew, the children would simply be reunited with their mom (who is doing well) earlier than anticipated.
So they are gone now, and out of my life. Most likely forever.
After we had packed their lives into the over-sized pickup truck that their mother’s friend trundled into our driveway and had seen them on their way, Ian (my youngest) and I retreated to the house where I, in an extraordinary feat of extreme manhood, fell to the bed weeping. Ian, being just about one of the most empathetic people I know, softly patted my back and in response to my moan of being sorry that I was failing everyone, said simply and calmly, “daddy, you are not failing anyone.”
I hope he’s right. And I hope that these two little things – these two precious and beautiful little things who invaded my life for almost a year, and opened my eyes to a whole different world – will never be overlooked again. Not by their mother nor the system sworn to protect them.
I still don’t know what it was all about – us taking them in, that is – or if it helped in the least that we did. And please don’t tell me blindly that it will all just be worth it in the end. There hasn’t been one soul yet who has been able to make me buy that line. I have a sort of a “Now just what were You thinking?” finger wag list that I’m compiling, and when I do meet God, “whatever became of these two little things” will be one of the questions pretty damned high up on that list.
Yamil and Delilah, I know you’ll never see this. But I want you to know that I hope you have fond memories of your time with us. I hope that God continues to bless you on your journey, and I hope – I pray – that whatever it was I was supposed to do for you, I did.
I will miss you Little Things. You crazy, obnoxious, pains-in-the-ass and simply beautiful little things. Please, go in peace.
“I agree, and that’s the thing that kills me, especially when considering the fact that I don’t believe in predestination.”
So say I.
I really don’t believe in it. Predestination, that is. And yet, I do believe that there are certain experiences in ones life, that have to occur in order for that person to fully realize themselves (or at least have the opportunity to do so).
“So, how does that work then, t?” Well, I’ve given it a bit of thought actually, and I think (believe) that it all comes down to this.
Now first, a bit of a disclaimer: I read a lot of what my kids call “Jesus books.” “There’s daddy, reading another one of his ‘Jesus books’ again” they snidely say. Stupid kids, whatta they know anyway? But that’s not the point. The point is that what I have to say below is most likely just a simplified conglomeration of other people’s – smarter people’s – thoughts. And if what I say sounds brilliant or wise in any form or fashion, it’s quite accidental that it should be coming from my hand at all, and is much more likely just the result of a having a good memory.
OK, here goes – here is how I think it works.
Say I’m a blogger, which I am. Prior to you ever receiving the “magic” that flows from my slightly abused and underused mind, I have to write it all down. But before hitting “post” I – like all good bloggers I would assume – proofread that sucker, making any corrections that are needed first. Now, that’s not how I think it works yet, though.
No, then we move on to you, You read whatever I post, and if you’re like me, you sometimes go back through thinking to yourself, “Oh, he really should have elaborated on that bit more,” or, “I wish he hadn’t made mention of that at all,” or again “What in the devil is he even talking about, and why am I reading this dribble?” (Just so you know, I always assign you all with British accents whenever I imagine you talking like this.) In short, you – internally at least – edit my work. THAT is how I think it works. We write the story, but God reads it, and once done, goes back to tweak the narrative in ways that will provide us with the best possible outcome to the tale.
How is it that He could read a story that I’m only now just working on chapter 43 of myself? Easy. I am handcuffed by time. He is not. I am trapped in the trenches of life, while He sits above it. While I can only be exactly here and now, God can skim through my story at will, jumping ahead or back as desired (yeah, I’m pretty much stealing that whole idea just now from CS Lewis. Can’t remember which book exactly, but whichever one of his you happen to pick up, will be worth a read none the less).
So, in a nutshell, that’s how I think it works. We the writer, He the editor. We, the main character in our own story and – should we be very diligent in recognizing his edits – we the ones who get to learn, to grow in life, to enjoy the “happily everafters.”
•••
PS: Yes, I’m aware that the song above has very little to do with the actual post. It’s Elvis Costello – ima gonna use it anyway.
as long as i'm singing 