Him/Her
I wrote you a love poem, girl, although we’re done, I know
Just because you said good-bye doesn’t mean I have to go
Why don’t you take a breather and try to think this through
I’m not that bad of guy, and I just wanna be with you
What’s so wrong with that, dear, just to wanna be with you?
You’re being awful sweet; you know how to make me smile
You got a way with words, boy, but begging’s not your style
We had a lot of fun and you treat me right, it’s true
You’re not that bad of guy, but I ain’t crazy about you
I wish you all the best; but I’m not in love with you
Now hang on, wait a second, girl, look where you’re leavin’ me.
I haven’t showered, haven’t worked, and I haven’t ate a thing
I lie awake all night now; not shaved in a week or two
The sun don’t shine a sliver and I just wanna be with you
Am I really such a nutcase just to wanna be with you?
Don’t put words in my mouth, now, I never called you names
I would of thought you’d be above playing all these little games
You’ve got a lot for someone, so someone will have to do
But as for this girl, she’s just not that into you
It was nice for awhile, but I am not in love with you
We were so great together, you must be missing me
No, I don’t miss your scruff, your ink, your kisses; not a thing
So the whole thing was a lie?
Well, now you know the truth
From today until I die, I just wanna be with you
I got nothing else to say except I’m not in love with you.
Friday, November 27, 2009
The Barracuda Mouth
Roll on into the Barracuda Mouth, where you’ll be spoon fed, strip searched, and by God you will get the cure for what ails. Welcome! We’re glad you’re here.
Yes, here it is, the Barracuda Mouth – come as you are and leave even better. Ask what you want, what can’t we give? Ice cubes in milk, propellers on bicycles, fire in the hole and hair on your chest – all’s fair in love, war, and the Barracuda Mouth. No stupid questions, no wrong answers, no lonely nights. No pain.
Listen to what the people are saying.
“Whatever you’re looking for, the Barracuda Mouth is it.”
-Dr. Steve Speller - St Paul, MN.
“I’ve been around for a long time, and I’ve never seen anything as good as the Barracuda Mouth.”
-Chev Chancellor, Chicago, IL
“I am the Barracuda Mouth.”
-God
Wave your dirty laundry like the national flag. Show off the chinks in your armor like medals of honor and make love to the skeletons in your closet. At the Barracuda Mouth, your fallen angels will kick off their heels on dance on pianos. Ask what you want. What can’t we give?
We’ve got banjos, baritones, saxophones, telephones, dirt roads, army clothes, halfway homes, lawn gnomes, funny bones, cyclones, horn toads, afros, hobos, tacos, and the world’s largest freestanding fence post! That’s the Barracuda Mouth guarantee, and our word is our bond is our blood.
It’s the place to be, the hot spot, the sensation sweeping the nation. What’s behind doors numbers one through three, at the end of the rainbow, and behind the music. It’s the fountain of whatever you like. It’s where you never grow old. Its flame burns eternal. Drink and never thirst again.
So, next time you’re looking for a good time, the Barracuda Mouth is your one-stop, never-go-again destination. Don’t forget, Tuesday nights is karaoke nights.
Yes, here it is, the Barracuda Mouth – come as you are and leave even better. Ask what you want, what can’t we give? Ice cubes in milk, propellers on bicycles, fire in the hole and hair on your chest – all’s fair in love, war, and the Barracuda Mouth. No stupid questions, no wrong answers, no lonely nights. No pain.
Listen to what the people are saying.
“Whatever you’re looking for, the Barracuda Mouth is it.”
-Dr. Steve Speller - St Paul, MN.
“I’ve been around for a long time, and I’ve never seen anything as good as the Barracuda Mouth.”
-Chev Chancellor, Chicago, IL
“I am the Barracuda Mouth.”
-God
Wave your dirty laundry like the national flag. Show off the chinks in your armor like medals of honor and make love to the skeletons in your closet. At the Barracuda Mouth, your fallen angels will kick off their heels on dance on pianos. Ask what you want. What can’t we give?
We’ve got banjos, baritones, saxophones, telephones, dirt roads, army clothes, halfway homes, lawn gnomes, funny bones, cyclones, horn toads, afros, hobos, tacos, and the world’s largest freestanding fence post! That’s the Barracuda Mouth guarantee, and our word is our bond is our blood.
It’s the place to be, the hot spot, the sensation sweeping the nation. What’s behind doors numbers one through three, at the end of the rainbow, and behind the music. It’s the fountain of whatever you like. It’s where you never grow old. Its flame burns eternal. Drink and never thirst again.
So, next time you’re looking for a good time, the Barracuda Mouth is your one-stop, never-go-again destination. Don’t forget, Tuesday nights is karaoke nights.
Wrong Guess
She woke me just a little when she got back into bed
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Grrr.
Well, I’m just boiling. Boiling. My breath fires off in hiccupping staccatos that flush my face to the colors of fire. I ball my fists and bite my tongue and prowl around my apartment like a caged wolf. Grrrr. Snarl at the mirror. Grrrr. Slam dishes into the sink. Grrrr, take it to the nighttime streets with a smoldering cigarette while I rub my forehead against the brick wall of the apartment building until my skin scrapes.
The moon is all amber and grim, like the meat of a poisonous peach. It drips honeyed sweat through space to the earth and I lick it up. I gargle it. I paint stripes of it under my eyes. My, oh my, the moon says to me, your fury is shaking the whole planet. And you ain’t seen nothing yet. This ought to be good. Yeah it will.
Storm the streets, sparks flashing from my teeth. Grrr. It seems like a good idea to kick a streetlight, so I put my foot through the base of one and it caves under my apocalyptic strength. Feels good, do it again. Kick. Crack. Creak. Timber! I kick the streetlight over and it falls through a big grey building and the glass rains down around me in a million tinkling shards. And inside the building people in pajamas look through their broken walls at each other and then out at me. “Who is that wild man?” they ask in awe. Show them just who you are.
I wrap my arms around the trees and heave them out from their roots and then hurl them across the street into busses and stores. I pick up cars and their car alarms go off and them I slam them back down and they explode in fireballs.
I punch through walls.
I rip up sidewalks.
(Pause at a rose. Uproot it.)
Stomp craters into parking lots.
Spear water towers with flagpoles.
Tear off support beams from the bottoms of skyscrapers and then stand still as the whole building comes a’tumblin down around me and the metal beams smash into my head and the glass shards stick into my skin but pain is my beating heart and the taste of my blood is like wine.
“Stop him! He’ll break the world!” the people scream. They can’t stop you now, says the moon and I howl in agreement. The people come at me with crowbars and baseball bats but it’s true what the moon said, they can’t stop me. No one can stop me. My fists are hammers, axes, machine guns. My fists are bladed windmills.
Every hit makes me madder. Every madder makes me stronger. I toss the people like dolls and no one stops me. The twinkling stars start chanting at my destruction: Go Ty-ler! Go Ty-ler! It’s your birthday! It’s your birthday! Grrr. Roar! I am a grenade. I am an earthquake. I am just boiling!
I am boiling. I am a tempest of fury. I am a time bomb of terror. I am raging with the fury of a thousand exploding suns, and I stand in the ruins of a once tall and proud city but now emergency sirens are wailing and people are running away and the military’s coming (let them) and I’m breathing heavy, steam whistling off my back and moon sweat running down my face and arms. And I’m crying blood because I am mad and sad at the same time. And the people stare, “the wild man can’t be crying,” but he is crying (blood) and the grim old moon turns black so that no one can see me and people will remember me as wild and not sad. Because I am tired of being sad.
