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This is the City You’re Afraid Of

Photo by Tom Sodoge via Unsplash
Photo by Tom Sodoge via Unsplash

The four oldest kids and I bundle up and walk out the front door, on to the sidewalk that runs along James Street. It’s 5:45pm and January, which means it’s almost dark, the sun drowning in the buildings that line the western sky. And it’s cold – the wind whips through the intersection of Prince and James, and we wait at the corner for the light to change, and we all sort of gather closer together like penguins waiting out the darkest days.

“Look at the moon!” Lucy says, and it’s there, barely visible, a thin, rounded silver thread. We follow it as if it is a guiding star, all the way to the Y.

Inside, the girl at the desk smiles and welcomes us and my glasses fog up because of the humidity from the pool and we walk up a long flight of steps to the second-floor gym. The three younger kids are absorbed in a cloud of children for an hour of Fit Kids fun, while Cade goes to the other half of the gym for basketball practice. Older neighborhood teenagers hang around the margins, waiting for an extra moment when they can shoot some hoops before being shooed off the court.

One of the teenagers – a tall, tough-looking kid – grabs Cade’s basketball from where he left it under the bleachers. Cade doesn’t need it during practice, since they use the basketballs from the Y. The tall, tough kid dribbles the ball during Cade’s practice. I have to admit: I’m a little worried he might walk off with it. We’ve already lost a few things here in the city. I’m trying to be smarter about this without going all paranoid.

Cade’s practice ends and the kids fun time is over and the gym erupts in chaos between the classes. We gather our coats and walk towards the door. I walk over to the tall, tough-looking kid who has been playing with Cade’s ball.

“Hey, can I get that ball back? It’s my son’s.” I’m kind of expecting him to give me a hard time.

He stares at me for a moment, then smiles a kind smile and bounce-passes the ball to me.

“No problem, sir,” he says in a respectful voice. “Thank you.”

“Thanks,” I say, and we leave, the kids and I, back out into the dark and the cold and the short walk home.

But I can’t help think about the kid in the gym, the tough-looking kid I was worried about approaching. I’m a country boy, and I grew up fearing the city. With the five words he said to me, I could quickly tell he was a good kid. A kind kid.

He reminded me of another story, another instance here in the city, when the kids and I walked down the sidewalk on our way to the park. A group of teenagers emerged from a side alley and walked towards us. But they weren’t looking for trouble.

“Over here, kid!” the oldest one shouted to Sammy, motioning for him to throw him his football. Sammy glanced at me.

“Throw it to him,” I said, shrugging. “Go ahead.” Sammy did.

“Go on, go deep,” the kid said to Sammy, and again Sammy shrugged and this time he ran long, dashing down the sidewalk. The leader of this posse heaved a pass, and Sammy made an amazing over-the-shoulder grab.

“Whoa, boy!” the kid shouted to his friends, laughing and hitting them and generally making a big fuss over Sammy. “You see that kid? He can catch! Sweet grab, kid!”

Sammy, of course, grinned from ear to ear.

I only say this because this is the city you’re afraid of. These are the kids that make you nervous when you walk the streets.

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What Do You Refuse To Let Go Of?

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Photo by James Douglas via Unsplash

Money gets unexpectedly tight and I find myself feeling less generous. There’s a shooting nearby and I find myself becoming more leery of strangers. A fellow writer has above-average levels of success and jealousy creeps into my heart, making me feel cynical and on edge. A friend dies, and I find myself tempted to make my life all about me and my family, trying to hold on to what we have while we still can.

But holding tightly to things is not how we were created to live.

The wisdom of the world is the wisdom that says: “It is best to stand firm, to get a good grip on what’s yours here and now, and to hold your own against the rest who want to take it away from you; you’ve got to be on your guard against ambush. If you don’t carry a weapon, if you don’t make a fist, and if you don’t scramble to get what little you need – food and shelter – then you’re just asking to be threadbare and destitute…You open your hands and they pound in nails!”

Henri Nouwen, With Open Hands

Henri Nouwen tells a story of an elderly woman brought into a psychiatric ward. She was fighting desperately with the nurses, swinging wildly at anyone who came near. Why? Because in her clenched fist she held a coin, her last possession, and she refused to let it go.

“It was as though she would lose her very self along with the coin.” But instead of letting go and entering a life of peace, she fought and clawed to keep it.

I look at my life and I wonder, what am I clinging to so desperately that it’s causing me to injure those around me? What am I so fearful of losing? What is inside my clenched fists?

In those moments when I can let go of concern for myself, in those moments when I can trust, I feel my hands opening, and in that release comes an immense sense of peace and love for others. When I can lay aside my feelings of self-preservation and jealousy and fear, my hands can now be used to find and administer healing.

What are we clutching to? What will it take for us to let go?

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When There Are No Small Things

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Photo by Olia Gozha via Unsplash

I walked into the early morning cold, locking the door of our rowhouse behind me. The city is empty on weekend mornings: quiet and still. A thin layer of frost glazed the sidewalks, already melting where the sunrise fell between the buildings.

I felt a bit nervous. The walk from my house to the Young Women’s Christian Association was about six blocks, and I had never volunteered there before.

I recently wrote some reflections over at The High Calling. This first one examines how even the smallest things we do are important. You can read the rest of the post HERE.

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A Confession, and an Antidote to the Cruel World

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I must confess
when you creep down
the stairs (they creak under the late
hour), I sigh. But, sighs withstanding, I
follow you back up
to the third floor, and I tuck you in
for the second time
sing the same song with yet another
made-up verse,
pray an abbreviated prayer, then stumble
back to my own bed, weighed down
by weariness.

