Extended hospital stays—where time turns in on itself and you lose your grip on the threads or the reins or the wheel or something. Our son has been in Shawshank (the hospital) for thirteen days now…feels like thirteen months. After UPSing, I’ve made afternoon commutes to Little Rock for the 2nd shift—the Dad shift—then back home in the evenings. I’ve resorted to podcasts to keep me awake. You know, some podcasts are very good. Some are total crap. Anyway, last night it was the combo of Mary Karr’s twang and Krista Tippet’s laugh. Near the end of their conversation, Karr talked of seeing a little old lady pushing a walker, the dignity and quiet strength of this marvelous creature. She said I’m not much impressed by sunsets, not a nature girl, but that little old lady, it was “just pretty to watch.”
Now hearing someone else say someone was “just pretty to watch” would likely ring hollow. But there’s something about Mary, and I thought yes, I know what you’re talking about. That was around the Exit 118 mark on the highway, the point where I started believing in God again. Back at Exit 129, I wasn’t so sure, maybe we’re simply barking at the sky and constructing a narrative to make us feel sorta-sure in an unsure world. This off-again/on-again belief happens. Lord, help my flickery.
But I started believing again when I heard sister Karr say, “It was just pretty to watch.” In fact, that line drew tears from my sleepy eyes. You see, I’ve seen “pretty” in Shawshank. Yes, pretty. Now don’t get me started on the crappy because that list is long. But I can witness to the pretty. Total strangers holding the elevator for me and saying, “Good job, you made it!” The cashier downstairs in THE GRILL giving me the senior discount with a wink. My son’s smile yesterday when I pulled a quote from Nacho Libre. That’s not optimism, but hope. I heard Leif Enger make that distinction on another evening-drive podcast. Hope is the thing whether the other thing(s) work out or not. I’m iffy on it being the thing with feathers. I’d say it’s thing with guts, to keep gutsing it out between Exit 129 and Exit 118. To just keep going, to keep watching, listening…
So many of you have said you’re praying for Will, remembering him, sending good energy our way—we accept it all, don’t give a fig what you call it. Thank you, truly. We feel like the richest folks in Bedford Falls.
He’s a little better, but slow better. He’s still got a long road ahead of him. Think Bruce Wayne putting himself back together down in the bowels of the Pit. He asked me, “What do I need to do, Dad?” I told him what Alfred told Bruce: “Endure.” That’s what we do, and that’s what we’re doing. Thanks again.
@meredithblase has hinted at this a few times. Our son is very sick. It’s his story to tell, so if you message me about details expect tumbleweeds. It is possible to pray for/remember people without knowing the scoop. His name is Will, he’s my favorite son, and he’s very sick. ‘Nuff said.
Thanks for remembering him. It means more than you know.
If an editor or publishing team tells you your memoir’s title is too long, just remember Tom Junod’s story which so far is brilliant. Sit your ground, fight for the title you want.
Also, red velvet cupcakes are fuel for the resistance.
There are a few people in my life right now that I’m praying for, lighting candles for, screaming at the sky for. They’re walking through a valley. I’ve told God he could give me their burden and I’d take it, in a heartbeat. If you think that sounds like some godly flex, that just shows you don’t know me and how much I love these people. But God’s not taking me up on my offer, so I have to walk alongside them. I pray for them to not be afraid. That doesn’t mean not being scared—that’s a part of being flesh and blood. But “afraid” can paralyze. So even while scared, I pray they try, try, try…amen.
TWO THINGS.
First, my friend the renaissance woman @_mtpage heard I'd read and liked the novel The Correspondent. She said (and I'm wildly paraphrasing), "BROCEPHUS, leave your nets and go read 84, Charing Cross Road!" Well, I trust her, so I did. Picked up a library copy, read it in a day, and loved every page. It is a testament to the charming bravado of letter-writing. Thanks, Morg.