I’m gonna try mad instead. Hopping mad. Fighting mad. A little tired too, but mostly mad. And when I’m mad, I’m wild. I can do anything. I can break everything. I’m taking to life like a bull to a freeway. Like a spark to gunpowder. Like wolves. Grrr.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Of course, I’m mad – but I’d hate for anyone to get skittish on account my well-being. I am aware that these sorts of fantasies can be distressing to readers but it’s the Internet guys, and it’s 2009 to boot. Women can vote! Surely, if women can vote, men can write fantasize about citywide destruction – it happens in movies sometimes. It’s a healthy outlet. Like smoking! Hooka!
In order to satiate you all, here are some notes. (1) I do not actually want to hurt anyone. The people injured in the piece did not, to my knowledge, suffer any irreparable damage. (2) The moon has yet to actually talk back. (3) I am very nearly done with a tender, tragic little piece on lost love and heartbreak and its effortlessly nimble lyricisms will stir your heart to gentle, autumnal sorrow and you will all say, “Tyler is really good and, yes, he’s sad, but he surely is not emotionally unstable” and you’ll be right.
But that’s the next post.
So, for now, rest assured – I will not actually break the world.
The moon is all amber and grim, like the meat of a poisonous peach. It drips honeyed sweat through space to the earth and I lick it up. I gargle it. I paint stripes of it under my eyes. My, oh my, the moon says to me, your fury is shaking the whole planet. And you ain’t seen nothing yet. This ought to be good. Yeah it will.
Storm the streets, sparks flashing from my teeth. Grrr. It seems like a good idea to kick a streetlight, so I put my foot through the base of one and it caves under my apocalyptic strength. Feels good, do it again. Kick. Crack. Creak. Timber! I kick the streetlight over and it falls through a big grey building and the glass rains down around me in a million tinkling shards. And inside the building people in pajamas look through their broken walls at each other and then out at me. “Who is that wild man?” they ask in awe. Show them just who you are.
I wrap my arms around the trees and heave them out from their roots and then hurl them across the street into busses and stores. I pick up cars and their car alarms go off and them I slam them back down and they explode in fireballs.
I punch through walls.
I rip up sidewalks.
(Pause at a rose. Uproot it.)
Stomp craters into parking lots.
Spear water towers with flagpoles.
Tear off support beams from the bottoms of skyscrapers and then stand still as the whole building comes a’tumblin down around me and the metal beams smash into my head and the glass shards stick into my skin but pain is my beating heart and the taste of my blood is like wine.
“Stop him! He’ll break the world!” the people scream. They can’t stop you now, says the moon and I howl in agreement. The people come at me with crowbars and baseball bats but it’s true what the moon said, they can’t stop me. No one can stop me. My fists are hammers, axes, machine guns. My fists are bladed windmills.
Every hit makes me madder. Every madder makes me stronger. I toss the people like dolls and no one stops me. The twinkling stars start chanting at my destruction: Go Ty-ler! Go Ty-ler! It’s your birthday! It’s your birthday! Grrr. Roar! I am a grenade. I am an earthquake. I am just boiling!
I am boiling. I am a tempest of fury. I am a time bomb of terror. I am raging with the fury of a thousand exploding suns, and I stand in the ruins of a once tall and proud city but now emergency sirens are wailing and people are running away and the military’s coming (let them) and I’m breathing heavy, steam whistling off my back and moon sweat running down my face and arms. And I’m crying blood because I am mad and sad at the same time. And the people stare, “the wild man can’t be crying,” but he is crying (blood) and the grim old moon turns black so that no one can see me and people will remember me as wild and not sad. Because I am tired of being sad.
I’m gonna try mad instead. Hopping mad. Fighting mad. A little tired too, but mostly mad. And when I’m mad, I’m wild. I can do anything. I can break everything. I’m taking to life like a bull to a freeway. Like a spark to gunpowder. Like wolves. Grrr.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Of course, I’m mad – but I’d hate for anyone to get skittish on account my well-being. I am aware that these sorts of fantasies can be distressing to readers but it’s the Internet guys, and it’s 2009 to boot. Women can vote! Surely, if women can vote, men can write fantasize about citywide destruction – it happens in movies sometimes. It’s a healthy outlet. Like smoking! Hooka!
In order to satiate you all, here are some notes. (1) I do not actually want to hurt anyone. The people injured in the piece did not, to my knowledge, suffer any irreparable damage. (2) The moon has yet to actually talk back. (3) I am very nearly done with a tender, tragic little piece on lost love and heartbreak and its effortlessly nimble lyricisms will stir your heart to gentle, autumnal sorrow and you will all say, “Tyler is really good and, yes, he’s sad, but he surely is not emotionally unstable” and you’ll be right.
But that’s the next post.
So, for now, rest assured – I will not actually break the world.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Chicago
In Chicago, you can do anything.
Kick a stone. Grow a beard. Parallel park between a Hummer and a Porsche. Walk all night. Tempt fate. Tempt foes. Tempt yourself. Eat a ham. Make an egg. Make a song. Make a drink. Steal a second. Steal a purse. Order another round. Smoke the whole pack. Sit up all night. No missed calls. Dawn breaks. Paint a picture. Buy a banana. Buy a car. Buy a teapot. Bide time. Burst into tears. Burst into laughs. Bloody your fists against a brick wall. Climb a roof. Look at her legs. Pancakes with syrup. Beers with brown sugar. Coffee with Bailey’s. Wake up confused. Wake up crying. Wake up with your arm outstretched across an empty pillow. Dawn breaks. Love your sister. Go upstairs. Go downtown. Go to church. Tell a secret. Make a secret. Spill a secret. Spill your glass. Get her number. Pray in groups. Thank God for making everything so beautiful. Pray alone. Scream at Him for making everything His own. Beg Him to take everything away. Beg Him to give it all back. Tell a story. Sleep in a pile. Dawn breaks. Just a dream. Fold a blanket. Wash a glass. Put a picture in a locket. Put a quarter in the slot. Slam on the breaks. Honk at a friend. Cover your mouth when you hear the news. Steep your tea. Brew your coffee. Sip your wine. Lose your shirt. Break a pot. Kiss a stranger. Strike a match. Open a map. Lose your mind. Pound your chest. Flee arrest. Bawl your eyes out. Forgive your friends. Try the back door. Fight tears. Accept kindness. Give it back. Tell it like it is. Run out of gas. Remember everything. Find what you thought you lost. Wish for the impossible. Fight reality. Don’t call. Hover your thumb over the button. Drop a nickel. Dance on a car. Run across the street. Sit on the porch. Stare at yourself naked in the mirror. Shake your head. Sit on the steps. Run away. Stand still. Pause till the train passes. Prop open a window with an old book. Run a red light. Break up with a stranger. Try a free sample. Zip up your jacket. Shove your hands in your pockets. Grow old. Avoid old haunts. Avoid good friends. Avoid the future. Take advice. Look in the sky – what looks back? Pop a pill. Lose your life to save it. What’s this. What’s next. What’s it like. Say good-bye. A hand on the back of your head. Pull over for a nap. Dawn breaks. This light makes you look good. Dawn breaks. That light makes you look ugly. Bite your nails. Pick your scabs. Dress your wounds. Slice your fingers. String your guts on a line. Tip ten bucks. Sing praises to the Most High. Use a photo for a bookmark. Dawn breaks. Everything’s perfect. Dawn breaks. Nothing is good. Stay an extra night. Sing praises. Kick a stone. What happened. Nothing was wrong. Where’d you park the car. Die before you die. Kick a stone. Grow a beard. Have a heart. Hurt everywhere. Wipe your eyes. Lick your blood. Knuckle your nose. Buckle up. Simmer down. Grow. Rot. Scrub. Sketch. Break your teeth. Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ. Hurt. Heal. Grin and bear it. Right foot. Left foot. Sing along. Go a mile. Look ahead. Look behind. Let go. Hold on. Look up. Move on. Stand still. Stand straight. Move ahead. It’ll never be okay. Tomorrow will be worse. Tomorrow will be better. Sears Tower. Cumulus clouds. Lake Michigan. Blue line. Boys Town. Bite marks. Basket of stars. Clod of dirt. Bucket of bile. Chunk of flesh. It’s all bad. Handful of sunlight. It’s alright. It’s all bad. It’s alright. It’s all God. It’s alright. It’s alright.
