Always by your side

Married or divorced or even in the process of divorce, it seems like this guy will always be the thorn in my side. Constant needling, whining, attempting to control every situation. The drip drop of his drivel of words 99% of which are extraneous to the point and in the end the point has no real weight or merit.  The steady whittling away at boundaries which offend him by their very existence.  He is always there, my own private chinese water torture practitioner with his subtle lies, tangential to the truth so as to be grounded in something believable and then hyberbolically stretching out to infinity in their sheer ridiculousness.

Last night I got a flurry of emails from him.  Conveniently, he had failed to address any of my concerns-insurance for the children, potty training, child care for the coming school year...you know the real meat and potatoes of parenting.  I guess he's more a dessert guy anyway.  He wanted to, by way of asking me to please obey they court order and inform him of Dr.s appointments (which we haven't had any of thanks to father of the year discontinuing coverage, failing to inform me, and continuing failing to provide a certificate of coverage so I can get an exception to policy and put them on my insurance in the middle of the year) school events (which he was at yesterday because I had the 9 year old call him and invite him) and other major life events in a timely manner, suggest that I was in violation of the orders governing our joint legal custody of the children.  It just wasn't acceptable to him that he "wasn't afforded equal access to appointments and information regarding the children." The ludicrous nature of the statements should have been laughable. But I wasn't laughing.

In another email, this control addict wanted me to provide him with a moment by moment itinerary and travel route for my upcoming road trip with the children.  It was a long winded cleverly passive aggressive attempt to insert himself into something that was making him feel left out :(  poor baby.  The inappropriately juvenile spirit in which the email was written should have made me feel sorry for the author.  But I did not feel sorry for him.

What I did feel was white hot anger creeping up my shoulders and burning through my carotid, lighting my ears on fire and melting my brain into a non-functioning mess.  I will never be free of this guy.  He will always be bothering me.  He talks about coparenting and getting along for the sake of the kids, all the while talking trash about me to them, causing confusion and embarrassment to them and quibbling over every little decision made, though they make perfect sense and he would indeed agree if he was looking from the outside in as a sane observer.

The anger burned through me and disintegrated all the joy and gratefulness I had been learning to have through this slow, arduous, thankless process. All the lessons of self control and emotional discipline lay in an ash heap left behind by the angry fire; ashes that I promptly picked up, showered myself with and rolled around in til I was REALLY FEELING my fully rightly deserved self-pity.  As the offspring of this ill-fated union entered the witching hour of late evening and had a sudden second (or twentieth?) wind of energy for the day, I felt like it was just TOO hard to take care of these kids and respond to their dad and think about what this genius was laying the foundation for with these emails and how was I going to combat it and HOW was I going to afford combating this.  So I thought about it, incessantly, and didn't do anything about it, and got annoyed at the kids for being kids, especially seeing as they were his kids.

There I was, figuratively, on the ground, kicking my legs like a two year old.  I'll never be divorced.  I'll always have him to deal with even if this divorce gets finalized.  I don't believe God gives a care enough about my situation to do anything about it.  And even if He did, humans don't always cooperate.

One of my sisters suggested that maybe this could be like the story of Ruth. Ruth? I thought I would check it out.  THIS BOOK HAS NOTHING to do with my life story.  These ladies' husbands are DEAD.
This book is more for Abby, who actually has a dead husband and could relate.  Not for me. I kept reading though.  I read the whole book-it is four short chapters.  I got nothing.  I was soooooooooooo pissed.

I'm unaware of how or when the change in my mind happened.  But I just know sometime between last night and this morning I knew what the book of Ruth had to do with me.  Ruth had to go to the fields every day and glean.  It was hard work in the hot son and she had to do it every day.  Here's the message, Jessica, get off your butt, put one foot in front of the other and glean in the fields.  Whatever work is put in front of you-do that.  Whatever task is required of you, focus on that.  Regardless of what you are feeling, do what you must do.

The idea began to crystallize in my mind as my two year old went #2 all by himself this morning in the potty.  A week ago it FELT like he would never be potty trained.  I chased him to the potty 100 times the first as he yelled "i have to pee, i have to pee"  and didn't pee.  I cleaned his butt crack and several pairs of undies when he would claim to have to go poop, run to the potty, sit there, say "i can't do it" and 30 seconds later be in a corner proving that indeed he COULD.  It felt like an endlessly futile exercise.  I felt like giving up.  Then the next day brought more pee on the ground and crap in the laundry.  But the third day he peed in the potty and in days 6, 7 and 8 has not had a urine accident.  And this morning after two days of holding it, the potty training was complete.  How silly it was for me to buy into the feelings of hopelessness and uselessness.  I had potty trained three boys before this and not a one of them didn't come out the other side a fully functioning toilet using member of society.

