I can’t Not.

 I’m on the precipice of the hope of something that might be a chance.

I don’t think I am truly worthy of yet another chance yet  I am so excited for it. 

I have spent last year learning about myself - learning how I have played the victim for so many years when the true villain was me, and I am trying to acknowledge that I can’t fix the past. 

Perhaps I can at least do what I can’t and somehow through a power that is not my own and is not through my virtue or my worth due to the grace of having amazing friends having amazing people I need to learn to accept Grace.

I don’t sleep well ever, but I especially don’t sleep well before something. That is important something that is big something that could change a lot.

And I am hopeful and grateful for the opportunity and excited and terrified and yet I am ready. 

I have made a lot of big decisions in my life when I wasn’t ready, and I and others have dealt the consequences of me not being ready - for marriage or job or life or fatherhood - I have rarely been ready. 

In many times, I blame someone else but if there is anything that could come from my mother‘s death - it is perspective. 

All the things I could’ve said, a lot of things I could’ve done.   I could’ve done better. 

Perspective is a hell of a drug and mixed in the emotional alchemy of grief it can change you. It can make it clear in ways that you were not ready to accept. 

Tomorrow will not fix the past. It will not fix the present. But it’s a chance to chart a future. 

And I know that the people in my life want that. They support it.

I know mom would be proud of me for learning and growing and trying. 

That in and of itself is more than reason enough to keep trying. 

I owe her that. 

The Breath of Life - Maggie Smith

When a famous actor, actress or musician passes, it's always interesting to me how the headlines are written. What are the works of art that become part of the headlines announcing their passing? Today Dame Margaret Natalie Smith passed at the age of 89. Her career spanned decades and multiple mediums Oscars and BAFTA awards. Most of the headlines included Downton Abbey and Harry Potter. But I couldn't find a single headline that mentioned the things that come immediately come to my mind. 

Sister Act, The Breath of Life, and one of the greatest experiences of my life. 

Which sounds like a very self-important novel title. But it's actually three things. 

At some point in the spring or summer of 1992, I attended my first lock-in at church. For those unfamiliar, lock-ins were a strange device that allowed parents to drop their kids off at school with some snacks and a sleeping bag and be free of them for the next 12 hours. I was very excited for the lock-in. We had plans to play in the gym all night, never sleep, and feel freedom at that point unbeknownst to us. 

There was also the expectation that we would do some Bible study and fellowship and likely some Christ-focused arts and crafts. 

The lock-in began with a trip to Circus Pizza, a Minnesota knock off of Chuck-E-Cheese and then somewhat inexplicably this group of likely 40-50 children grades 5th through 8th went to a performance of the classic running from the mob comedy about Nuns and music, Sister Act. 

Why a bunch of Lutheran kids went to a movie about Catholic nuns, I have never truly understood. But I loved it. 

Songs all about, that lady from Star Trek as the lead, the stern Mother Superior who comes around and leads the Nuns on a rescue mission, and some pretty great one-liners that I would repeat for the rest of my life. "Alma! Check your battery!"

I told my parents all about Sister Act when I got home. When it came out on VHS it was a frequent Friday night rental and eventually, that tape became a stable of road trips in the van, with Field of Dreams, Teen Wolf, and The Hunt for Red October. I still watch it when I need to have a laugh or a smile. Mary Wickes, portrayal of Sister Mary Lazarus, the grumpy queen of wisecracks always hits the spot. 

I saw The Breath of Life in London in January of 2003. It starred both Dame Maggie Smith and Dame Judi Dench in a play about a wife and a mistress meeting. I remember little of the play itself, other than the incredible feeling that these two talents were capable of captivating my attention despite the lack of connection or really even interest in the script. I truly didn't care much about the plot, I just wanted to be in the same space. It was the first time I really remember loving the moment of the art, even if the quality wasn't there. To see someone perform so well when given so little. 

It was also part of one of the greatest week's of my life. I was in London, a newlywed on a trip that I was lucky enough to get to bring my wife, who wasn't student along as a "chaperone" - the irony of that is not lost on me giving the turning of the hands of time - I was taking classes at Shakespeare's Globe, working with professional Shakespearean actors, going to shows nearly every night, visiting small pubs and feeling like I was on top of the world. I'm not sure at really understood how lucky I was in that moment. 

Because of those hands of time turning and the events that have subsequently occurred, it's not a time of my life that I revisit often. One thing I'm currently working on in therapy is being able to acknowledge that good moments, even when bad moments eventually seem to poison the memory of the good ones. I was so lucky to have the trip, to have a tiny version of a honeymoon that we never got, to hold so many amazing memories from that week in my heart. A tiny bible-shaped version of Henry the Fifth that I carried in my pocket for days and still sits in my safe as one of my most treasured items and so many more moments I treasure as well. 

It's ok and right to acknowledge the good moments even if the story didn't have a happy ending. Dame Maggie Smith took so many audiences on so many journeys. 

I'm thankful for the one she took me on today. 

A Chance Encounter

 As I was walking home tonight after walking a friend out to their car and making sure they were safe, I crossed the road, and then in front of me was a black cat, sweet lovable black cat, who rubbed up against me and asked for pets and scratches but definitely did not want to be picked up -I tried to negotiate with her. 

I said follow me home and I’ll take care of you but if you wish to go your own way, I will respect it. 