Kick a stone. Grow a beard. Parallel park between a Hummer and a Porsche. Walk all night. Tempt fate. Tempt foes. Tempt yourself. Eat a ham. Make an egg. Make a song. Make a drink. Steal a second. Steal a purse. Order another round. Smoke the whole pack. Sit up all night. No missed calls. Dawn breaks. Paint a picture. Buy a banana. Buy a car. Buy a teapot. Bide time. Burst into tears. Burst into laughs. Bloody your fists against a brick wall. Climb a roof. Look at her legs. Pancakes with syrup. Beers with brown sugar. Coffee with Bailey’s. Wake up confused. Wake up crying. Wake up with your arm outstretched across an empty pillow. Dawn breaks. Love your sister. Go upstairs. Go downtown. Go to church. Tell a secret. Make a secret. Spill a secret. Spill your glass. Get her number. Pray in groups. Thank God for making everything so beautiful. Pray alone. Scream at Him for making everything His own. Beg Him to take everything away. Beg Him to give it all back. Tell a story. Sleep in a pile. Dawn breaks. Just a dream. Fold a blanket. Wash a glass. Put a picture in a locket. Put a quarter in the slot. Slam on the breaks. Honk at a friend. Cover your mouth when you hear the news. Steep your tea. Brew your coffee. Sip your wine. Lose your shirt. Break a pot. Kiss a stranger. Strike a match. Open a map. Lose your mind. Pound your chest. Flee arrest. Bawl your eyes out. Forgive your friends. Try the back door. Fight tears. Accept kindness. Give it back. Tell it like it is. Run out of gas. Remember everything. Find what you thought you lost. Wish for the impossible. Fight reality. Don’t call. Hover your thumb over the button. Drop a nickel. Dance on a car. Run across the street. Sit on the porch. Stare at yourself naked in the mirror. Shake your head. Sit on the steps. Run away. Stand still. Pause till the train passes. Prop open a window with an old book. Run a red light. Break up with a stranger. Try a free sample. Zip up your jacket. Shove your hands in your pockets. Grow old. Avoid old haunts. Avoid good friends. Avoid the future. Take advice. Look in the sky – what looks back? Pop a pill. Lose your life to save it. What’s this. What’s next. What’s it like. Say good-bye. A hand on the back of your head. Pull over for a nap. Dawn breaks. This light makes you look good. Dawn breaks. That light makes you look ugly. Bite your nails. Pick your scabs. Dress your wounds. Slice your fingers. String your guts on a line. Tip ten bucks. Sing praises to the Most High. Use a photo for a bookmark. Dawn breaks. Everything’s perfect. Dawn breaks. Nothing is good. Stay an extra night. Sing praises. Kick a stone. What happened. Nothing was wrong. Where’d you park the car. Die before you die. Kick a stone. Grow a beard. Have a heart. Hurt everywhere. Wipe your eyes. Lick your blood. Knuckle your nose. Buckle up. Simmer down. Grow. Rot. Scrub. Sketch. Break your teeth. Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ. Hurt. Heal. Grin and bear it. Right foot. Left foot. Sing along. Go a mile. Look ahead. Look behind. Let go. Hold on. Look up. Move on. Stand still. Stand straight. Move ahead. It’ll never be okay. Tomorrow will be worse. Tomorrow will be better. Sears Tower. Cumulus clouds. Lake Michigan. Blue line. Boys Town. Bite marks. Basket of stars. Clod of dirt. Bucket of bile. Chunk of flesh. It’s all bad. Handful of sunlight. It’s alright. It’s all bad. It’s alright. It’s all God. It’s alright. It’s alright.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Mistakes I've Made
It sounds easy enough to learn from your mistakes. You blunder, shake your head and snigger sheepishly at your own stupidity, chalk it up to experience and move on – sadder but wiser. It’s a neat trick, and it works well enough when you’re just looking to lose the training wheels, build a birdhouse, or get a driver’s license.
But some mistakes aren’t that cut and dry. Sometimes, your mistakes aren’t just strike one - they’re game over. And there’s nothing to be learned really – no lesson to take home. Nothing to be done. Thanks for playing.
Those mistakes aren’t learning experiences. They’re iron gates around your heart, and, for the rest of your life, every good thing has to find a way around it to get in. They’re deep pits, padlocks – foxes that roam your vineyards, torches on their tails. You’re no better for these mistakes. Only more broken.
So. Here we are. I’ve got a pile of mistakes, and I don’t know what to do with them. And you, you probably have a few yourself. There’s no cashing these in for a better deal – no tokens to redeem for a second chance. There’s just the looking back, pinching the bridge of your nose between knuckles, and “if only.”
It’s the prayer that God doesn’t answer – the do-over. “You reap what you sow,” Jesus informed us, and I say those are terrible words. Because I’ve sown enough trouble in my time; when harvest season rolls around, it may not be an altogether pretty bounty.
But, this too, is God – God, who made things solid, and firm, and cut sharp corners on reality. Life is not stream-of-consciousness, or cyclical (whatever they may say.) There’s math at work – you reap what you sow. Sow desertion and reap abandonment. Sow jealousy and reap obsession. Sow trouble. Reap trouble. A river of blood and frogs falling from the skies. A tomb just shy of the Promised Land. Or David, in his tent, crying, “O Absalom! My son, my son!”
They are terrible words, but God is good to do this to us: to set up parameters around life, establish some rules, no matter how flimsy or how many exceptions. Mistakes don’t all bloom into daisies, not if you’re sowing thistles. God is good as His word. Maybe I spoke wrong at first – there is always something to be learned from mistakes, even if it’s just this:
Though every man be found a liar, still you would be found true.
But some mistakes aren’t that cut and dry. Sometimes, your mistakes aren’t just strike one - they’re game over. And there’s nothing to be learned really – no lesson to take home. Nothing to be done. Thanks for playing.
Those mistakes aren’t learning experiences. They’re iron gates around your heart, and, for the rest of your life, every good thing has to find a way around it to get in. They’re deep pits, padlocks – foxes that roam your vineyards, torches on their tails. You’re no better for these mistakes. Only more broken.
So. Here we are. I’ve got a pile of mistakes, and I don’t know what to do with them. And you, you probably have a few yourself. There’s no cashing these in for a better deal – no tokens to redeem for a second chance. There’s just the looking back, pinching the bridge of your nose between knuckles, and “if only.”
It’s the prayer that God doesn’t answer – the do-over. “You reap what you sow,” Jesus informed us, and I say those are terrible words. Because I’ve sown enough trouble in my time; when harvest season rolls around, it may not be an altogether pretty bounty.
But, this too, is God – God, who made things solid, and firm, and cut sharp corners on reality. Life is not stream-of-consciousness, or cyclical (whatever they may say.) There’s math at work – you reap what you sow. Sow desertion and reap abandonment. Sow jealousy and reap obsession. Sow trouble. Reap trouble. A river of blood and frogs falling from the skies. A tomb just shy of the Promised Land. Or David, in his tent, crying, “O Absalom! My son, my son!”
They are terrible words, but God is good to do this to us: to set up parameters around life, establish some rules, no matter how flimsy or how many exceptions. Mistakes don’t all bloom into daisies, not if you’re sowing thistles. God is good as His word. Maybe I spoke wrong at first – there is always something to be learned from mistakes, even if it’s just this:
Though every man be found a liar, still you would be found true.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Give It Away
I said, once, that love was God giving us something back.
