Blindsided!

The tears are slowly wending their way down my cheeks as my fingers move across the keys on my keyboard. My eyes… still stinging as they release their slightly salty liquid, the monitor a bit blurry tonight. The soulful sounds of Coldplay’s “Fix You” is playing through my computer speakers as the “Youtube” video plays on my other monitor…only too appropriate tonight. I’ve spent the past hour reading some of the most painful words I may have ever read. Or the some of the most painful words I’ve ever written!

I haven’t visited these memories for a long time, not since I wrote them more than two years ago. As I prepare to begin my book, I’m taking the time to go back to read what I’ve recorded in my blog since I began this journey in September of 2007. I had NO idea…NO comprehension of the pain in those words. As I reflect I wonder how I was able to put those memories to words then and why I didn’t drown in an ocean of tears. Maybe the drowning is scheduled for tonight?

In my mind’s eye I thought this part of the process would be pretty easy. I’ve printed out all my blog entries and all I needed to do was categorize them into where it seemed they might most appropriately fit into the sections of my upcoming book. I actually looked forward to reading my words. Not for the content, but to see how my writing may have improved, or worsened, over the past thirty months. The concept that the words would break my heart in a way tonight that they didn’t when I composed them never crossed my mind. I have been totally blindsided.

Photo from Flickr

Call Me Naive!

We had stopped at the infamous Wall Drug earlier in the day and spent an hour or so wandering through the myriad of rooms…looking at the attractions and spending time in the various gift shops. The heavy odor of the rich chocolate fudge was carried on the hot, summer breeze causing my mouth to water. As we wandered through of the gift shops, we saw the head of a strange looking animal hanging on the wall near the cash register.
“What is that?” Paula asked me.

“Oh, that’s a stuffed Jackalope”, I replied. “They’re found only in this part of the country. I'm pretty sure they’re a cross between a Jack Rabbit and an Antelope.”

Paula looked at me with a little bit of trepidation, but it was time to go so we left the shop and got back on the road with Frank and Deb and the kids, starting our drive up the winding state highway that led to Mt. Rushmore. About half way up the incline, Paula leaned forward from the back seat and asked if the Jackalope was a real animal. With straight faces, both Frank and I assured her that they were the genuine thing and Frank told some story about how they were genetically engineered earlier in the 20th Century.

After a couple of minutes, I couldn’t hold my laughter in any longer and found myself giggling hysterically. Paula looked at me, and I knew in that moment that I had gone too far. Paula had trusted me that I would tell her the truth when she asked about that funny looking little animal. She had a trusting spirit, and is what we typically call “naïve” in our culture. As a general rule, being called “naïve” is not a positive trait that we aspire to as adults. It’s OK for kids to be naïve, but as we grow older, we are expected to know better.

I came across an article last week that brought the memory of the Jackalope back to my mind and caused me to re-examine naivete. The focus of the article is a concept called “second naivete” which refers to the point where we gain a more mature insight to the unquestioned beliefs that we had as children. It reminds us that the word is derived from the Latin word for “natural”, describing "one who shows absence of artificiality…or has no hidden agendas or duplicitous motives." In the words of the author, it is “the recognition that the story we continue to discover is far bigger than we know how to tell.” It allows us to “return to the unhindered sincerity of a child.”

I thought about that as I thought about my relationship with my sister and brothers. For much of my life, I was never willing to be completely honest with any of them. I would just put on my “Mark mask” and go about my business…smiling and nodding. I was who I thought they wanted me to be. I was anything but “natural”. And then things changed. I got into trouble and my attitude to my siblings changed.

I went through a season of extreme self-centeredness where I allowed my childhood love and acceptance for my family to be replaced by a judgmental attitude and a self-imposed exile away from them. Much in the same we do as we move from childhood to adulthood, my perspective of my family was tainted by a critical spirit. Because they didn’t fit my definition of what a “Christian” should be, I turned my back on those relationships. And I found myself justifying my decision by using “selective” portions of Scripture that reinforced my separation.

But thankfully, I’ve come to the place in my life where I enjoy being naïve. Not in the culturally defined sense that would describe me as being simple or credulous. Rather, in the sense that I’ve returned to the “natural” state…the state I was designed for which is to simply love, not judge.

