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For They Shall Inherit the Earth (Whatever That Is)

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“Blessed are the meek,” Father David reads, “for they shall inherit the earth.”

There’s a weight to those words as we sit in St. James Episcopal Church. Outside, the sun emerges from behind the clouds and, for a moment, the church is lit up, the stained-glass windows glowing. But then the clouds sweep in again, and the light fades.

* * * * *

I walk through the early-morning city, traffic not yet lined up on the streets, the sun not yet risen above the eastern line of buildings. There are cars on the street, but not many, not yet. As I walk, steam billows from my mouth, from the exhaust vents of buildings, from those few cars that drive past. We create small, impermanent clouds that a nearly-winter breeze is quick to blow away.

Then I see him, a man approaching on a wheel chair. His lifeless legs are folded up under him, and he pushes himself along, strong arms, hard features. He has gray hair and hasn’t shaved for a few weeks. His eyes are nervous. He glances up at me as we cross paths, and he mutters something so quietly that I can’t tell if it’s to me or to himself.

“Cold, sure is cold.”

I stop and turn and watch him roll away from me, up Prince Street, and I wonder.

Workers pull their trucks to the side of the road and jackhammers began tearing into the sidewalk, exposing the earth inches below the concrete, exposing just how shallow these cities of ours really are.

* * * * *

I come home later in the day and the sun is warm and the traffic is heavier. I approach the stretch of sidewalk that had been torn up and in its place is wet, shimmering cement, dark gray and waiting. They’ve made quick work of it and wrapped it all in yellow caution tape.

I have this urge to run home, collect my family and bring them back to that spot so that we can each put one hand in the wet cement. I picture the seven hands in a row, drying, filling with dust and dirt, the years wearing away at the prints. I want to leave something permanent behind, some reminder that we have been here. Though the rest of this shallow city may pass away, I want to remain.

But that’s not possible. Not really.

I turn the corner and there’s Melinda sitting on her milk crate across from our house on James Street. She waves, and I wave back. I wonder if she’s been evicted yet, as she had predicted. I wonder where someone like Melinda would go, in this cold. There’s Water Street Rescue Mission and a few other places. Where would I go, if that was me?

On Sunday, just a few days later, I ask my kids what they would do on that cold day if they were homeless.

“I guess I’d climb into that dumpster,” Cade says. We walk slower as we pass the large bin full of trash, and the weight of that thought makes a deep impression in the wet cement of our minds.

* * * * *

“…for they shall inherit the earth.”

In my naivete, I always thought of “the earth” in that phrase as meaning “everything.” The meek will, eventually, have it all. But maybe it’s not that, not even close. Maybe the meek will inherit the actual earth, the dirt, which at first sounds like a raw deal, right? Who wants to inherit dirt?

But then I think about this city and the impermanence of so much of what we create. These streets, these buildings…it wouldn’t take long for them to crumble and erode away. But long after that happened, you know what would still remain?

The dirt beneath it. The earth.

Maybe when the meek inherit the earth, what they’re really inheriting is the stuff that is permanent. The stuff that isn’t a few inches shallow. It’s not “the glitz,” as a friend of mine recently said, but the stuff on which everything else is built.

It makes me wonder what I’m inheriting, and what I want to inherit.

* * * * *

We hit the first Kickstarter stretch goal for my upcoming novel, so there will be some awesome illustrations in the book! I can’t wait to show you a few. The campaign is currently at $4,511, and if we can get to $6,000 in the next few weeks that means all the contributors will receive a free audio version of the book in addition to their regular rewards. Keep spreading the word!

I’ve been on a few podcasts lately in which I’ve been interviewed about my upcoming novel, The Day the Angels Fell. I had fun recording them with some great folks and you might enjoy listening to them. Here are the links:

“How to Crush Kickstarter,” recorded with The Storymen: Matt Mikalatos, JR Forasteros, and Clay Morgan.

“Fallen Angels, Runaway Truck Ramps, and Kickstarter Campaigns,” recorded with Eric Wyatt

“Shawn Smucker on Writing Fiction” on the Schnozcast with Bryan Allain

And coming soon, an interview I did with David Mantel on “The Broken Light Show.”

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What My 9th-Grade History Teacher Got All Wrong (or, Time is not Linear)

Sidewalk Chalk from Flickr via Wylio
© 2009 John Morgan, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

I remember being a freshmen in high school, a bundle of nerves and hormones on the first day. I remember going into History class and sitting in the back – I was not a front-of-the-class kind of guy. The teacher was a young lady out of college only a few years, and to start off the class she took a small piece of chalk and, beginning on the far left side of the front chalkboard, drew a long straight line. It stretched through that dark background, finite and sharp.

Then she went back and listed off some of the more important events in the history of North America during that time: exploration, revolution, independence, Civil War, industrial revolution, Vietnam. Etcetera, etcetera. Event after event, and we sat there taking it all in. Five hundred years in twenty feet.

But now, 23 years later, I have to smile when I think of that long straight line. That’s not how time works.