And second, a jolly good prayer: Dear God'n'Jesus, the four horsepoets of the Apocalypse are preparing to return to earth. They have revealed to us what we know but so often forget—that life is achingly beautiful. Shield them from the heat, and splash them down gently in the deep blue sea. Thank you for their witness this week. We needed it. And we need them back safe. Amen.
It's 3:45pm. Do you know where your parents are? Well, some of us are gearing down for the day as it started out early ya know. Some of us are about to read an article or two from the latest edition of @countyhwy then maybe chase them down with a poem from @sethwieck 's rangy new collection - Call Out Coyote. Some of us are still gnawing on thoughts from Bowden's Red Caddy, that slim volume that served as our Holy Week reading (we were never joiners). Most of us are hydrating, always hydrating for gosh sakes. Some of us will no doubt eat dinner ~5/5:30pm. Why so early? Because we can, deal with it.
Some of us will tune in over din to that breathless puer aeternus David Muir give us the entire news broadcast in the first three minutes then spend the next eighteen repeating it. It's so condescending, talk about being treated like cattle. But to whom else should we go? Of course some of us, we being of an advancing age, would thrill to David Muir or any anchor for that matter pushing back from their desk then striding atop it and yawping "O Captain! My Captain!" and just stand there til the station frantically cuts to an Ozempic sing-a-long or if you're in Arkansas a Franklin Graham commercial telling you how to get saved (some evenings they're eerily similar). We don't know what's going on any more than you do or David Muir does or evidently anyone in the White House does. We, like you, are still trying to gear down our nervous systems from yesterday's countdown to oblivion while simultaneously reveling in the sheer wonder of Artemis II.
Just know we pray for you, like bona fide old-timey-say-the-words-out-loud prayers. And we pray for this country too, we were taught to do so and some habits die hard. Be careful assuming you know what those prayers sound like. You might be surprised. For some of us most of those are groanings too down there for words. We know the darkness is deep.
Call us when you get a chance. We love the sound of your voice...it eclipses the beauty of Artemis II...helps us carry on. Amen.
In the Reynolds Price rendering of the Easter story, he paints the Jesus Girls as running from the tomb “shuddering and wild.” God I love that description, yet sadly see little in our Easterings that reflect that state. Jesus Girls? Yeah, that’s my respectfully playful way to talk about the women groupies who followed hard after the young sea-lover, land-lover, people-lover, world-lover, everything-lover. Maybe someone oughta write a novel about those women, title it Jesus Girls. You’d have to imagine a lot, tango close with the muse, but you could do it and still tell the truth the way good fiction does. Me, I believe those women were a force to be reckoned with, complicated full-bodied wild like sage females who’d probably spook the kids in Sunday School. I do know they boldly challenged the Easter Sunday eeyoreing disciples with their shuddering wildness. I can just hear some man say they were “hysterical.” Some men need to grow the hell up.
Aw well, now on to Cinco de Mayo! Praise the Lord!
FRAGMENT FROM THE LOST INTERVIEW WITH JOHN THE DISCIPLE SEVERAL YEARS AFTER JESUS’ DEATH AND RESURRECTION
HOST: So now with the passage of time, do you have anything to add to your gospel? Not addendum, but postscript. If not, there’s no need to create something, but I have wondered.
JOHN: Postscript? Yes. Two things. Now that he’s dead, or I should say since he died, he’s safe. We now make of his life and words what we will and he’s not here to clarify, to counter, to howl. We want devotions, anecdotes, little intimacies, clues to habits and dress, icons. But we do not want to know who he really was, what animated his waking hours, what ran roughshod through his dreams at night. To really know someone, to break bread with them and talk and drink and laugh and argue, well, the more you know the more convinced you become that absolute knowing is impossible. Most days we insist he behave. But he was wild, I witnessed it. He was an original. He had a childlike faith in the fires of God, and a belief that the world was made to be free in.
Then, I’d say yes, he was the Lamb of God who took away the sins of the world. But with each passing day I find the deeper truth is he was my friend. And even though he lives, I miss him. I miss my friend.
