Time He Thinks He Deserves

He finally stood in front of it; the long wait had been overcome. So many people had stood in his way. Whether they were selfish or just inept, he had out maneuvered their resistance. Their apathy was at his back. Now, opportunity was his to mold. 

But the exposure is brutal. The first moments, disorienting. Next came elation. Soon angry defiance welled up. For grating wind and and freezing spray continues to meet him. To lean in is to clutch that ethereal mantra. 

The Sliding Scale

Well, here’s what we’re contending with as Christians: a horizontal tug of war that has no awareness of the vertical slide that is taking place. As our communities and nation distance themselves from the Lord it will be no surprise to see human devised frameworks decay and falter.

I’ve agreed with quite a bit of David Brooks thinking over the years. But his essay from the Atlantic has a deeply troubling issue. He marginalizes personal faith and removes God’s sovereignty altogether. It’s from this soil of personal faith and God's soverignty that real opportunity and progress flourishes. Not tradition. Not innovation. Not even altruism.

If there is one painful benefit to the essay, it’s Brooks’ articulation of the cold stoicism that is plaguing the GOP. But it’s sad to see Brooks identify with the Bill Maher crowd. Still a crowd of humanists no matter how centrist they appear.
https://amp.theatlantic.com/amp/article/620853/

A Wisp Confronts The Wind

I am a broken man. More than just a sinner, I am compromised. 

I have chosen poorly. And I have been unfairly restricted. 

And yet.

There is mystery overwhelming me. A penetrating love has enveloped my being. 

I am held firm. 

But my hands are trembling. And my feet hesitate. 

I see no path. 

And yet. 

I should be falling. (I revile the sensation--my insides convulse.) But I am stable. 

I cry out "Father!" into silence. The quiet buzzes between my ears. 

And yet. 

I am here. 

The Beginning of Mabel

She was born in 1914. And while the rest of the world was careening into the great war, the shores of northern Lake Michigan continued in the indifferent cycle of nature. Waves roiled sand and stone. Cattails and snake grass swayed in coastal breezes. Color and pattern traversed the sky. Shadow and highlight knit patchworks across the rolling landscape's forest canopy. All dampened the silent hum of creation within. 
Atop the bluff that overlooked that great lake, nested behind a handful of plain wooden storefronts, sat the simple log cabin and subsistence farm of her childhood. There she learned her native language first. Men from the community would gather at her father's barber chair located in their home. She listened as the elders recounted stories of the Odawa people and mulled over their meanings. Next, she learned Polish from immigrant children of the local mill workers. Only by attending school at the Catholic parish did she learn English. 
Life was work. Regular employment and professional careers had yet to enter the native ethos. With her family, she worked their rows of vegetables. Green beans, indispensable for winter, were stored in large woven baskets. She gathered wild berries and herbs in the forest under the instruction of her grandmother. On hot summer days, they would cool their wrists and neck before drinking spring water. Her father and brothers fished the shores, and during winter the ice, for whitefish and perch. If a deer was killed it would be shared within the small community. Alongside other native women, she wove baskets to sell to vacationing whites from the distant cities of Detroit and Chicago. The sparse earnings purchased basic wares and supplies. 

These ways of life were on course to fade, change, and clash with the momentum of mainstream America. It was this transition that irreversibly influenced her broadening perspective of life and people. 

The Goldfinch

I admit I'm late to the party. I became aware of this book more than six years after the fact. Though, all things consider, it doesn't matter much at all. For the fact is, I'm not a book worm. I enjoy reading mind you, but books are not my escape. And I'm definitely not an intellectual. As such I don't scour bookshelves searching with an unquenchable thirst. Truth be told if I have an escape it's emotional detachment. And this brings me back. 

I just finished reading The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. There are many in-depth posts analyzing the author's style, the book's themes, and the work's literary relevance. So I have no intention to add anything to that catalog. Honestly, had I not personally experienced so many of the neurotic tendencies that plague the main character, Theo, I would have abandoned this verbose work on nihilism early on. 

Only here's what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted--? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?...If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or...is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?

And there you have it. This is the engine of the protagonist's serpentine track and the quagmire that fouls the relationships, decisions, and thinking throughout the book. It's the same slippery, pocked footing I struggled with in high school and college. And if I'm honest still wrestle in moments of weakness or distraction in my middle age. 

To answer the question, it is better to turn away. For one simple reason, we are not alone. We are not physically alone no matter how we isolate ourselves. And we are not spiritually alone no matter how we numb ourselves. The latter of course is the crux of the matter. Because we are created with intent, our existence is inseparable from responsibility. 

Free Write

Crisp little waves rap against the hull pushing the low moan of distant motors farther away. He works efficiently with the lines, allowing the wooden craft to drift only as far as intended. In one fluid motion he drops the last coil in its place, sits down to the controls, and slides the throttle forward. Quiet percolation bubbles into a deep throb propelling the boat forward. Low at first, the boat then rises atop the lazy undulations of the river. The craft’s fanned out wake rolls through tall waving grass. A dragonfly glides along the leading edge of the wake. His slow turn of the wheel leans the boat into the meandering bend of the river. Soon he and his boat emerge from the muffled, tree-lined waterway into a small lake. A wash of sounds greet him on the cool persistent breeze. He leans forward, sliding the throttle forward more. Now his outboard joins the chorus of the small lake’s activities. His course cuts straight across this body of water to the channel, and then on to the big lake. 

Powerful waves bash the channel’s concrete walls. As the big lake’s energy churns the channel his boat pitches sharply. He advances slowly. He spies the body of water’s slow muscular surface in fits. One last pitch delivers a gust of cold spray, soaking his head. Then the channel gives way to open water. Sliding the throttle fully open his craft plows forward. The open water is empty. Only errant whitecaps it’s deep green and blue surface. Their leaps are quick and then disappear. His boat now skipping along the surface, chatters along it’s wooden hull. Through a tunnel of wind roaring in his ears he hears the repeated slap of plank and wave. Hair plastered to his forehead, sunglasses pressed close, only his lips move. He smiles slightly. Racing along the back of the big lake there are no more details. The horizon spreads out from periphery to periphery. His craft continues to chatter along some invisible line. Standing, he lets the steering wheel play loosely in his hands. Now fully exposed to the wind he sips at the air. The clammy blast presses his shirt into his chest. For one moment his eyes close. He gulps at the air—the rhythm shatters. The steering wheel punches the palms of his hands. Even as his grip tightens his legs liquefy in the boat’s roll. The vicious crack of water against wood. The scream of engine. The shock of immersive cold. 

The sun blinds him as he breaks the surface with a gasp. He chokes and coughs. He recoils at the sight of his capsized boat—it’s hull languishing amidst indifferent waters. He takes two strokes away from the wreck. Then, the depth of the big lake behind him suddenly animates his body. He frantically swims to the boat and clings to the hull. He tries to pull his body onto the overturned craft but his head protests in pain. Pressure pounds the inside of his skull so he relents. Hanging limply from the hull he looks for the first time towards land. The sliver of distant shoreline pitches out of sight as the big lake’s surface rises and falls. Waves rap against the hull, but he can no longer discern such details. 

Role Call

Happy Father's Day Steve Bryant. Happy Father's Day Jim Swanson.