Photo from Wall Drug

A Step Closer

It was a surreal feeling…sitting there watching the hands on the clock approach 6:30. I was sipping a cup of coffee (tasting like it had been sitting on the warmer since before the 4:30 group started), but the acrid taste didn’t bother me too much tonight. The aroma of basil and marinara floated on the air from the next room where two flat boxes sat on the counter…a bottle of warm Diet Pepsi, cups and paper plates in the plastic grocery sack beside it. Only about half of the chairs were full tonight, one of them occupied by an unfamiliar face…a late-comer from the earlier group. I smiled to myself as I thought about the fact that next week, even fewer chairs would be filled.

“So, this is your last night…how has it been for you?” the therapist asked.

The words seemed to flow effortlessly as I spoke…sometimes looking at the doctor, other times making eye contact with each of the men around the room.

“I’ve shared with the group before that when I got out of prison, I really didn’t want to come to treatment…and actually didn’t really think that I needed it. But I have to say that this has been a great experience and I’ve met men that I have become friends with and that I trust in ways that I’ve never been able to before.”

The therapist sat there, jotting a few notes on his pad…silently counting the names of those who had signed in. It made me wonder if he was calculating his income for the night or if he was checking to see who was still absent. Looking up he said,

“I think you brought pizza. Why don’t we stop here and eat it before it gets cold and then continue to check in.”

I went into the next room and grabbed the two large pizzas and returned to the therapy room, passing them around to the men. My closest friend in the group, my “coffee buddy”, hadn’t arrived yet. He had called me earlier to tell me that he was running late but that he would be there for the pizza. At this point, it looked like he was going to miss out, or at least have to settle for the cold leftovers.

Settling back into his chair with a large slice of combination pizza and a glass of Diet Coke, the doctor asked me

“Is there any advice that you would give to the group?”

There were a number of comments that passed through my mind that I quickly disregarded.

“I really think the most important thing is just to be willing to be transparent. It has become so apparent to me over these past five years that until I, or any of us, is willing to take a genuine in-depth look at our past and how it led to where we are today…we can never heal.”

“Secondly, and maybe almost as important…make sure you pay the doctor here or you’ll never get out of treatment.”

A round of soft laughter echoed around the room as the men clearly understood what I was saying. The doctor has affirmed a number of times that everyone needed to be caught up to date on their payments before he could release them from group. My “coffee buddy” knew that only too well and was only getting out because of a little help I provided him.

“Well, I just want you to know that you’ve really been a great addition to our group. You’ve provided insightful comments to the other men and I’m sure that you will do well. It looks like you’re going to have some free time now on your Thursday nights”, the therapist added.

“Actually, I’m planning to begin writing my book and Thursday night’s would be a good time to dedicate to that.”

I spent the next several minutes explaining what I wanted my book to be about and as I was finishing, my “coffee buddy” finally arrived. As he grabbed a plate and a couple of slices of pizza, I said

“Hey. I took your advice and went down to Chuckee Cheese’s to try to get the pizza. Man, there must have been 1000 kids running around so I just had to sit there for about 20 minutes waiting. I finally just gave up and went to Pizza Hut instead.”

The room suddenly grew quiet as each one of the men tried to process what they had just heard. Even the therapist stopped his pizza dripping fingers midway to his mouth as he and the other looked at me. The look in the eyes told me what they were thinking.

Chuckee Cheese?
Kids?
Twenty minutes?

I finally couldn’t hold my laughter back any longer.

“I wouldn’t go to Chuckee Cheese even if it was allowed. That pizza is just too nasty for me.”

You could practically hear the sighs of relief as they realized I was only joking. Slices of pizza were soon being once again consumed and the nearly empty bottle of Diet Pepsi was passed around the room once more.

The remainder of the evening was a quick check-in for the other men. It was soon time to go, and as I picked up the trash from our pizza party, I received best wishes from each of the men. I was invited back if was ever in the neighborhood on a Thursday evening (at no cost), and politely said it might happen. As I walked out the door and down the stair, my step seemed a little lighter…my smile a little broader and my future a little closer.

Photo from Flickr

The Question!?!

We’re just sitting there, around the large round table set in the back of the restaurant. There are only four of us today…a couple of “no-shows” leaving several vacant chairs. The conversation is light as Wally talks about the car he is restoring and Jim shares a few stories of the vacation to the beach he had taken the previous week with his foster kids. And then, out of the blue, Paul looks across the table at me.

“How’s your book coming?”

A wry smile and dancing eyes…he sits there. I suppose he is waiting for a response, but more I think he is looking for my reaction. I gather myself.

”It’s really good. I’m just starting to read a new one that I’ll be teaching in our next Sunday school class.”