* * * * *

My parents dropped off a box yesterday full of old game systems from my growing up years: Atari 2600, Sega Genesis, Nintendo 64. My kids thought Christmas had come early, so tonight we broke out the N64 and I introduced them to the greatness that is The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. They were as impressed as I had been when I first played that game as a senior in college.

We turned on the game, and there it was: SHASHMAI. The mashed-up username my girlfriend, my sister and I had used to save our progress. Shawn, Ashley, Maile. Our old game was still on there, 16 years later. I had flashbacks of playing that game in my parents basement (then making out with Maile). I remembered it was a game Maile and I had enjoyed even after we were first married and living in Florida, far from our family and friends.

In that moment, time circled back on itself. Maile came into the room, sat down with Leo on her lap, and smiled.

“We never imagined we’d be playing that with our five children, did we?”

Time is not a long straight line, flying past us. Time is a circle, always rotating, always doubling back, taking your breath away with its unexpected returnings.

* * * * *

Later in the night I began to load the dishwasher, but I can’t do such mundane work without music, so I went into the dining room and turned on David Gray.

Please forgive me if I act a little strange
For I know not what I do

And suddenly I was back in England again, driving the Mini out of London after a fourteen hour work day. Or I was sitting in our little dining room with Maile, just the two of us again, starting a new life 3500 miles from anything familiar. Or we were hitting a pub on a Saturday night with Ben and Shar, or friends from church, ordering Bangers and Mash, Shepherd’s Pie, or Lemon Chicken with Breaded Mushrooms.

For a moment, one sweet fleeting moment, I was there again! I was! Right back there in the dreary winter weather and the fireplace. I was splitting wood in the winter and listening to the lambs in the spring just outside our window.

Time is not a long straight line on a blackboard. Time returns for those who are vigilant.

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This May Be the Cure For Your Fear

Believe it or not, this child may have a cure for your fear.

You would think that when the Kickstarter for my novel surged past its initial goal in just a few days, I would have been elated. You’d think that I would have been ecstatic at the thought of being able to publish my novel with all the expenses covered and over 100 pre-orders within the first 72 hours.

But you know, the first thing I felt was fear.

Uh-oh. What if people don’t like it?

What if people snicker about it behind my back?

What if one of my supporters reads it and thinks it was a waste of money?

Fear has a way of asking a lot of questions without letting you think long enough about the answers.

* * * * *

I’ve been thinking quite a lot these days about a conversation I had with the wise Kelly Chripczuk a few months ago, pretty soon after I got out of the hospital. I’m not sure what rabbit trail took us to this concept, but I remember Kelly saying something along the lines of this:

“It’s important to see your calling as fun. Because then it doesn’t matter what other people think.”

We can’t do the things we’re called to do in order to please others. We have to do these things because we can’t NOT do them. We have to do these things because, when we’re doing them, we feel like a child again, a child playing, having fun, being creative.

I am continually reminding myself of that these days. This novel was so much fun to create, to write, even to revise. It’s a story that I really hope you enjoy, but more than that it was a story I loved writing, a story I didn’t want to say good-bye to.

* * * * *

What are you afraid of doing? Would it help if you simply allowed yourself to do that thing out of a sense of fun and enjoyment without any care of what other people think?

Would it help if you could be a little kid again, at the back of the church, conducting the entire choir?

* * * * *

You can still support my Kickstarter campaign HERE. We’re trying to reach some pretty cool stretch goals. Check it out.

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When the Girl Across the Street Knocked on Our Door

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We’re still new to this city living stuff. Five months in and our truck was hit-and-run, my bike was stolen, and someone decided to permanently borrow the hitch off of my dad’s Jeep.

These things will happen. I haven’t taken it personally.

* * * * *

The kids were in bed and Maile and I had just settled down for a few episodes of The Office when there was a knock at the door. Maile went into the kitchen to get some snacks and I walked to the door. It was one of our neighbors, Melinda. She’s a grandmother, and I don’t think she’s older than me.

“Your wife home?” she asked.

“Come on in,” I said, and I pointed into the dining room. “Mai’s in there.”

“Thank you,” she said.

It’s a vulnerable feeling, letting a relative stranger into your house in the city. At least it felt that way for this country boy. But we’d spoken with Melinda a few times, and Maile had had some heart to heart talks with her over in front of her apartment, where she often sat on her small chair for most of the day, watching the traffic go by.

There’s this thing about living in the city. You can close your blinds and slip in and out. Or you can sit on your porch, talk to folks that walk by, help a neighbor out from time to time, even if it means buying her daughter some diapers and formula, or loaning her some money that she pays back when her assistance checks arrive.

There’s this thing about life. You can live for yourself, batten down the hatches. Or you can open your eyes and look around. Answer the door.

If you’re interested in checking out the Kickstarter for my novel, The Day the Angels Fell, you can find that HERE.

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Why I Was the Security Risk At My Daughters’ Swim Practice

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If you’ve been reading this blog lately, you’ll know we’ve run into a few hiccups in life. Our truck was hit-and-run. Broken iPad. Stolen bike. The normal kind of stuff that life likes to throw at you every once in a while. I know it’s an old cliche, but “when it rains, it pours” does seem rather true. We’ve been sailing along through life for the last couple of years without any major obstacles, but starting this summer things got a little intense.