As in, “everything else leaves in life and nothing really lasts, but when you love someone – that's God giving you something to hold onto, saying – benevolently – ‘I know everything leaves you, but this is the thing you want most of all, and it’s yours forever.’”
Now, I said it to a girl that I wanted to like me, so I was being a little melodramatic (I am usually being a little melodramatic. This post, believe it or not, is a little melodramatic. You’ve been warned.) But, I did believe it. Love is God giving us something back.
I know a very little better now. “Love is God giving us something back” is one of those things that sounds true. It’s a sweet thing for lovers to whisper to each other, and it works nicely on a note (dotted with hearts.) But God, He only gives us sacrifices. Only gives us what we can give back to Him.
He gives you a gift in one hand and a match in the other – “Will you burn this also, for my sake?” And, mark my words – as you love your life - burn it on the spot. Better to burn it yourself then to have God show up one day and take it by force.
You could have had a sacrifice to the Almighty. Now you have nothing at all.
See the story of Abraham and Isaac (I don’t understand a word of this story. Not a word.) God gave Abraham the only thing he’d ever wanted, a bouncing baby boy, and then commanded him to strap his son down on top of a mountain and split his neck with a knife. Abraham obeyed and, what do you know, God called it at the last second. “Whew!” we all say, wiping our collective brows. “Playing it pretty close the chest there, God!” And Abraham…what did he think, then? Untying his son, chuckling nervously, avoiding his son’s saucer-wide eyes.
We are not told what would have happened had Abraham refused God this request. We just don’t know.
Monstrous, maybe. But what else could God do? What is our love, or what are we, really, except beings who can’t love anything without destroying it too? Our love gets confused with possession, obsession, and need. Our love gets confused with a roll in the hay. Our love gets confused with fear. Our love gets confused with hate.
We love with our emotions. We love with our tongues. We love with slip-shod bodies, jittering feelings, and buzzing brains. We wield love like fire hoses, like axes. We love with bladed arms and time bomb hearts. We love without mercy. We love without knowing how. We love, and love, and love and the whole world has paid a terrible price for our loving so fiercely.
And God sees what we call love, and He knows what will happen if we don’t let go. He’s seen the horrors done for love of man, love of country, love of His own self. So, he gathers all your love together in one place, sets the kindling, strikes the match. And you wake up and see yourself burning alive, muscles melting and tendons snapping, while He stands over you. And you scream “No, no, no! All that I ever loved! Stop! Stop it!”
But it won’t stop. He won’t stop. “Narrow is the road,” Jesus says about Heaven, and that’s true. It’s a narrow road with a narrow door, and if you’re going to fit – then everything else is going to burn away. He’ll strip you down to yourself.
Love’s a destructive force – we all know that. We use it wrong, we end up destroying what we love most (there are no exceptions, really.) Only God can destroy the rest.
So, something different now: If you love something, give it away.
As in, “everything else leaves in life and nothing really lasts, but when you love someone – that's God giving you something to hold onto, saying – benevolently – ‘I know everything leaves you, but this is the thing you want most of all, and it’s yours forever.’”
Now, I said it to a girl that I wanted to like me, so I was being a little melodramatic (I am usually being a little melodramatic. This post, believe it or not, is a little melodramatic. You’ve been warned.) But, I did believe it. Love is God giving us something back.
I know a very little better now. “Love is God giving us something back” is one of those things that sounds true. It’s a sweet thing for lovers to whisper to each other, and it works nicely on a note (dotted with hearts.) But God, He only gives us sacrifices. Only gives us what we can give back to Him.
He gives you a gift in one hand and a match in the other – “Will you burn this also, for my sake?” And, mark my words – as you love your life - burn it on the spot. Better to burn it yourself then to have God show up one day and take it by force.
You could have had a sacrifice to the Almighty. Now you have nothing at all.
See the story of Abraham and Isaac (I don’t understand a word of this story. Not a word.) God gave Abraham the only thing he’d ever wanted, a bouncing baby boy, and then commanded him to strap his son down on top of a mountain and split his neck with a knife. Abraham obeyed and, what do you know, God called it at the last second. “Whew!” we all say, wiping our collective brows. “Playing it pretty close the chest there, God!” And Abraham…what did he think, then? Untying his son, chuckling nervously, avoiding his son’s saucer-wide eyes.
We are not told what would have happened had Abraham refused God this request. We just don’t know.
Monstrous, maybe. But what else could God do? What is our love, or what are we, really, except beings who can’t love anything without destroying it too? Our love gets confused with possession, obsession, and need. Our love gets confused with a roll in the hay. Our love gets confused with fear. Our love gets confused with hate.
We love with our emotions. We love with our tongues. We love with slip-shod bodies, jittering feelings, and buzzing brains. We wield love like fire hoses, like axes. We love with bladed arms and time bomb hearts. We love without mercy. We love without knowing how. We love, and love, and love and the whole world has paid a terrible price for our loving so fiercely.
And God sees what we call love, and He knows what will happen if we don’t let go. He’s seen the horrors done for love of man, love of country, love of His own self. So, he gathers all your love together in one place, sets the kindling, strikes the match. And you wake up and see yourself burning alive, muscles melting and tendons snapping, while He stands over you. And you scream “No, no, no! All that I ever loved! Stop! Stop it!”
But it won’t stop. He won’t stop. “Narrow is the road,” Jesus says about Heaven, and that’s true. It’s a narrow road with a narrow door, and if you’re going to fit – then everything else is going to burn away. He’ll strip you down to yourself.
Love’s a destructive force – we all know that. We use it wrong, we end up destroying what we love most (there are no exceptions, really.) Only God can destroy the rest.
So, something different now: If you love something, give it away.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
the earth is the Lord's
I have one thing left.
There used to be a lot more. God took it all, as is His prerogative. “The earth is the Lord’s,” the Psalmist says, “and all that is in it.” Terrifying thought, that. If the earth is the Lord’s, there’s not much left for us. I suppose, if it’s all His in the first place, then He can take any of it back without asking permission. I’ve seen Him do it, many times.
We’re fond of talking about letting Jesus into your heart. It’s a great line for kids – cute little picture. What we don’t tell them is Jesus’ size. How he is so big and so real and your heart is so small that there is simply no room for him unless he guts you first. And whenever you ask him to scoot over so that you can move something else in, He rips it out of your hands and chucks it into his Father’s furnace that burns and burns and burns.
A year ago, Jesus had me, I suppose, right where he wanted me. I didn’t have a dime. I didn’t have a home. I didn’t really have a job. I didn’t have any future ambitions, or goals, or plans. God had stripped me naked, and He may have been very well pleased with my state (maybe not though. I don’t really know beans about God.)
All those things we talk about giving to Jesus, I had given away. I was a man without a thing. I lived in a church in Chicago. I existed on the kindness of friends. I was angry. I didn’t have much to offer, and I had nothing to own. And then…I got one thing.
One Thing. And, as soon as it looked like it might be mine, I walled it up and kicked God out. Here was something that He would not be invading.
No, no, no, God – not this time. I’ve seen what you do with my stuff. Knowing you, you’ll want this too, and I’m telling you – this time, it’s mine. Mine, mine, mine! Do you know the meaning of that word?! Or do you, in your infinite and boundless greed, see nothing here but one more thing to add to your horde?!
I did everything I could to keep Him out. Anything I could think of. Even going so far as to paying lip service to Him really governing it (I knew better. I know better.) and I tried to earn it. Tried to make it mine, to prove that God is Heaven is not the only one who can make something beautiful. And I thought, perhaps, if God could learn to occupy His proper place in my life – as a sort of pet that I could indulge and look after and who would in turn keep me company and get me friends – then, perhaps, all would be well. I carved a line down the middle of my heart. You, God, are on that side. I am on this side. Please, don’t touch anything else.