And then I started chuckling as he frowned and then laughed with me.

“Probably not the book you were talking about, was it Paul?”, I asked.

At this point, Wally looked around the table, turning to Jim and asked what in the world were we talking about. I explained that Paul was asking me how I was doing on the book that I have been planning to write…for the past three years. And then Paul asked the critical question…

“What’s the book going to be about?”

That is the question that I struggle with! I think my problem is that I have too many books in my brain and I can’t get my mind around the story that I want to tell first. And so I wait. I hesitate. I put off making a decision. Jim suggested that I call my book, “Mark’s Great Procrastination!” but I vetoed that idea. I want so much to write the “right” book that I’m wallowing in a quicksand of indecision. It seems the harder I think about what the book should focus on, the blurrier the picture is for me.

• A book of my arrest and incarceration?
• A story of the childhood abuse and consequences?
• A story of healing and restoration?
• A story of love and grace?
• A “factional” novel?
• A collection of letters between God and myself?

My sister, who is a gifted writer, has suggested that I just begin to write and the story will develop. Paul agrees with her (maybe the big hug at the Christmas concert established a connection with those two). I’m a control freak (I’ve discovered) and I feel like I need to the know destination before I start the journey.

But I know that it’s time. There have been too many signals in the past month for me to continue waiting. There is a purpose for my life and God keeps reminding me that He wants me to tell the story. And I think He’s told me what story He wants me to begin with. I was challenged several weeks ago as I listened to one of our pastors speak to our men’s group. His topic was pornography and how destructive it is (a story I know only too well). He finished his message that morning with a question to the group.

“How many of you would be willing to help, or talk with, someone who is struggling with pornography in their life?”

I raised my hand because I am more than willing to talk to people about what I’ve gone through. But the Spirit is nudging me…no, whacking me along side the head to write the story. And so that’s where I’m going to begin this new adventure. And as I look at my list of potential books, it may include parts of all of them. And I guess that’s OK. This is perhaps a time where I need to place the pen in my hand and let it do the driving. Sometimes, those are the greatest trips of all!

Photo from Flickr

He's Gone

The mood at the Long Branch was somber and quiet on this Tuesday night. Sam stood behind the tall oak bar absently wiping a shot glass that he had held in his arthritic fingers for the past ten minutes. The upright piano stood quiet in the corner where we would usually find a couple of cowboys leaning against the wall with their arms draping over the shoulder of one of the dance-hall girls. The card tables were quiet as the men quietly exchanged looks, their eyes occasionally drifting to the table in the corner that was occupied by the Marshall…a big man wearing this usual rawhide vest.

The four of them sat quietly, heads down. Miss Kitty’s face looked dark and bruised where she continued to wipe her lace hanky across her eyes to stem the ceaseless tears…dragging the make-up that adorned her eyes with them. Doc’s eyes were red, the dark circles silent reminders of hours of sleep that his old body needed…his hand occasionally rubbing across the stubble of his unshaved face. Chester’s hand kept reaching for the schooner of beer that sat on the table in front of him, only to keep pulling back at the last moment…realizing that this was not the time to enjoy a cold one. The shoulders on Marshall Dillon were slumped as he sat there with his closest friends mourning the loss of his gruff, wiry deputy.

“I’m going to miss him”, was all he could manage to say as he looked around the table.

We got the word this morning. I knew it coming, but it didn’t really dampen the sense of loss that I feel. My little brother’s cat is gone. Even as I write these words, it seems a little silly that there would be an empty spot in my heart of an old cat that lived a long life, loved by the family that God placed around him. After all, he was only a cat. At least that’s what someone who had never met Festus might say.

But Festus was a “special” cat. He had more of a dog’s personality than that of a feline. He was a lover who would look for a pair of feet to cuddle up on as soon as I sat down on the couch. You could count on him to wander into the kitchen at Geoff and Lynn’s as soon as he heard your voice to announce that, “yes, I’m still here and it would be ok if you want to pick me up and hold me…even rub my belly and my ears if you want.” His beautiful face looking into mine as his chest rumbled with a constant chorus of purrs.

I could always count on Festus to come and sit beside my chair at the dinner table, patiently looking up at me…waiting for some kind of offering of “human food”. As I would move my fingers to his mouth, he would wait for me to drop it on the floor, but when I persisted in holding the piece of chicken or pork in my fingertips, he would gently eat from my hand. After swallowing, his eyes would return to mine, waiting for the next delicacy to be offered.