10 feet away and she ran to the dumpster and examined things out for 10 minutes and then walked the other way.

I desperately wanted her to follow me to convince her that I had to take care of her when in truth , all she needed that moment was a little comfort a little solace from whatever she’s dealing with, but she certainly didn’t need was a dumbass who desperately wanted to be the white male savior.

 I waited and she walked around the dumpster, sniffed what she could sniff and then walked over to side of the parking lot and sat by a sidewalk  

I didn’t save her. She didn’t want me to save her. In fact she was grateful for the attention I gave her but also that was the limit of my existence in her life. She sat by the sidewalk and I sat 100 feet away wondering if she needed my help. 

It was clear to me that she did not , and that my need to be a hero had nothing to do with her reality. This is a cat that was perfectly secure where she was perhaps waiting for her owner/friend/roommate to come home. 

She was without need and without any notification she was exactly what she was and the need for a knight and shining any rescue was unnecessary. 

She was exactly what she was and that in itself more sure of purpose in their own self than I know in mine. 

It was my ego that wanted; needed to be the hero. It was her grace to give me a bit of attention and to let me feel her peace. 

Luci’s Walk

The light broke through the curtains with an uncomfortable force. Luci’s eyes forced open by the dawn. They blinked hard against the light, trying to adjust. To accept this new reality, cast from the sacred place, disowned, disavowed, discarded. 

As the light and dark adjusted. As they accepted the reality they were now in, things came a bit clearer.

They tried too hard, they grasped for too much and lost. Lost it all. The pain is never ending. Burns that create wounds that never scar over. Raw. Eternal pain. 

As Luci roams the land they have found themselves in. They start to notice their surroundings. They become aware of the other beings. Luci thought they were abandoned here alone, an orphan in a solo orphanage. 

But as they explore they see the others, cautiously at first, from a distance. But they seem familiar. The same energy the same brash adventure. Luci sees a bit of themselves in them. A lot more than they want to admit. 

But Luci is an orphan, a reject, a cautionary tale. This organic animal doesn’t know. 

Yet it reminds Luci of their own misunderstanding of reality and consequences. 

And somehow, Luci knows that they must protect this unique animal, this creation. 

What if all the devil’s temptations are meant to push you back to the light, because they as an abandoned, disowned orphan, know the danger, the risk, the consequences. Maybe the voice of experience is full of sorrow. 

The line between Lucifer the tortured soul and the Holy Spirit is more blurred than we admit. 

A recipe for a Heaven

 Live uphill from a gas station. 

Live within walking distance of a restaurant and a liquor store. 

Live within walking distance of something that makes you believe in something more than yourself. 

Be able to walk to a grocery or farmers market. Have a funeral home not too far away. 

Have music in the air, church, hs band, rock club, even the symphony of a playground or park. 

Have at least one pizza place you can walk to. Two preferable.  Find a place your soul finds quiet. 

Add two things that are specific to the needs of your heart. 

You find all that? You may just have found your heaven. 

What’s in a Hat?

 He’s fit, nearly 6 foot, but in a bar in the north without any country vibe he’s in a cowboy hat. 

There is a sense of vulnerability to the bravado. His jaw line catches looks. He’s got kind eyes. 

Yet that damn hat. It’s a lot to process. 

He waits as if the magic hat will fix the anxiety, the lack of ability to make the first move. 

He seems kind, interested in your story. 

But that damned hat. 

It screams the opposite of what he thinks it does. In this moment. In this place. It’s not the badge he thinks it is. 

Time and place. Audience. Moment. It all matters. 

Turn and time again ladies would engage and talk for a bit and then seemingly unknowingly, look at the hat one more time before they disengaged. 

He closed his tab. Walks out. Trusting the hat. Had he just trusted those eyes, that jawline, himself…it would have been different. 

Maybe he wanted the indifference. The caution. Maybe if you can’t love the hat you can’t love him. 

But that’s a lot of weight to put on a hat. 

Hubris Personified

Imagine if you will, a theater major, in London on a trip to study at the world famous Globe Theater recreation. 

They get one moment on stage alone to deliver the Shakespearean monologue they have been working on for 3 months. 

His wife, newly married is on the trip. He held the engagement ring in his pocket the night he saw a lord of the rings movie in the theater at premiere night. His bride is in the audience waiting to hear her man deliver his Shakespearean monologue on this famous stage. 

Full of confidence and vigor he steps up to the beautiful and ornate double wooden doors. He envisions being like Aragon and pushing open the doors with force and righteous purpose. He’s going to burst onto the stage and deliver the monologue of his life. Impress his bride, his father and his mentor. 

He takes a deep breath, thanking fate for the opportunity, a smaller breath to calm his anxiety and a pause to thank the fates he made it to this moment. 

With the monologue in his tongue and an ego full of vigor and passion he pushed against the doors like a sprinter breaking out of the starting block. 

What he got was a resounding, terrible thud. 

The doors didn’t swing open, he didn’t emerge as a valiant Aragon. 

They just went thud. 

Because they were doors that didn’t push. They were pull. 

He adjusted, pulled and delivered the monologue, a tense victorious stream of words that would have been so much better if everyone hadn’t been giggling about the thud. 

Hubris is a vicious judge. But also seems to have a sense of humor.