Anyway, I was sitting at my girls’ swim practice last night. It’s at the city YMCA, a bustling place in our little town, and the indoor pool area was packed. There was a group of older ladies doing water aerobics, two groups of kids doing swimming lessons, and a swim team taking up over half the pool. I sat there on the bench and waiting for some of the people to clear out before I hopped in the water and flailed about swam some laps.

But as I sat there, I felt myself tightening up under the pressure of life. Nothing too specific – just the general abundance of things that were giving us problems. Then, for some reason, I thought about our new Episcopal church, St. James, and how we say the Lord’s Prayer together every Sunday, and what peace that brings me.

I thought, you know what? I don’t care what anyone else thinks. So right there on the bench I closed my eyes and started whisper-mumbling those lines over and over again.

Our Father who is in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done
On earth as it is in heaven

And I could feel myself beginning to unwind. I took deep breaths, praying on the exhale, surrounded by the sound of splashing water and laughing children and shouting coaches.

Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our trespasses
As we forgive those who trespass against us
Lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil

My breathing came slower. And it was at about that time that I got the lifeguard’s attention. I guess they’re a little suspicious of grubby-looking white men with straggly beards sitting poolside while the little girls have their swim practice. Especially when said grubby-looking white man has his eyes closed and is mumbling to himself.

“Hey, man,” the lifeguard said, and my eyes shot open.

“Oh, hi,” I said.

“What’s up?” he asked, and I caught the subtext to that question pretty quickly, something along the lines of You sicko, what are you doing here and what’s wrong with your brain that you sit here with your eyes closed casting curses on everyone.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing. My daughters have practice.” I pointed vaguely into the water.

“Oh, okay,” he said, smiling with relief. “That’s cool.”

Then he walked away.

For thine is the kingdom and the power and glory forever and ever. Amen.

“Daddy, I passed my deep water test!” Abra squealed as she came up out of the pool and walked towards me, dripping wet. Lucy congratulated her. We picked up Cade at the gym and walked home, through the rain, the cars swishing past us on the wet roads, the traffic lights running in streaks across the pavement. We got to the last light, and as soon as the walk sign appeared, Lucy shouted what she always shouts.

“Last one home is a rotten egg!”

So we ran through the warm night, summer’s last gasp, and galloped up the steps to the porch, then poured into the house, shoes squeaking on wood floors, all in the kind light of home. I sighed, and I felt a lot better.

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The Incident of the Garbage Disposal (Or, Making Time Stand Still)

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It doesn’t seem so long ago since we walked the trails at Messiah College, our feet moving lightly over layers of leaves, our conversation growing quiet as a jogger approached, then passed. Those were long, quiet days. Nights in the library and easy walks back across campus, stopping in the dark spaces between street lights.

Florida doesn’t seem that long ago either – newly married and driving eighteen hours to our first house where we tore out the carpet and slept on those old rolls for one night before our mattress arrived. There was the incident of the garbage disposal and the evenings over Scrabble and milkshakes. Or the times (yes, plural) when we ate entire pans of Rice Crispy candy.

Those days were slow, too, and warm, and the weeks drifted along. But life went faster after that, and soon we were in England, early morning rides into Victoria Station and long days making pretzels. Sneaking an evening out here and there, trying not to worry about the store, the future. Those days went faster, and we added children to the mix, and many crossings of the sky above the Atlantic. Of course there was the New Year’s Day skeet shoot and the long walks to Wendover on paths worn deep by pilgrims, but there the months passed like weeks, the weeks like days.

And soon we were back. This time Virginia. Fast pace. Long hours. Lots of friends and two more children and, after four years there, the heavy weight of disappointment. Driving a full moving truck through the rain, north, into the unknown.

But now. What is now like? i think the rhythms are slowing again. I think? It’s hard to tell when you’re in the moment – it’s like this strange kind of music you can listen to but not really hear for a few years. Only on reflection.

* * * * *

I sit in the living room and it’s a rare night because everyone except me is asleep by 9:00. I can hear the cars passing by on James Street, and voices shouting friendly greetings from one corner to the next. Another week is coming. Another Monday.

How can we grab time and tame it? How can we slow it down and force it to do our bidding? We already have an 11-year-old. Is there a secret way to stop time, to dam it into a large lake and let it pass in a more controlled fashion, through large passages that I can close entirely?

But that’s the problem, because there is no lake large enough to hold time – even if I could somehow back it up, it would only swell up over the sides, find some other way to pass, and eventually the dam would crumble under such a weight. Time is, after all, very heavy. And too light to hold down.

* * * * *

“Thanks for riding the roller coaster with me today,” I say to my daughter, and she laughs, because we both know she was scared at first. I lean in after we’ve prayed and go to kiss her on the cheek, but she points her chin up and kisses me right on the lips, which is nice because it means she is still my little girl.

It’s in moments like that when time stands still.

I sigh, and I give her a hug, and I walk down the stairs. And I turn out the light.

Come back to the blog tomorrow for a huge announcement. Huge, I tell you!