The passing of Festus reminds me how sensitive I am to loss. It brings a dull pain to my heart, nearly wanting me to never risk any kind of relationship that might end. It reminds me of my fear of rejection and abandonment…and a heavy weight immediately settles over me. I don’t know or completely understand the source of that fear, but I recognize it as being real. But I also understand something even more important…relationship and love are worth it! I loved Festus and I’ll miss him, but I would have missed so much more if I had never known him.

The Marshall stands and looks at his friends sitting around the table and throughout the Long Branch Saloon. He reaches for the glass of beer sitting in front of him and waits for the others to join with him.

“This is for you, Festus”, he says as lifts the glass toward the ceiling and then swallows the cold, bitter brew. “You blessed our lives by sharing it with us. Thank you.”

Festus photo by Mark

See Also http://thedarkestcloset.blogspot.com/2009/01/gunsmoke.html

http://catbirdscout.blogspot.com/2010/03/festus.html

It Makes Me Wonder...?

The stench of the cigarette smoke roils off of him like the mist off of a crashing wave each morning as he climbed into my car for the past week. He casually tosses the butt over his shoulder as he stoops down and slides into the car, settling into the leather seats. The odor hangs in the air for few moments before being circulated throughout the car…diminishing the assailment on my olfactory senses. I put the car into gear and pull away from the curb and make the remaining 15 minute drive to work.

As I drive, I think about this man sitting next to me. A “gear-head”, I have to believe he would be more comfortable riding with my brother Geoff than with me. Sitting there without putting on his seatbelt, our conversation flows easily. My questions about the health of his dogs, or the turmoil in his community association or about his health. His comments about a ’68 Camaro barely visible under a tarp parked behind an outbuilding that I’ve never noticed before. His political commentary, peppered with colorful language that I haven’t heard since I was in prison. His anger toward law enforcement and their “out to get him” attitude.

There is very little that he doesn’t share. I hear the story of his gunshot wound that nearly killed him…and the bullet that did kill his best friend. The tremors in his voice betraying his anger that the killer walked away scot-free because his friend had made a threatening gesture with a baseball bat. On the damp cold mornings typical of our northwest weather, his ankles throb as a result of the metal pins still embedded there repair the damage received when he was run over by a car. His eyes carry dark circles under them from lack of sleep…the result of stomach problems.

His home is a single wide that he shares with his girlfriend and her daughter and boyfriend. He happily shares his space with six dogs and three cats. The roadway in front of his home is packed with three cars, a boat and pop-up trailer. A 1979 Corvette occupies the small patch of brown grass one might call the front yard. A driver’s license suspended will keep them all there…unused and immobile for the next year.

Among the stories he has shared during our two weeks of car pooling is about his mom…and his sister. With his mother’s health failing, his sister made the decision to place her in a nursing home. Living in California at the time, he was infuriated at his sister’s “callousness and selfishness” and moved up to Tacoma to care for her. He lived with her until her health completely failed and she passed away.

Sadly, more than just his mom died. So did his relationship with his sister. Angered over her apparent selfishness, he cut off all contact with her. Frustrated with her invitations to attend church and the lack of congruency between her life and her words, he’s walked away from any relationship that he may have had with Christ. Now…angry, bitter, scarred, and in failing health himself, he drifts from job to job.

Tony reminds me of so many men that I met in prison. With eyes focused only on the past and the perceived (or actual) injustices that they have endured, they choose to give up on living a life of significance. Instead, they look at every opportunity to blame society and everyone in it for their current situation. The negativism is almost palpable…nearly as infectious as the latest H1N1 flu. And it makes me wonder…

How did I escape all of that? How did I spend three years in prison without ever using profanity? How have I been able to maintain a relatively positive attitude in a situation where I still find myself imprisoned by the choices of my past? How can I freely share my story without the weight of the guilt and shame crushing me until I can no longer breathe? How can I look into the eyes of a woman that I love…whose heart I shattered into an infinite number of pieces through my deceit and betray, and see love reflected back? How…did I escape?

There is no easy answer. It’s not because I was once such a “nice” person…or a “great” person. And it’s not because I have such great self-confidence that I believe I can overcome any situation. The only reasonable answer that comes to my mind is that I’ve learned to accept the fact that I am loved…and worthy of love. Accepting that realization isn’t easy…and it brings with it a certain amount of pain. The pain coming not from being loved, but from comprehending that I’ve ALWAYS been loved and NOT recognizing that it was enough! Understanding that the love of God and of family and friends can get us through even the most difficult seasons of our life.