That old friend. Weariness will put his arms
around your shoulders and hug you down.

After that I can no longer sleep, so I think about how,
at some point in the near future,
I will have to tell you about the meanness
in the world, the people who will take advantage
of you, the people who will return
your innocent smile with a handful of
filth. I will have to tell you about the wars
and the shootings
and the hardness of it all. Yes, that’s it.

It’s the unbending nature of this world I will have to
warn you about.

But tonight I sigh and roll over in bed, and
the next time you come down, unable
to sleep, I tell you to bring
your pillow
and your blanket
and make a bed beside me, on the floor.
I watch through the door’s slant of light the beauty
of you, falling asleep,
and suddenly I remember the antidote
to the unyielding nature of this world:

a seven-year-old girl,
dreaming.

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The S-Word to Watch Out For This Year

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This is Leo, peering into the New Year (metaphorically speaking).

We’re four days into the New Year, and it’s about the time when you can smell the burned-out rubble of New Year’s resolutions left to die along the highway. It reminds me of the way those little race cars smelled, the ones that zoomed around the plastic tracks until you gave it too much throttle and they flew off the curve.

That’s too many of us, I think, at this time of year, suddenly deciding to go full-throttle on this thing or that, running or weight loss, reading or who-knows-what-else, and before we know it, an unexpected curve in the road sends us vaulting over the side, our engines smelling like hot oil and burned-out tires.

* * * * *

“Each day holds a surprise. But only if we expect it can we see, hear, or feel it when it comes to us. Let’s not be afraid to receive each day’s surprise, whether it comes to us as sorrow or as joy. It will open a new place in our hearts, a place where we can welcome new friends and celebrate more fully our shared humanity.” Henri Nouwen

* * * * *

Perhaps the greatest weakness in our resolutions or intentions or hopes for 2016 is that there’s no accounting for the s-word: SURPRISE. Even our most inspired intentions will often get plowed over by the surprises waiting for us: that new promotion, that unexpected diagnosis, that change in the market, that death in the family, that birth in the family, that inability to stay sober, or that surprising spell of freedom from that which has for so long enchained us.

I’m right there with you. I’ve already had some major surprises, many of which I’ll be writing about in the coming weeks. But here’s the thing. THE THING. I’m telling you:

We cannot let surprises derail our hope.

When the surprises come (and they will – perhaps they already have for you), we cannot give them the power to ruin us. Surprises, perhaps more than anything else, have the ability to knock the wind out of our sails, to render us motionless, to send us to the mat in despair.

We cannot let surprises derail our hope…but we also need to let them run their full course, because surprises, unlike resolutions or intentions, can completely transform us. We can become someone we never thought we could become, sometimes only by the power of that which surprises us. Grief can be surprising. So can joy, or good fortune, or change. Love or betrayal or moving from this place to that. So many surprises. So many transformations waiting to happen.

This is the fine line we must walk. When surprises come, can we let them transform us without letting them destroy us completely? If you can somehow do that, if you can, as Henri Nouwen so beautifully says, “allow surprises to open new places in your heart,” you will have a year no resolution or intention could ever have brought you.

 

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And Then I Did Something I’ve Never Done Before

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My oldest son and I drove through the city under a ceiling of low-lying clouds. We hit all the lights red. I know everyone says the days will get nothing but longer from here on out, but it’s hard to believe when you haven’t seen the sun for a few weeks. These flat, gray clouds can work their way inside. It was only 3:30 in the afternoon, but a few streetlights had already winked on.

I stopped the truck at the curb just outside the movie theater.

“Why don’t you run in and see if your friends are there?” I asked him, and he nodded the way he always does. He’s such an agreeable kid. Honestly. I have to be careful that I don’t take advantage of his easy-going nature, his willingness to do whatever is asked of him. He pushed the car door closed behind him, but it didn’t latch quite right.

It’s the end of December, that week between Christmas and New Year’s when everything seems to pause, when the days blur together, when the impending year sits there, waiting patiently. Sometimes the New Year feels inviting, and sometimes it feels inevitable. Do you know what I mean?

He was back in a flash, wielding a wide grin.

“They’re here! See ya!” he said in a voice that’s changing. I had recently thought his voice was scratchy because he had a cold or something, but I have come to believe it’s actually a result of being twelve, almost thirteen. The years will do that to you. These ever-passing years will change your very words.

And that was it. I had never done that before. He slammed the door, and this time it closed the entire way.

* * * * *

I didn’t expect the simple act of dropping my son off at the movies to be an emotional experience, but as I drove away I realized in a very tangible way that this little boy of mine, the one I watched come sliding into the world, the first person whose eyes I looked into and saw myself…this boy is growing up. He will fly beyond me soon. He will soar through his own worlds.

Heading into this new year, I feel more aware than ever of the steady, unstoppable passing of time. I turn 40 in 2016. The second half of my life is beginning.

* * * * *

I picked him up a few hours later. He emerged from a gaggle of boys, grinning. Years can slip away in a grin like that. Do you know what I mean? Have you seen it? I saw him in that moment not only as the age he is, but also as all the ages he’s ever been: a newborn, eyes shut tight; two years old and tightrope-walking along the edge of the sofa; five and crying at school; on and on. A slight mist fell on the glass as we drove away.

The windshield wipers pushed aside the drops, just wiped them clean, as if they were all the years we’ve ever had.