Please, please, God – I’m begging you. Don’t touch anything. I know what you want, and I know that you say you make all things new but I don’t want you in this one. Just, please. Leave me alone this time. I’ve given you so much. I’ve sacrificed a lot. Give me one thing – it isn’t asking so much. Just one thing, and I swear, the rest is yours. Just give me space. Leave me be for a while. This…I love this more than I’ve ever loved anything and I’m worried that you’ll take it because that’s what you do you take the things I love most and I understand that it’s because you love me but you understand, don’t you, that I just want for once in my life to love something without having to drop it into your hands and I do love this so much so please. Please. Don’t. Touch. Anything.
But the earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it.
And God, being Who He Is, didn’t listen.
Because our hearts are small, and there is no room for “God and…” He’ll have His cake and eat it too, and then He’ll have seconds. He wants to love of all of you, and to do that He has to possess all of you. He wants to save all of you, and to do that He has to own all of you. And He’ll pin you down like Isaac on the alter and scoop out every ounce of your flesh, peeling layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer until you’re looking up at Him, swollen and skinless – without a thing in the world to call your own. And you turn to Him, because what else can you possibly do?
And He’s crying too, because He loves you so very much, and He hates to hurt the things He loves but if He doesn’t how could He save them? And they don’t know how important it is, to give it all up so He has to take them away, pry their hands off and toss the things into His Father’s furnace (that burns and burns.) And then He holds them. Then He holds you. Then He holds me.
And, impossibly, I’m new.
-
I have one thing left. I can’t really explain what it is, or why it means anything to me – it’d be worthless to anyone else. If you saw it, you’d throw it away without a thought. Someday, maybe, I will too. But, right now, it’s all I have.
And God, I fear, is coming for it next.
“I am God’s servant. Let it be done to me as you have said.” – Mary, mother of God.
There used to be a lot more. God took it all, as is His prerogative. “The earth is the Lord’s,” the Psalmist says, “and all that is in it.” Terrifying thought, that. If the earth is the Lord’s, there’s not much left for us. I suppose, if it’s all His in the first place, then He can take any of it back without asking permission. I’ve seen Him do it, many times.
We’re fond of talking about letting Jesus into your heart. It’s a great line for kids – cute little picture. What we don’t tell them is Jesus’ size. How he is so big and so real and your heart is so small that there is simply no room for him unless he guts you first. And whenever you ask him to scoot over so that you can move something else in, He rips it out of your hands and chucks it into his Father’s furnace that burns and burns and burns.
A year ago, Jesus had me, I suppose, right where he wanted me. I didn’t have a dime. I didn’t have a home. I didn’t really have a job. I didn’t have any future ambitions, or goals, or plans. God had stripped me naked, and He may have been very well pleased with my state (maybe not though. I don’t really know beans about God.)
All those things we talk about giving to Jesus, I had given away. I was a man without a thing. I lived in a church in Chicago. I existed on the kindness of friends. I was angry. I didn’t have much to offer, and I had nothing to own. And then…I got one thing.
One Thing. And, as soon as it looked like it might be mine, I walled it up and kicked God out. Here was something that He would not be invading.
No, no, no, God – not this time. I’ve seen what you do with my stuff. Knowing you, you’ll want this too, and I’m telling you – this time, it’s mine. Mine, mine, mine! Do you know the meaning of that word?! Or do you, in your infinite and boundless greed, see nothing here but one more thing to add to your horde?!
I did everything I could to keep Him out. Anything I could think of. Even going so far as to paying lip service to Him really governing it (I knew better. I know better.) and I tried to earn it. Tried to make it mine, to prove that God is Heaven is not the only one who can make something beautiful. And I thought, perhaps, if God could learn to occupy His proper place in my life – as a sort of pet that I could indulge and look after and who would in turn keep me company and get me friends – then, perhaps, all would be well. I carved a line down the middle of my heart. You, God, are on that side. I am on this side. Please, don’t touch anything else.
Please, please, God – I’m begging you. Don’t touch anything. I know what you want, and I know that you say you make all things new but I don’t want you in this one. Just, please. Leave me alone this time. I’ve given you so much. I’ve sacrificed a lot. Give me one thing – it isn’t asking so much. Just one thing, and I swear, the rest is yours. Just give me space. Leave me be for a while. This…I love this more than I’ve ever loved anything and I’m worried that you’ll take it because that’s what you do you take the things I love most and I understand that it’s because you love me but you understand, don’t you, that I just want for once in my life to love something without having to drop it into your hands and I do love this so much so please. Please. Don’t. Touch. Anything.
But the earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it.
And God, being Who He Is, didn’t listen.
Because our hearts are small, and there is no room for “God and…” He’ll have His cake and eat it too, and then He’ll have seconds. He wants to love of all of you, and to do that He has to possess all of you. He wants to save all of you, and to do that He has to own all of you. And He’ll pin you down like Isaac on the alter and scoop out every ounce of your flesh, peeling layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer after layer until you’re looking up at Him, swollen and skinless – without a thing in the world to call your own. And you turn to Him, because what else can you possibly do?
And He’s crying too, because He loves you so very much, and He hates to hurt the things He loves but if He doesn’t how could He save them? And they don’t know how important it is, to give it all up so He has to take them away, pry their hands off and toss the things into His Father’s furnace (that burns and burns.) And then He holds them. Then He holds you. Then He holds me.
And, impossibly, I’m new.
-
I have one thing left. I can’t really explain what it is, or why it means anything to me – it’d be worthless to anyone else. If you saw it, you’d throw it away without a thought. Someday, maybe, I will too. But, right now, it’s all I have.
And God, I fear, is coming for it next.
“I am God’s servant. Let it be done to me as you have said.” – Mary, mother of God.
Enough
Meanwhile, Zacchaeus stood before the Lord and said, “I will give half my wealth to the poor, Lord, and if I have cheated people on their taxes, I will give them back four times as much!” Jesus responded, “Salvation has come to this home today, for this man has shown himself to be a true son of Abraham.” Luke 19:8-9
So you become a Christian. Simple process. Pray to Jesus, accept him into your heart, open the floodgates, your cup runneth over, etc, etc… There’s that initial little prayer that you hurl out to get the whole thing started. And, just like that, you’re a Christian. Found the Lord, or whatever.
Then what?
You start by ridding your life of the trash. Toss out your smokes, your porn, maybe your booze – cut ties with some friends who’d drag you down. Replace them with a Bible, a pastor, The Purpose Driven Life. Maybe you try to pray.
Not enough.
Then you start cutting out old habits. Friday night binge drinking turns into Wednesday night prayer group. No more sleeping in on Sunday – not when there’s church to be had. No more behind-the-back chitchat about the boss. No more peeking down the waitress’s shirt. Toss out some music.
Still not enough.
So you volunteer at church. You start financially supporting missions and African children. You paint a school. You witness to your neighbors. You plant trees, memorize verses, pray five times a day, and try to muster up some sort of emotion, some sort of feeling, any sense that this is perfect and that life right now is the best of any possible world and that things are better now than they’ve ever been.
But you’re running out decisions to make, and you know that it’s not enough.
You’re angry now. Because you had sort of hoped that you’d give your life to Jesus, let him clean it, and he’d just give it back. Shiny and new, trouble-free, and under your control.
Then you come across the story of Zacchaeus, the wee little man who – after one dinner with Jesus – couldn’t get rid of his money fast enough. Jesus tells him that “salvation has come.” And he wonders.
