When the Writing Doesn’t Come

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The writing comes in fits and starts during these latter days of the year. The sky is gray and the leaves on the sycamore tree have almost flown away for the winter. Its bare branches scrape against the cold gutters on the third floor of the house, and spring feels very, very far away. Men work in the alley behind our house, refilling a massive hole they dug not too many months ago, and isn’t that how life feels much of the time? Like an endless digging and filling of holes?

What are we searching for, really, in all of this excavating?

I play the music that reminds me of college – in those long, winter nights, in that campus in the woods, I could hibernate, and hibernate I did. There were weekends when I barely woke up. Long, leafless Saturdays when I slept until dinner time, then walked around campus alone in the dark, the melancholy heavy.

But in this current iteration of life, with a wife and five children, there is no sleeping until dinner, and very little time for walking hand-in-hand with melancholy. I am snapped away (thankfully) from such indulgences by the warm touch of a wife, the drool of a baby, the laughing plea of a child to play monster.

“Just five more minutes?” they ask, and I growl, and they squeal.

There is something restful about winter, when I allow myself to settle into it, when I stop counting down the months til spring, when I let the gray roll over me and I stop trying to surface.

The writing comes in fits and starts during these latter days of the year. Maybe it’s a good time to clean off my desk or rearrange my books. Maybe it’s a good time to let it sputter, go with it when it flares, and let it lie when its dormant.

 

A Video Message From My Kids to You

While I’m extremely excited about how our Kickstarter is going (we crossed the $4,000 threshold on Sunday, which means we’re less than $500 from our first stretch goal), there are a few kids here in my house who are just as thrilled as I am. And they wanted to say thanks:

If you’d like to pre-order a copy of my novel, The Day the Angels Fell, or if you’d like to check out some of the stretch goals we’ve put in place, you can find the Kickstarter campaign HERE.

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.

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!

When the Church Creates, Not Little Christs, But Little Accountants

St. Francis of Assisi from Flickr via Wylio
© 2007 Randy OHC, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

My four oldest children and I walk slowly along the sidewalk on our way to church, the morning sun just beginning to rise above the buildings that line Queen Street. Maile is feeding Leo and they will walk to church later. The city is quiet on Sunday mornings, like the silence after a long sigh. Nights here are busy, cars always moving, people coming and going from one streetlight to the next. But on Sunday morning you could just about walk down the middle of the street and no one would notice.

There is a man sitting on his front stoop, newspaper in hand. He looks up at us through defeated eyes. I say hello. He nods and looks back down at his paper. Abra runs ahead of us, skipping over the cracks in the sidewalk. Sam reaches up and holds my hand. So does Lucy. Cade tells old stories about our family, stories that have become a kind of folklore.

There is the story about when Rosy the Rabbit tried to eat Sam alive. There is the story about how Abra found the hidden stash of 4,652 chicken eggs under the log pile. They talk about the house where we lived on Belmont Street, how Abra fell and hit her head on the bus during our cross-country trip, how I was the only one to see the bear at Yellowstone.

Story after story, and I realize something: every time these stories are retold, they reinforce our family identity. They strengthen the foundation of acceptance and love that these children feel in our home. I laugh and ask more questions.

“Do you remember the time…”

* * * * *

We arrive at St. James and I drop them off for children’s choir practice, then wander into one of the neighboring buildings. There’s a class being held on St. Francis, so I slip in and listen. Father David hands me a card. On one side is a beautiful image of a crucifix surrounded by images of prayer. On the other side this is written:

Prayer of St. Francis
Before the Crucifix

Most high, glorious God,
Enlighten the darkness
of my heart
and give me true faith,
certain hope
and perfect charity,
sense and knowledge, Lord,
that I may carry out
Your Holy and
true command.

* * * * *

“The evidence of our Christianity,” Father David says during the sermon, “is not found primarily in the financial gifts we give to this church. The evidence of our Christianity is found in our coming together and offering of our selves, our talents, and our time to one another and to the world.”

I think he is right. The primary act of Christ on this earth was not the giving of financial resources, but the giving of himself. I think the American church, in spending so much time asking for money and so little time asking that each Christian give themselves, is missing the mark and creating, not little Christs, but little accountants.

* * * * *

We walk home and Leo starts to cry a little because he is hungry. The sun is a bright light behind us now, high in the sky, hot for a late September day in Lancaster. Sammy runs towards a trash can to throw away his water bottle, and he trips and falls, scuffing his hands. He cries, I pick him up, and the rest of the kids circle around him.

“Are you okay, Sammy?” one of them asks.

“Did you hurt yourself?” another one inquires.

He is okay, and we continue our walk. When we get close to the house we see my parents sitting on the porch, waiting to eat lunch.

* * * * *

Late that night I take out the dog (yes, we have a dog – that’s another story), and listen to the city at night: trucks rumbling through, sirens screaming from the hospital, someone shouting to someone else out on James Street. And I think about one line from that prayer on the card Father David handed to me:

that I may carry out
Your Holy and
true command.

How This Baby is Saving Me

A friend asked, in the days following my emergency trip to the hospital, if I thought the flare-up in my intestine could be a result of how busy I’ve been. Could the stress be getting to me? The numerous projects? The deadlines?

Of course, I deflected that idea. We are always in control, aren’t we? We are always sure that the alcohol is helping us to cope with life. We are always sure that the sugar is a harmless sidekick. We are always sure that the work and the busyness and the fast pace is something helping us to thrive.

Meanwhile, our minds and bodies, never meant to operate under such heavy burdens, begin to break down.

* * * * *

Maile wakes me between 4:30 and 5:45. She has been up with Leo a few times, and it’s my turn. I roll out of bed and carry him downstairs so she can get some uninterrupted sleep. The house is quiet, but if the windows are open I can hear the early-morning traffic going by on James Street. I sit in the dark living room, light from the hallway falling diagonally through the room, lighting up a few dirty diapers still on the coffee table, a few magic markers half-hidden under the sofa. The chess board is open, pieces strewn in mid-battle.

The light falls on Leo’s face, and I cannot work while I hold him, and I cannot make myself breakfast, and I cannot do anything besides look at his face and remind myself to breathe.

In…1…2…3…4.

Out…1…2…3…4.

In…1…2…3…4.

Out…1…2…3…4.

This baby has forced me to slow down, to sit quietly, to breathe. I chomp at the bit, wanting to run full force again into a day’s worth of work, but he tugs on the reins and holds me in check.

So we sit together, and he smiles in his sleep. A friend of mine on Facebook said that her mother used to say angels were whispering in a baby’s ear when they smile like that in their sleep. I find that easy to believe, on a quiet morning, when the light slants in that particular way, and the early-morning traffic is going by on James Street.