I will be divorced in a year or two or however long this thing drags out.  And with each interaction with the person I once saw fit to marry, I am a little less perturbed and the emotional fallout lasts a slightly shorter time. If only my "soul amnesia" as Ann author of One Thousand Gifts puts it wouldn't kick in so hard next time.

Sometimes our feelings are valid and aligned with the truth.  But more often than not, they are in collusion with a lie that is being whispered in our ear, blinding us to the truth of the love of God. And instead of having an emotionally induced temper tantrum, maybe we need to do the work that is required of us.  Go to the fields and glean.  Naomi will whip up a plan, Boaz will provide and redeem.  I just need to be Ruth.  Write a simple email in response to the (one day) ex, state the truth, press send.  Get up and take my son to the potty 100 times because one of those times is gonna produce results.  And NO emotional romance novel addict, this doesn't necessarily mean that you will get a literal Boaz (rich, handsome guy that falls in love with you at first sight and vice versa despite your insane baggage).  Nope, the Boaz in your story is the great I AM.  I am who is always by your side, sustaining you.  It is God who whispers in your ear  "Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge" Your Boaz provides you, not necessarily with grain, but, with whatever it is YOU need for today.  He spreads out the corner of His garment to cover you in His peace and righteousness, to comfort you with His warmth and protect you from ridicule and slander. Your Boaz   is the one who, as the Hebrew meaning of the name implies, is your strength.   Go work in His fields.  Watch and wait and work.

Surrender

I surrender.  I give up.  I give in.  I can fight no longer.  Moreover, I give myself over, all that I am, especially my will to the One who alone has the power to change any of this mess-or leave it as it is.  

I have fought the "good" fight for the past 18 months...doing what I thought was right, spending all the money to my name and more in the legal pursuit of what was best for my children.  I attempted to save them from the influence of seeing their father strike their mother.  I wanted to spare them the mental anguish of being reared by a manipulator who uses every tool at his disposal to control everyone in every situation he finds himself in, so that he can feel good about himself-a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow the end of which he will never catch.  Every tool, even, and perhaps most belovedly, violence.

But I'm out.  Out of money.  Out of time.  Out of energy.  Out of fight.  Up against lies.  Up against the odds.  Up against money I left behind in favor of safety: my own as well as that of my children.

I moved nearly 3,000 miles away from my home, and friends, and surroundings that were familiar and comfortable.  Nine months later, when he could not have his way in a California court, I was followed by a man who knows no boundaries.  Just this evening, far too late for me to call in and arrange a telephonic court appearance, this man's lawyer called me (sporting a feigned stilted mastery of English) and informed me that rather than allowing the judge to dismiss the case in California-AS HE HAD PETITIONED THE COURT TO DO, he was going to ask for more time (which will at a minimum further delay our divorce) because HE LOST the paperwork and it couldn't be properly certified...and "of course" inform the court of how its going for dad and the kids.  This man and his lawyer have lied in open court more than once.  As it turns out, there's no cure for a liar.  There's no proof that he's lying.  The truth actually isn't enough.  No doubt he'll lie tomorrow.

He won't mention the flame red, raised diaper rash the two year old comes home with EVERY time he spends even one night with dad.  He won't mention the fact that the six year old has experienced a distinct decline in behavior since dad's arrival in Florida.  Nor will he mention the lies he tells his children about their mother.  Nor will he mention the fact that out of nine months, this loving father, has only seen fit to pay 3 months of child support-and only because it is convenient to his case.  But he will lie about me.  Because he believes all the lies he's been selling himself about me ever since he decided he couldn't stand looking at what he saw in the mirror.

Cuss that cuss.  I ain't playin.  Not that I even could.  But, given the time I wouldn't.