And then you wonder if that’s what it takes – if it just takes throwing off everything you have and are and want to be and burning every penny for the sake of Jesus Christ. And you remember hearing, in the beginning, that being a Christian meant giving your heart to Jesus – and you find out now, only now, that it’s True.
So you become a Christian. Simple process. Pray to Jesus, accept him into your heart, open the floodgates, your cup runneth over, etc, etc… There’s that initial little prayer that you hurl out to get the whole thing started. And, just like that, you’re a Christian. Found the Lord, or whatever.
Then what?
You start by ridding your life of the trash. Toss out your smokes, your porn, maybe your booze – cut ties with some friends who’d drag you down. Replace them with a Bible, a pastor, The Purpose Driven Life. Maybe you try to pray.
Not enough.
Then you start cutting out old habits. Friday night binge drinking turns into Wednesday night prayer group. No more sleeping in on Sunday – not when there’s church to be had. No more behind-the-back chitchat about the boss. No more peeking down the waitress’s shirt. Toss out some music.
Still not enough.
So you volunteer at church. You start financially supporting missions and African children. You paint a school. You witness to your neighbors. You plant trees, memorize verses, pray five times a day, and try to muster up some sort of emotion, some sort of feeling, any sense that this is perfect and that life right now is the best of any possible world and that things are better now than they’ve ever been.
But you’re running out decisions to make, and you know that it’s not enough.
You’re angry now. Because you had sort of hoped that you’d give your life to Jesus, let him clean it, and he’d just give it back. Shiny and new, trouble-free, and under your control.
Then you come across the story of Zacchaeus, the wee little man who – after one dinner with Jesus – couldn’t get rid of his money fast enough. Jesus tells him that “salvation has come.” And he wonders.
And then you wonder if that’s what it takes – if it just takes throwing off everything you have and are and want to be and burning every penny for the sake of Jesus Christ. And you remember hearing, in the beginning, that being a Christian meant giving your heart to Jesus – and you find out now, only now, that it’s True.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Juice for Jesus
it's a bright sunday morning when my good eye pops open and i begin my sunday chores, which generally involves whatever is left over of my saturday chores. of course, church service in imminent so there are things that need doing. coffee needs brewing, sound needs checking, candles need lighting. i was in japan once, and scaled 1,000 steps to get to a shinto house of worship on sunday - the monks explained that they wanted to make sure that only those who came really wanted to be there.
when the pastor shows, family and all, he surveys my work. "communion?" he asks, and i turn in dismay to the empty table in front of the church. i haven't set it out and, what's worse, we're out of crackers and grape juice. walgreen's is a ten minute walk, and off i go.
2 things:
"my one good eye." the night before, i allowed big g, my resident friend/sometime mortal foe/all-time dealer of drugs to other friends to take me on a short-cut from wrigley field back to my house. tyler, an impish runaway girl tagged along with us. she's the sort of girl boys hate to love, a girl who can throw faster, spit further, drink harder and cuss meaner than any of the guys. they made for a pretty tough couple, and i was the odd one out. they were doing their best to make it seem like they followed after God with the ardor of a middle-aged monk, and i was doing my best to keep it real. however, when our short cut led to a locked gate, both of our facades fell away. big g didn't seem very christian when he yanked at the gate until the lock split off and the iron bars flew open, and i didn't seem very gangsta when the bars hit me in the face, split my eyebrow in half, and sent me face down into the street, spewing blood and causing big g to go uncharacteristically bonkers over my well-being.
"crackers and grape juice." i don't like it anymore than you do, but the evangelical tradition has adopted an annotated version of the eucharist of late, substituting saltines and welch's for the body and the blood. there are benefits to this, but the overall effect seems to be a distinctly mcdonald's take on sacraments. the lord's supper has been streamlined down to the lord's snack.
at any rate, this is how i found myself running to wallgreen's, one eye swollen shut, hoping for a good deal on crackers and grape juice. it's a pleasant enough walk when its warm, and sunday morning walks are always welcome, the rest of the world busying themselves about enjoying the freest morning of the week. skipping church is its own reward. i run into walgreens and grab the first box of crackers i see (walgreen's brand, if memory serves me) and run up and down aisles, looking for grape juice. Its not by the orange. Its not with the soda. Church is starting soon. I'll still have to fill thirty little cups when I get back - a proccess that usually involves spilling half the container and leaving the kitchen looking like the aftermath of some ecclesiastic violence. where is the grape juice?
finally i turn a corner and see them, big jugs with white labels and cute kids smacking their lips across the packaging. i start checking prices and then, turn the containers to check ingredients. what would jesus drink? the question takes on gravity in this scenario, as we're doing this per his request, taking a stab at paying the back the Divine Favor. here, all he asked on the night of his death was that we eat a little and drink a little now and again, and remember him as we do. he didn't give specifications, but concentrate just seems wrong, as does something slyly dubbed: "actual grape flavor!" but, on a budget like this, can i afford the 100% natural juice? if it's for jesus? the cranberry grape is all natural and on sale, but does one mix cranberries into the communion wine? are we past that point, since we've foregone wine and all anyway? am i thinking too much? is my quest to fuse the sacred and the mundane bordering on psychosis, seeing as i've been staring at grape/cranberry juices for the past five minutes? as long as the stuff looks like blood, are we close enough?
i come to my senses as i realize that i've dropped the crackers on the wallgreens floor and am crying out of my good eye.
i grab the natural stuff and shuffle to the front of the line, one eye bruised and one eye red and angry-looking. there's a line of people in front of me, an old man with a pack of razors, a cute girl my age with a bag of cookies and a gallon of milk. and me, my crackers and grape juice: the body and blood of Christ (actual? symbolic? does it matter?) the line trickles through and i get to the front, where a dark-skinned takes the items from me and runs them under a scanner.
"find everything alright?"
when the pastor shows, family and all, he surveys my work. "communion?" he asks, and i turn in dismay to the empty table in front of the church. i haven't set it out and, what's worse, we're out of crackers and grape juice. walgreen's is a ten minute walk, and off i go.
2 things:
"my one good eye." the night before, i allowed big g, my resident friend/sometime mortal foe/all-time dealer of drugs to other friends to take me on a short-cut from wrigley field back to my house. tyler, an impish runaway girl tagged along with us. she's the sort of girl boys hate to love, a girl who can throw faster, spit further, drink harder and cuss meaner than any of the guys. they made for a pretty tough couple, and i was the odd one out. they were doing their best to make it seem like they followed after God with the ardor of a middle-aged monk, and i was doing my best to keep it real. however, when our short cut led to a locked gate, both of our facades fell away. big g didn't seem very christian when he yanked at the gate until the lock split off and the iron bars flew open, and i didn't seem very gangsta when the bars hit me in the face, split my eyebrow in half, and sent me face down into the street, spewing blood and causing big g to go uncharacteristically bonkers over my well-being.