Waiting, Trusting and Hoping

I’ve purchased seven of these books now, but this is the first one that I’ve actually kept. It seemed that someone else needed my copy more than I did. I had first heard about the book on my way to work almost two years ago…a DJ on a Christian radio station shared a short entry from the devotional and it really touched me. Paula and I had talked about reading the same daily devotional when we were married…but it just never happened. So, I thought now might be a good time to start doing it. I went on-line to Amazon and purchased two copies.

I sent one to Paula and she fell in love with it immediately. I didn’t tell her at the time that I bought one for myself as well. I thought it might bring back too many painful memories of things we never got to do when we were married. A short time later, my pastor’s wife was going through a difficult time so I gave her my devotional because I thought it might lift her spirits and speak to her heart. It did.

So it was back to Amazon to order another copy. While I was waiting for it to arrive, during one of my phone conversations with Paula, she shared how much her best friend loved the devotional I had sent her. So I sent her my copy as soon as it arrived. I ordered two the next time…just in case. As you can probably guess already, they too ended up getting sent back out. One to our daughter and another given to my sister-in-law.

I thought I would be safe to order only one more so it was back on-line to Amazon and finally my own copy arrived. Or so I thought. Paula told me shortly before Christmas that she had given her copy to a young man who worked at the resort where she was previously employed. I could hear the loss in her voice as she talked about the wrestling match she had with God to give her cherished book away…but she did. I knew that I had no choice. I rewrapped my copy and sent it to Paula.

A month ago, I ordered another copy. For now, this one is on my little shelf beside my bed and each morning, I diligently reach for it and read the devotion for the day. It’s a very special book. I’ve read from a lot of devotionals over the years, but this one is different. It seems that no matter who is reading it…it speaks directly to the need they have on that day – or that week. That’s what it did for me this morning.

Today was a day that I have NOT been looking forward to all week. It was my semi-annual polygraph. While it seems foolish that I would worry about this little “lie detector test”, I find myself getting anxious every time I know I have one. I know the reason why…even though it’s not rational. The results could send me back to prison even if they are wrong. I’ve learned that the polygraph will sometimes give a false reading because you start to second guess your answers. I have a friend who failed his polygraph by telling the truth…but then wondering if his definition of a term might be different from some else’s. As he mind worked over the issue in his mind, the needle on the polygraph went crazy and he failed the test.

And therein lies my problem. I don’t trust the test. In the back of my mind I understand that even by telling the truth the machine can decide that I’m being deceitful. All week long, everything seems to roll around in my head…wondering if there was something I may have omitted telling my therapy group. Or perhaps an incidental that I just forgot about. Maybe my interpretation of a rule is different from someone else. And the more I think about it, the more anxious I become. And the more anxious I become, the less I trust the test. It’s an endless circle that nearly paralyzes me when I walk into the room and have the straps wrapped around my chest. The clips are attached to the end of my fingers and the blood pressure cuff pumped up around my arm…nearly cutting off the blood supply. So I sit there – hearing my heart pounding in my head. Trying to breathe through my nose and feeling out of breath. Worrying that my labored breathing is sending a signal to the machine that holds my future in my hand.

And then I remember my devotional from this morning:

“WAITING, TRUSTING AND HOPING are intricately connected, like golden strands interwoven to form a strong chain. Trusting is the central strand, because it is the response from My children that I desire the most. Waiting and hoping embellish the central strand and strengthen the chain that connects you to Me. Waiting for Me to work, with your eyes on Me, is evidence that you really do trust Me. If you mouth the words “I trust You” while anxiously trying to make things go your way, your words ring hollow. Hoping is future-directed, connecting you to your inheritance in heaven. However, the benefits of hope fall fully on you in the present.”

From "Jesus Calling" by Sarah Young

The words remind me that there is truly only One that I need to trust…and He is always with me. No matter what, He is in control and I know that He loves me. With that in mind, the outcome of the test seems less important. My breathing becomes more relaxed. The rushing waves of my heartbeat begin to recede in my brain. The multiple thoughts colliding in my mind begin to diminish.

Like so many others who read daily from this little devotional, God sent me the message that I needed today. And I can trust the He will continue to do so each day in the future…and especially on those days that it seems my entire future rests on it.

Book Cover from Amazon

Photo from Flickr