Let this be a lesson to you young ladies out there: better to have retained your you-ness, rather than lose everything by making the mistake of marrying someone who wasn't worth you.  Let this serve most specifically as a lesson to you young ladies who believe that you are not complete, finished, whole, enough without a husband...who believe that your highest purpose is served in making babies.  Unless you are with your prince charming, your beshert, yes the one human for whom THE ONE who made you, made you to find and compliment-two wholes making one, not two halves making one.  Mystery not math.  So you hold out.  You hold on, girls.  Because He who made you, knows with whom you belong.  Because otherwise, you could end up losing everything.  And the surrender of that everything will be the one comforting act at the end of a long and painful battle that you never had any chance of winning.

The only rest I find, in the midst of this episode of my constant inner monologue...in the crossfire of volleys of hatred both of him and myself for entering into this union most foul firing back and forth inside my head...in there the only chance of peace is surrender.  Handing over, myself, and my wishes, my husband and my children, my love and my anger.  Take them.  Do with them what you will.  I find that there is no play for me, no words to say, nothing.  Here's my empty cup.  My white flag.  My nothing.

This is for you, Abby

Dear Abby,

Can it only be two months?  Has it already been two months.  Time doesn't heal anything.  Time barely makes sense during the times when we need healing.  There are moments, between all the times where I just don't believe any of it is ture, where my heart breaks-into smithereens-and I cry, not because I understand, but because I don't.  I don't understand how much it must hurt for the one you love the very  best to be gone.  I can't imagine loving that much and then losing.  I love my children, but that isn't by choice, i don't think.  I have never loved, purposefully, by choice, that much.  I know you have.  Right, or wrong, you loved him like crazy.  It is an unknowable agony, and once in a while I get a whiff of it and it ruins me.

So for you, the ruin must be daily, moment by moment, complete, vicious,  Mom times Ben, no doubt.  In the midst of that pain, how unimaginable that an all powerful God, could also be all loving while He stood by and allowed this to happen.  How on earth do you trust Him, or even believe that He is real enough to trust?

You are not alone.  Even those who saw Him, touched, Him, loved Him, knew Him in the way in which we LONG to have Him did not trust Him any further than they could throw Him.  Though Peter had seen Jesus perform miracle after miracle, though he professed with His mouth that Jesus was the Christ through the power of the Holy Spirit, nonetheless, Peter was limited by his humanity.  We can only trust so much. And though we trust, our meager flesh betrays us.

Take Matthew 14: 22 ²² Immediately Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of him to the other side, while he dismissed the crowd. ²³ After he had dismissed them, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray. Later that night, he was there alone, ²⁴ and the boat was already a considerable distance from land, buffeted by the waves because the wind was against it.
 ²⁵ Shortly before dawn Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake. ²⁶ When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified. “It’s a ghost,” they said, and cried out in fear.
 ²⁷ But Jesus immediately said to them: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.”
 ²⁸ “Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.”
   ²⁹ “Come,” he said.
   Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. ³⁰ But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!”
 ³¹ Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?”
 ³² And when they climbed into the boat, the wind died down. ³³ Then those who were in the boat worshiped him, saying, “Truly you are the Son of God.”

But, LOOK, Abby, it is not dependent on Peter, to trust, or know, or feel, or perfectly reflect the glory of God.  NO!  It is Jesus, who, despite Peter's frailty, reaches out and SAVES him.  He buoys Peter up, when Peter's moment of doubt threatened to drown him.  That is how we know, though we cannot see, though we cannot feel, though we do not hear, that it is He, Christ Jesus, through the power of the Holy Spirit who sustains us.  That it is He who bolsters us.  That it is He who is trustworthy.  That it is He.  Because without Jesus Christ, Abby, you would have failed to get out of the bed the next day.  Because without His creative power you would not be able to bear this pregnancy alone.  Because without His word, you would have fallen prey to the lie that there is no point.  Because without His love you would have turned your back on those girls to lick your wounds.  Because without His presence, you would die of loneliness.  Because without His promise of a future you would cease to exist.  Because without His hand sustaining you, you would have QUIT long ago.


But He is!  He was! He shall be forevermore!  And you are.  You take care of those babies.  You work, day in and day out.  God sees you and sustains you.  Abby, I know because he did the same for me, though I do not compare my situation to yours,  I do compare my salvation to yours, because it radiates from His throne in both cases.  He amazes me, through YOU - Abigail.  Through your life, I know the Lord is LORD of all.  Through your perseverance, I am convinced of the work of the Holy Spirit.  You may not see it, and you may not feel it but you PROCLAIM it , and we who see you are encouraged, and bolstered, and men and women are won to Christ because you display His work for all to see.