"crackers and grape juice." i don't like it anymore than you do, but the evangelical tradition has adopted an annotated version of the eucharist of late, substituting saltines and welch's for the body and the blood. there are benefits to this, but the overall effect seems to be a distinctly mcdonald's take on sacraments. the lord's supper has been streamlined down to the lord's snack.
at any rate, this is how i found myself running to wallgreen's, one eye swollen shut, hoping for a good deal on crackers and grape juice. it's a pleasant enough walk when its warm, and sunday morning walks are always welcome, the rest of the world busying themselves about enjoying the freest morning of the week. skipping church is its own reward. i run into walgreens and grab the first box of crackers i see (walgreen's brand, if memory serves me) and run up and down aisles, looking for grape juice. Its not by the orange. Its not with the soda. Church is starting soon. I'll still have to fill thirty little cups when I get back - a proccess that usually involves spilling half the container and leaving the kitchen looking like the aftermath of some ecclesiastic violence. where is the grape juice?
finally i turn a corner and see them, big jugs with white labels and cute kids smacking their lips across the packaging. i start checking prices and then, turn the containers to check ingredients. what would jesus drink? the question takes on gravity in this scenario, as we're doing this per his request, taking a stab at paying the back the Divine Favor. here, all he asked on the night of his death was that we eat a little and drink a little now and again, and remember him as we do. he didn't give specifications, but concentrate just seems wrong, as does something slyly dubbed: "actual grape flavor!" but, on a budget like this, can i afford the 100% natural juice? if it's for jesus? the cranberry grape is all natural and on sale, but does one mix cranberries into the communion wine? are we past that point, since we've foregone wine and all anyway? am i thinking too much? is my quest to fuse the sacred and the mundane bordering on psychosis, seeing as i've been staring at grape/cranberry juices for the past five minutes? as long as the stuff looks like blood, are we close enough?
i come to my senses as i realize that i've dropped the crackers on the wallgreens floor and am crying out of my good eye.
i grab the natural stuff and shuffle to the front of the line, one eye bruised and one eye red and angry-looking. there's a line of people in front of me, an old man with a pack of razors, a cute girl my age with a bag of cookies and a gallon of milk. and me, my crackers and grape juice: the body and blood of Christ (actual? symbolic? does it matter?) the line trickles through and i get to the front, where a dark-skinned takes the items from me and runs them under a scanner.
"find everything alright?"
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Large and In Charge
It's not exactly a bustling night, but it's cold out so we've got a pretty good crowd running around the the building. Two volunteers are bringing out ground beef and taco shells, and another is trying to keep the swearing to a minimum (a study in futility, that. we're as guilty as they are.) There are a few expectant glances my direction as the kids shuffle into a line, ready to pray and eat. Glenn - ostensibly, my head of security, motions that it's showtime. I've never really done this before.
"Alright," I shout through my strep throat, jumping onto a chair so that the whole room can see me. "Can I have everyone's attention please?!" The kids all shush each other in unison, except for Andre who screams "bitch!" right as the rest of the talking dies.
"LANGUAGE!" bellows Glenn. There are no words for how big Glenn is. Inevitably, the first time you meet him, you'll be struck dumb by either his massive girth; the second time, you'll realize that he's neck-craning tall too. He's the sort of guy you want for security, so long as you can keep him to task.
"Where's Dave?!" one of the kids calls.
"This will just take a minute!" I crack. "As most of you know, Dave and Amy won't be here anymore, so now I'll be the only one in charge from now on."
"Why did Dave have to leave?!" someone shouts. There are a few murmurs of assent and I know that the answer to that question is complicated.
"It had nothing to do with any of you," I answer, truthfully enough. "Anyway, nothing around here is really going to change. Just remember, I want this place to be safe for everyone who comes in. That means, whatever's happening on the streets - leave it on the streets."
"I miss Dave!"
"If something has to be settled, take it outside the building. There won't be any fighting here."
Glenn mutters to me, trying to remind me to say something - but I'm on a roll and the kids are getting restless. The ground beef is cooling and Laura, the cook - bless her heart - is covering the food anxiously.
"So, tonight we have tacos and rice for you, also soda and coffee. I think we have enough for secoooonds..." I draw that out as I look questioningly at Laura who shrugs her shoulders. "We might have enough for seconds. I'll pray and then we can eat."
There is another chorus of "shhh!"'s as kids slip off caps and clasp hands. It's strange, to see a group of kids so steeped in keeping it real still feeling obligated to give prayer its due. It now, as it has before, leaves me a little unsure of what exactly to pray. How does one pray for this group?
"Father, thank you for bringing us all here and thanks for this food." I sound like a five-year-old at a church potluck, I know, and here's hoping that God can sift through what I say. "Look after our brains, Father - help us to join all our thoughts to you." - a line from a Sufjan song I've always liked - "and keep our bodies and souls safe." There are some mutters and a few giggles, and it's time to wrap this up. "Thanks, God - we love you so much. Amen."
"AMEN!" everyone chimes as the spell breaks and a sort of comfortable chaos settles in. Laura and Alora uncover pots and start dishing out food. Glenn glances over at me, and I almost have to stay on the chair to have a normal conversation with him.
"Pretty good for your first time," he says. I sense this is more a critique than a compliment, but this hide's thickened a bit over the past few months and it doesn't bother me much. "You shouldn't tell them to take it outside the building, though. They'll just fight in the parking lot - you should tell them to take it off church property."
"Thanks," I say. He's right, and sure enough, I'm chasing a scuffling couple off the parking lot and into the street later that night. I watch them fade down the street, winking in and out as their fight carries them from street light to street light. I stand in the cold, watching my breath puff out as Taylor, a spritely volunteer with luminous eyes and bouncing curls runs up behind me. Maja is acting up again, casting spells in the foyer. I walk back into the church and a familiar feeling takes over again, equal parts surrender and relief: A miniature prayer to God that is more felt than spoken, but runs something like, "all of me to help all of them."
"Alright," I shout through my strep throat, jumping onto a chair so that the whole room can see me. "Can I have everyone's attention please?!" The kids all shush each other in unison, except for Andre who screams "bitch!" right as the rest of the talking dies.
"LANGUAGE!" bellows Glenn. There are no words for how big Glenn is. Inevitably, the first time you meet him, you'll be struck dumb by either his massive girth; the second time, you'll realize that he's neck-craning tall too. He's the sort of guy you want for security, so long as you can keep him to task.
"Where's Dave?!" one of the kids calls.
"This will just take a minute!" I crack. "As most of you know, Dave and Amy won't be here anymore, so now I'll be the only one in charge from now on."
"Why did Dave have to leave?!" someone shouts. There are a few murmurs of assent and I know that the answer to that question is complicated.
"It had nothing to do with any of you," I answer, truthfully enough. "Anyway, nothing around here is really going to change. Just remember, I want this place to be safe for everyone who comes in. That means, whatever's happening on the streets - leave it on the streets."
"I miss Dave!"
"If something has to be settled, take it outside the building. There won't be any fighting here."
Glenn mutters to me, trying to remind me to say something - but I'm on a roll and the kids are getting restless. The ground beef is cooling and Laura, the cook - bless her heart - is covering the food anxiously.
"So, tonight we have tacos and rice for you, also soda and coffee. I think we have enough for secoooonds..." I draw that out as I look questioningly at Laura who shrugs her shoulders. "We might have enough for seconds. I'll pray and then we can eat."
There is another chorus of "shhh!"'s as kids slip off caps and clasp hands. It's strange, to see a group of kids so steeped in keeping it real still feeling obligated to give prayer its due. It now, as it has before, leaves me a little unsure of what exactly to pray. How does one pray for this group?
"Father, thank you for bringing us all here and thanks for this food." I sound like a five-year-old at a church potluck, I know, and here's hoping that God can sift through what I say. "Look after our brains, Father - help us to join all our thoughts to you." - a line from a Sufjan song I've always liked - "and keep our bodies and souls safe." There are some mutters and a few giggles, and it's time to wrap this up. "Thanks, God - we love you so much. Amen."
"AMEN!" everyone chimes as the spell breaks and a sort of comfortable chaos settles in. Laura and Alora uncover pots and start dishing out food. Glenn glances over at me, and I almost have to stay on the chair to have a normal conversation with him.
"Pretty good for your first time," he says. I sense this is more a critique than a compliment, but this hide's thickened a bit over the past few months and it doesn't bother me much. "You shouldn't tell them to take it outside the building, though. They'll just fight in the parking lot - you should tell them to take it off church property."