What was meant for evil, and indeed it was. ...  For it is not God who authors sin and calamity and death, but our choice from the beginning, through Adam and Eve.  We chose knowing, and in knowing we brought the consequence of guilt and suffering as a HUMAN RACE upon ourselves. ... what was meant for evil He will take and make beautiful.  That is who He is.  He cannot contradict Himself.  He will not undo Himself.  He WILL draw all men unto Him and, in beauty untold, you will be part of that.  God did not do this to Ardell, but He will turn it on its heels...he will restore the years that the locust have eaten.  He will bless where curses were spoken.  You may not see or feel this for years.  But that is because we are temporal.  But He has done it.  Christ has won it.  He is making beautiful things out of shit.  I am watching it happen.  And I am so! so proud to be your sister.  You are a living testimony to the power of Christ, you are thriving and your girls are blossoming in the midst of chaos and sorrow and pain indescribable.  BUT I AM dwells in you.  And Jessica Dowd is encouraged just to see His light reflected in your life.

His Spirit is upon you.  I see it.  I feel it, emanating from you.  It is strong, and loud.  I'm not sure if you've ever listened to Gungor, but I've been thinking of this song all day...and then I saw it on a friend's pinterest.  Like a confirmation, and I could not keep silent.  I want you to know, Ab, that I see His fire in you...I know Him in a deeper, greater way because of YOU! Because of AVA.  Because of ADRIANA.  Because of Aaliyah.

i Love you.  He Loves you.  it bind us.  all of us.  one.  even if just for this moment we are all one.

All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all
All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

All around
Hope is springing up from this old ground
Out of chaos life is being found in You

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new
You are making me new

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new

Birthday Blues

It is the eve of my 35th birthday and, as is true of every year, I have anticipatory birthday blues.  I know this day will let me down.  Yet, in the face of that knowledge today, just like every other year I pour so much hope into the fantasy that this birthday will be all that it can be. I have quite a list of birthday wishes.  They won't come true either way, so I will break the birthday wish jinx rule and tell you what they are:

1. I wish I would wake up tomorrow and be magically and finally divorced from my husband.  I further wish that Brad Pitt's Billy Bean from Moneyball would magically replace said ex-husband.
2. I wish my wrinkles would suddenly be erased (those face creams are liars) and my skeletor/crypt keeper face would be replaced by the plump youthful one I expect to see.
3. That wish goes double for the restoration of my breasts...8 straight years of pregnancy and breastfeeding, massive weight gain and loss can really be a doozy on the boosies (what book was that word from?)
4. I wish that I would be miraculously patient, kind, loving and merciful...the very picture of grace in my actions toward my children.  I wish that without effort, or any sense of discomfort, I could perfectly parent my sons-bringing out the best in them and spurring them on to greatness as they discover their talents and pursue them to their zenith.
5. In case that wish sounded a little spiritual for this fairly selfish litany, this one should sit better in the pocket (as Paula would say). I wish I could lose 7 pounds in the "second buttocks" region.  Or upper thigh as you might refer to it.  You know that place where if you wear the wrong pair of undies you end up with four butt cheeks.  I know you feel me, ladies.
6. I wish that, from the moment I wake tomorrow, to the moment my head hits the pillow that everyone I interact with shall treat my like the birthday queen, anticipating my every thought and fulfilling it to perfection.  I know it is vague, but I am VERY serious about this one, in particular.
7. Finally, and probably most importantly, I wish that tomorrow would be the day that I meet and simultaneously fall in (reciprocated) love with the man of my dreams-the face and general adorabilitude (yup made it up, just for him) of Jake Gyllenhaal, the body of Tatum Channing (or vice versa-can't rightly tell which way his names are supposed to line up), the lips of Tom Hardy, the accent of Gerard Butler, the athletic handsomeness of Mark Sanchez (in case you've never heard of that, that is the perfect proportion of equally handsome and athletically capable-it is a mathematical expression that is probably above your paygrade, so that explanation will have to suffice), the apparent genius of Christopher Nolan, the song writing skillz of John Foreman, the work ethic of Ryan Seacrest (although NONE of his physical attributes PLEASE) AND last but most certainly not least the true love mirroring that of Jesus Christ.

Not Gonna Happen.

So what, then?


Instead, I'll go teach my students - and fulfill my personal goal for the day-no audible "cuss's" and no free flying birds in the general direction of any 14-18 year olds. Then I'll take my kid to the doctor to check out the "boogers" that have taken permanent residency in Jake's sinuses.  We'll rent a kid friendly movie, and I'll rent some non-kid-friendly movie for myself (which sadly, will not be "Drive" with another of of my potential next ex's, Ryan Gosling-cuz it doesn't come out until next Tuesday :( ).
And then I'll go to sleep and wake up and start the second half of my life (which is probably optimistic, as given the mortality rate of ladies in my family  - I probably won't make it past 60)

Because I am the song-singing constant inner monologue-er, I have a song to usher in this year.  It  manages to capture the odd pairing of melancholie and inexplicable joy that I manage to find constantly running in and out of my life. It's by Switchfoot...On Fire

They tell you where you need to go
They tell you when you need to leave
They tell you what you need to know
They tell you who you need to be

But everything inside you
Knows there's more than what you've heard
There's so much more than empty conversations
Filled with empty words

And you're on fire when He's near you
You're on fire when he speaks
You're on fire burning at these mysteries

Give me one more time around
Give me one more chance to see, yeah
Give me everything You are
Give me one more chance to be near You, yeah

When everything inside me
Looks like everything I hate
You are the hope I have for change
You are the only chance I'll take

And I'm on fire when He's near you
And I'm on fire when He speaks
And I'm on fire burning at these mysteries

You're on fire
You're on fire
You're on fire

I'm standing on the edge of me
I'm standing on the edge of me
I'm standing on the edge of me
I'm standing on the edge of me
I'm standing on the edge of everything I've never been before
And I've been standing on the edge of me
Standing on the edge

And I'm on fire when you're near me
And I'm on fire when you speak, yeah
I'm on fire burning at these mysteries
These mysteries
These mysteries, yeah
You're a mystery, yeah
You're a mystery

Untitled

Wherein a profound tragedy brings me out of blogging re retirement ( warning: explicit lyrics, not necessarily appropriate for all audiences. In other words lock up your children and south'n belles before reading this.)

Fuck Christmas.

Now I know it doesn't sound good - especially the rude juxtaposition of the birth of our Lord up against what many consider one of the top three un-jesus-y words in the english language. But bear with me if you will, for the sake of raw honesty.  When I plumb the depths of this rotten life as rotten as it seems when your babies are somewhere across the country with someone with whom you no longer have congress because of how horrible he is...when I let out my lead weight to see just how abysmal the death of my sister's husband must be for her...when I think of my dear friend Jenni's sister Kelly and my brother Ben taken from us on the same day, though years apart...fuck sounds not only accurate but pretty cussin appropriate. Sometimes it just seems like christmastime is out to fuck you over and in response it seems only appropriate to give it right back.

This year I was fully prepared to boycott Christmas in a blur of wine and depressing streaming Netflix.

I flew my kids out to California to spend the lion's share of Christmas break with their father.  I rented a car and went to my girlfriend's house and settled in for what promised to be an uneventful long winter's nap.

A few days earlier I had attended a workshop on Surviving the Holidays amidst separation and divorce. One of the suggested methods for dressing up the dreary holiday season was getting outside of yourself and helping others. I put that in my back pocket and thought "yeah why not? I could go to a soup kitchen or something and help that way..." I never dreamed my service would be called upon in the manner in which it was about to be.

Just over a day after I arrived in California, I received a phone call from my little sister. I jocundly asked her "what up yo" and received in response unintelligible mumbles swathed in sobs, that upon reflection I was eventually able to interpret as the report that her husband was dead.

Shock. Disbelief. Some sort of attempt to unhear what I had just heard. Then the tidal wave of sadness for her washed over me and, milliseconds or years later-I don't know-as it receded the adrenaline left by the shock steeled my mind into action. My body followed. I instructed my sister to do two very important things: call my sister(this story may get confusing for some
Of you as there are six sisters)  in Florida and get close to Jesus.

I spent the next two hours contacting the other six of our living siblings...we were 9 but for over 20 years have only been 8 since the death of my youngest brother just on the other side of christmas
In 1989...so 8 minus the two of us most recently on the phone with eachother makes 6. I did the math just as much as a fact check for myself as an attempt to
Clear up any confusion on
Your end.

I spoke with them all, let them in on the tragic news and discussed the impossible sadness of it all to varying extents with each. In the middle of all that I managed to call my ex and ask him to bring the kids home to me as I had to fly immediately back to be with the lately widowed Abigail. He agreed. Southwest worked to change my flight amidst a bit of technical difficultly- but you really musnt complain about the only airline that charges you neither bag fees nor change fees.