"Thanks," I say. He's right, and sure enough, I'm chasing a scuffling couple off the parking lot and into the street later that night. I watch them fade down the street, winking in and out as their fight carries them from street light to street light. I stand in the cold, watching my breath puff out as Taylor, a spritely volunteer with luminous eyes and bouncing curls runs up behind me. Maja is acting up again, casting spells in the foyer. I walk back into the church and a familiar feeling takes over again, equal parts surrender and relief: A miniature prayer to God that is more felt than spoken, but runs something like, "all of me to help all of them."
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Continuation.
CONTINUED...
Blank stares hum in a room that, abruptly, feels all business. My grant proposal is staring each of these pastors in the face, like an expectant child. I'm playing it cool, leaned back, arms crossed, face set with an expression that I hope reads: "whatever, you know? It's not like I NEED your money."
The Hawaiian pastor shuffles a bit, shifting to skeptical mode. "So, who exactly are you feeding with this?"
I'm pretty well-rehearsed for this part. "The homeless in our neighborhood."
"How many?"
"Varies. Fifty to sixty a night."
"What are they like?" asks the children's pastor, a heavy-set soccor mom with a brunette bob and flowers on her blouse.
"Most of them are kids, many of them are sexually confused. Gender confused. They come out to their parents or friends and don't find the acceptance they thought they would. So they come to Chicago, band together in these little gangs, and get mixed up in drugs, prostitution and never really get a handle on their sexuality."
"They're all gay?"
"No. Some are. Some are bi. Some are straight. Some pretend to be whatever will get them friends. A lot of them are transvestites."
"You work with these people?"
"I live with them."
It sounds dramatic, I know - like I'm one of those people who are living their Christian walk in the extreme (like Jesus!) Maybe. It's not nearly as romantic once you're in the thing. It's mopping floors and brewing coffee. It's keeping toilet paper stocked and crunching budget numbers. A church is a church, I suppose.
"Transvestites!" The pastor exclaims, "well, you should invite Pastor Brad over there!" He motions to a young, quiet-looking pastor with long fingers and shy eyes. "He'd fit right in with the transvestites!"
Everyone laughs at this, save Pastor Brad, who smiles sheepishly into his cup of coffee. I watch Pastor Brad and realize that I'm not the only one floundering in this church. This religion.
"But seriously," Pastor Hawaii says, folding his hands in a mentorly fashion. "You and I both know that I could drop pennies into your work there from now till the Lord comes, and it wouldn't do any good. Right now, I have a 1.1 million dollar a year budget...that I'm not meeting."
He says I'm not meeting as if to correct any mistaken assumptions I might have about the livelihood of this church. As if he was saying, "don't kid yourself, hotshot. It ain't easy having all this."
"And," Pastor Hawaii says, peering over his glasses at me. "You're asking for...what does this break down to... less than a hundred dollars a week to feed all these people."
"Fifty dollars a week."
"That's not very much money, Tyler."
"It's what I've been doing."
"Well." The pastor whistles. "Who'd you find to cater these for less than a dollar a head?"
"I cook it myself - me and the volunteers."
"Fifty dollars a week?"
"We've gotten pretty good at shopping on a budget."
"It just doesn't sound feasible to me."
"It's what we do."
"But you see how that doesn't sound possible."
"It's possible."
"How?"
"Coupons."
"It's not much food then."
"It's not a feast, no."
"Fifty dollars isn't much."
"So give me more then!"
There are some awkward stares around the table, a hot silence that reddens the cheeks and statics the ears. Eyes fluttering about, wondering if I had said that last bit in anger.
I'm miles beyond angry.
The Pastor chuckles a bit, sensing the need to boost the spirits. "Look. Tyler. What you're doing is amazing out there. Amazing. We want to help. I mean, Pastor Brad will probably can't wait to start volunteering!"
Laughter - but for Brad - and the meeting is back where it started. Everyone's laughing and I'm feeling sick in my guts. There's a white board in the corner with the words, "God is good! All the time!"" scrawled on it in red marker.
I could have scripted the rest of it out before it happened. They need to talk it over. Look at the budget. Make calls. Pray. They'll be in touch. So good to chat. Let's pray. "Father, we thank you for the work that Tyler is doing..."
I leave, never wanting to hear from them again.
And I don't.
Blank stares hum in a room that, abruptly, feels all business. My grant proposal is staring each of these pastors in the face, like an expectant child. I'm playing it cool, leaned back, arms crossed, face set with an expression that I hope reads: "whatever, you know? It's not like I NEED your money."
The Hawaiian pastor shuffles a bit, shifting to skeptical mode. "So, who exactly are you feeding with this?"
I'm pretty well-rehearsed for this part. "The homeless in our neighborhood."
"How many?"
"Varies. Fifty to sixty a night."
"What are they like?" asks the children's pastor, a heavy-set soccor mom with a brunette bob and flowers on her blouse.
"Most of them are kids, many of them are sexually confused. Gender confused. They come out to their parents or friends and don't find the acceptance they thought they would. So they come to Chicago, band together in these little gangs, and get mixed up in drugs, prostitution and never really get a handle on their sexuality."
"They're all gay?"
"No. Some are. Some are bi. Some are straight. Some pretend to be whatever will get them friends. A lot of them are transvestites."
"You work with these people?"
"I live with them."
It sounds dramatic, I know - like I'm one of those people who are living their Christian walk in the extreme (like Jesus!) Maybe. It's not nearly as romantic once you're in the thing. It's mopping floors and brewing coffee. It's keeping toilet paper stocked and crunching budget numbers. A church is a church, I suppose.
"Transvestites!" The pastor exclaims, "well, you should invite Pastor Brad over there!" He motions to a young, quiet-looking pastor with long fingers and shy eyes. "He'd fit right in with the transvestites!"
Everyone laughs at this, save Pastor Brad, who smiles sheepishly into his cup of coffee. I watch Pastor Brad and realize that I'm not the only one floundering in this church. This religion.
"But seriously," Pastor Hawaii says, folding his hands in a mentorly fashion. "You and I both know that I could drop pennies into your work there from now till the Lord comes, and it wouldn't do any good. Right now, I have a 1.1 million dollar a year budget...that I'm not meeting."
He says I'm not meeting as if to correct any mistaken assumptions I might have about the livelihood of this church. As if he was saying, "don't kid yourself, hotshot. It ain't easy having all this."
"And," Pastor Hawaii says, peering over his glasses at me. "You're asking for...what does this break down to... less than a hundred dollars a week to feed all these people."
"Fifty dollars a week."
"That's not very much money, Tyler."
"It's what I've been doing."
"Well." The pastor whistles. "Who'd you find to cater these for less than a dollar a head?"
"I cook it myself - me and the volunteers."
"Fifty dollars a week?"
"We've gotten pretty good at shopping on a budget."
"It just doesn't sound feasible to me."
"It's what we do."
"But you see how that doesn't sound possible."
"It's possible."
"How?"
"Coupons."
"It's not much food then."
"It's not a feast, no."
"Fifty dollars isn't much."
"So give me more then!"
There are some awkward stares around the table, a hot silence that reddens the cheeks and statics the ears. Eyes fluttering about, wondering if I had said that last bit in anger.
I'm miles beyond angry.
The Pastor chuckles a bit, sensing the need to boost the spirits. "Look. Tyler. What you're doing is amazing out there. Amazing. We want to help. I mean, Pastor Brad will probably can't wait to start volunteering!"
Laughter - but for Brad - and the meeting is back where it started. Everyone's laughing and I'm feeling sick in my guts. There's a white board in the corner with the words, "God is good! All the time!"" scrawled on it in red marker.
I could have scripted the rest of it out before it happened. They need to talk it over. Look at the budget. Make calls. Pray. They'll be in touch. So good to chat. Let's pray. "Father, we thank you for the work that Tyler is doing..."
I leave, never wanting to hear from them again.
And I don't.
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