Deep beneath the din of busyness and roar of grief tilting at lunacy I heard a cello, low and sweet, with a subtle vibrato. And it hummed to me of peace. And I felt the peace pass through me and over me and buoy me over the noise. And the voice of God seemed to say "this is the service I require of you: to mourn with those who mourn and to take care of the widows and fatherless." And there for that moment, without a second thought about my much needed (in my own estimation) rest and relaxation I was filled with joy to be in the unique position that I was : sans bebes so that I could
Entirely focus on being the support that Abby needed.

It may be too soon for her to hear this, and it may even be gauche for me to write it so soon, but, He has already given me in an instant beauty for ashes and joy in the midst of mourning. It is a paradox which, were I able to, I would better explain. But in order to understand you have to have been there in the pitch black of midnight, out on a limb, completely lost, in the wilderness of understanding and yet knowing like you never have before, and you swear you never will again, the brightly brilliant blinding
Light of truth. It is there that you find the choice of humanity from the very first has been to inextricably link pain and comfort, sadness and joy. The road we have individually and corporately chosen to travel has intertwined these in our desperate self attempt to have it all...to make ourselves whole...to satisfy our longing curiosity.  That is the road He so Graciously and Gracefully met us on and walks along with us and as we walk He does what we never could have, in fact we never even imagined that it was this wholeness, oneness that we really wanted all along. It is an unending and ever-unfolding mystery full of delight and wonder-oh that I had the words to tell.

If you are still enough you may hear it as I tell it. The symphony He built around the discord of a violent death and the potential cacophony of so many loose canons beset upon every shore of the island of aloneness on which Abby, our heroine, stood-and from where I observed  it appeared she felt utterly alone.

Wendy drove 6 hours without hesitation. I arrived 24 hours later in tandem with Jen and her youngest baby. Thomas and Mai flew quite literally across the world, pregnant with toddlers in tow (and SARS too, but we will blame that on the travelers from parts unknown arriving at the adjacent gate.) Wendy-b flew in as much needed succor on a flight that had not existed prior to the need for her in Tampa. Christa and Dave accompanied by dad whose lymphoma had just returned. And John and two of his children.

There were minor disagreements, more like personalities getting the best of us due to physical and emotional exhaustion. They blew over like a summer rain replaced moments later by a warm breeze with sunshine in its wings.

It began with a loud crash and silence broken by a note. A long single plaintive wail and soon it was joined by tens hundreds thousands? Who can know? But like a scene out of the Silmarillion, the song  grew and changed and became more beautiful. Flowers and letters and baskets and caskets. Poems and words and thoughts unspoken. Hugs and kisses and kindness expressed by people who would rather be mean in their everyday lives. Songs of men and women and their mournful sobs as well, mixed with prayers and questions without any answers.  Can you hear it, can you see it? It was nothing short of a miracle.

And there I was in the Middle of it. Miriam to Abby's Moses. I held her up and hugged her and laughed and cried with her. And I prayed for her. I asked the God who with a word created light out of nothing to give Abby the tangible, emotional, physical expression of His love she so desired. I asked
him to put in her relentless faith to pursue Him in the face of despair and as Brennan manning so eloquently put it "ruthless trust" to follow Him into the dark, knowing that there is yet light in this world and the peace that passes understanding to rest in the truth that even if she can't He will. He does. He has.

I find myself now suspended somewhere between heaven and earth. My attachment to this world via the body and its wanton desires, the needs I think I have and those carnal things which we crave drag me down like so much gravity pulling me toward a minefield of consequence and its crapshoot of results.  Simultaneously the "unbearable lightness" of eternity calls me and draws me in the gentlest of ways along a gossamer thread toward the singularity of endlessly heavy gravity and infinitely invisible unknowingness that my mortality is not ready to grasp.

RocketCIty Brings Me Out of Blogging Retirement

And what a retirement it was. I resolved for New Year's not to blog about anything that wasn't worth blogging about. At first it was a resolution not to blog at all, but then I put in an "unless it is worth writing about" clause, you know, just in case. To be honest, I all but gave up this blog only a few short weeks after I started it, and it is surely a lot of garbaaaahhge.


January came and almost went. Then my nephew sent me a link to his demo album. I clicked on the link and downloaded RocketCity's debut Bedroom Demos, saved it to iTunes and planned to sample a few seconds of each track. I listened straight through to the end, burning a red quinoa dish along the way (never fear I salvaged what wasn't actually stuck to the pot, added some broth and spices and the kids ate it up none the wiser).

I must find the words to tell you how much I love this album. The words that come to mind are so overused that I cringe at their appearance here. Bedroom Demos is hauntingly, stunningly, heart-wrenchingly wrought of a (very) young man's life, love and talent. The lyrics are sweet, clever, wise beyond their years, yet joyously youthful, speaking of regret but always pointing to hope. Yes, Arthur, paradox. Armed with only his understated, unassuming, lovely (and most importantly) in tune voice, a Stratocaster, some reverb and a wah-wah pedal (you'll have to excuse me if I didn't get any of these items correct...I'm painting an image here, not necessarily striving for factual accuracy) this album was produced quite literally in his bedroom. The melancholie ridden lyrics are only matched by the bittersweet melodies, the two synergisticly evoking something more than any of the meager tools would belie.

I am again brought to tears as I listen to the album in the background as I write. I am sandwiched between emotions and pulled forward and back by the reasons for them. I knew this baby when he was born, the first-born of my older sister. As an infant he would mistake my voice for his mother's and be tricked into accepting me babysitting him for a while. He reminds me in that way of my own sons, especially my first born. The freshness with which my mind can conjure perfect memories of him so young, speak to how fleeting time is. The grown-up heartbreak he conveys breaks my own heart over that baby being so old, capable of experiencing and communicating such love and hurt, healing and breaking. It fills me with fearful anticipation, a sort of creeping, shadowing dread of what awaits my young sons. The misunderstanding, the mistakes, the rejection, even hatred that awaits and the the strong desire to protect them from these things all overwhelm me.

He takes me back to a time when my heart was capable of truly feeling that crazy kind of love, and then makes me doubt that I ever had it in me, finally making me mourn the fact that it simply does not. I am taken back to to a wonderful terrible time when feeling and breaking rode over each other like waves coming without any apparent rhythm that threaten to keep the heart tumbled til its lungs burned up...if only there were anything left to break.

Somewhere in the sadness is an undercurrent of hope. I hear a deeper song of a love that isn't fickle and doesn't change and would never break the bearer. The mark of what I consider truly great music is the steady driving force behind each track. A love that puts the pieces of the broken back together and breaks anew a heart of stone long thought to be dead. In the end, that's what really got me.

The talent matched with a willingness to work hard and get himself out there impress me with what wonderful parents must have raised him. Granted I am biased, because his mother has been the truest friend I have ever had and I have more than once been jealous that his father had not been my own. (Don't anyone take that too literally) It just seems like they really gave him some good tools, and certainly God didn't scrimp on the talent. Questions rush into my mind: how do you be that kind of parent? how do you impart such confidence and chutzpah to your offspring? how do you love them so that they can grow up and love and then write about it?

RocketCity is my new hero. RocketCity writes, composes, produces and has put out what I predict will remain my favorite album of 2011 in its Bedroom Demos. Please give it a listen, it is available for free http://www.megaupload.com/?d=V4O9X1O4 Please tell your friends about it, especially if your friends are discerning people in the music biz with an ear for the kind of talent that touches the heart.

What REALLY annoys me?

Yes indeed. What really annoys the ever loving bananas out of me? Stupid people. That's right. Especially stupid people who are too stupid to realize how freakin stoopid they is. Extra-specially if said stupid idiots have, in their own minds, vaulted themselves to a position of authority for heaven only knows WHAT reason.

MUSICAL INTERMISSION BROUGHT TO YOU BY FAILURE TO EXCOMMUNICATE, by Relient K

But what really, really chaps my hide is the fact that the laws of politesse dictate that we (who are sentient) do not point out the proper lack of qualification of these individuals. How those laws have found their way into cyberspace in order to handcuff my own writing, I will never know. I don't believe I will write anymore on the specifics, nonetheless, for fear that through the six degrees of Kevin Bacon our dear stoops would hear of this and hate me. AND if there's one thing my dear readers are sure I hate, SURTOUT, it is to be hated. My final chuckle in this matter, a sort of pensive after-laugh, comes from the thought of you morons agreeing with every word I've typed. Oh, Alanis, the sweet, sweet irony.