Courage

(For Kathy)

I will try my best to be slow-eyed
And level;
Carried and cared-for
Even as I carry and care for
All that has been given me,
All that has been granted.

“Courage catching out,
Courage coming home,”

A cadence I have memorized
And whispered back
To shoreline, shoulder,
And hungry night, aching, full
Alive with both absence and presence.
I am trying
To give this same, simple wisdom
To you, this night:
Do not give —
(Don’t you dare give) —
Any more darkness
To the space between the stars
Than they have given you.

We gathered around your dining room table that certain night
And you telegraphed warnings.
You were quietly guarding
Your sister’s heart, and I shivered,
Watching you watch me.

Later, I won you over,
(Thank God)
Hinting at the way one
Conducts oneself in certain sidings
When the grainers coast like ghosts
And the bulls beat the night
And the bushes
With their Maglites.

You laughed that certain way
That understood the way I laughed.

Years later,
We hiked the ravine behind your house.
You held my son’s hand
And steered him well clear
Of ticks and poison ivy.
You won me over
(Thank God)
When you let him run ahead,
But kept close behind.
As the shadows grew long
And the sun dipped below the trees,
You called him to you
Before he knew that he was scared.

In certain asides,
We have sipped wine,
Together, you and I,
And stared obliquely
At the absurdity of it all,
And agreed upon certain finalities.

Tonight, I pray you understand:
I am pushing aside your mother, husband, brother —
Even sister —
To look you in the eye
The way that you looked into mine
That night;
To hold your shoulders
And say,
“Courage catching out,
Courage coming home.”

James and Kevin Get Robbed at Gunpoint

So, I don't get many requests for narrative retellings, outside of my kids. (Who are usually more than satisfied with anything I can make up on the spot that involves monsters who are scared of little boys, or the time I replaced the timing chain on the Honda and forgot to torque the crankshaft pulley bolt.) But there are a few things that friends and family have asked me to recount in writing that for one reason or another I've tended to avoid. Among them: The first time I hopped a train; my "road name" (Do I have one? What is it? How did I get it?); "Cuban cigars"(severely abbreviated version available here: https://portal.tiu.edu/uportal/tcphilosophy/cigarcw); and ... James and Kevin get robbed at gunpoint. This is a hasty recounting of the latter.

It was December of 2000, the day after Christmas. Or maybe two days. Pretty sure it was the 26th. I had recently returned from one of my "amorphous wanderings" and at the behest of my mother had agreed to spend at least Christmas and a couple of days at my parents' house. I don't remember if I called James, or if he got in touch with me, but one way or another we agreed that we ought to touch base before the new year.

I pause here to say a word about James. It's somewhat important to the narrative, for reasons that will hopefully become clear. James and I have been friends for a long, long time. I grew up in a neighborhood where there were no other boys my age: None. But I had the good fortune of having James's grandparents living next door to me, so James visited often, and at least once or twice a week I was given the glorious opportunity to partake in that particular brand of chaos that only little boys can generate. (I am well-acquainted with this chaos: Grand fate has determined that my good wife and I should be blessed with naught but a sea of XY-chromosomal knuckleheads in our house.) Over the course of time, James and I seem to have developed some sort of bizarre, Jake-and-Elwood, Vulcan mind-meld ... thing.

Anyway.

So James has always been this "come what may" character in my life: "What if the fire gets out of control?" ("It won't, because it's too wet for that to happen."); "What if rat patrol catches us with the truck when we're not supposed to have it?" ("We asked Doug and Pam if we could take the truck and they said it was fine."); "What if we fall out of the tree?" ("The tree limbs are like stair-steps -- it won't happen, no matter how windy it gets."); "Hey ... those sounded like gunshots." ("Probably.")

But circumstances had conspired to muck things up some: I was recently divorced and feeling a bit ... "red-eyed, stamping at the dirt, and nothing to lose." I'd recently learned to get up my guts to do things like hop on grain cars, turn awkward conversations with knife-wielding and belligerent half-drunk transients into weepy-eyed philosophy discussions, and carry a half-gallon of good water next to my person, always, no matter what. I learned that "West is dead and north is nice," and (somewhat inconveniently, given that last truism) that "North isn't always north." Too much whiskey, too much pipe tobacco ... shaking, crying, confessing streams of secrets to people with names like "The Texas Madman." There's nothing at all poetic about it now, I admit, but I swear it was grace all the same.

Anyway.

It was the night after Christmas, I believe, and James and I were walking. Let's say that I (and I alone) was smoking a great big, giant, conspicuously obvious and gloriously stinky Cuban cigar. We're walking, talking ... and in the street-lamp light a block ahead of us, I see two dark figures walking slowly, deliberately down the middle of the street toward us. So here is where things get interesting. James seems to notice them as well, but continues his nonchalant conversation, gloriously receptive to grace and God's pre-destination. I on the other hand am thinking, "Those sons-of-bitches have nothing at all good in mind." And in that moment, the following three reactions took place within me simultaneously: (1) We're two blocks between my parents' house and the Van Enks' old place; if we cut the chatter, bolt now, and start hopping fences we'll be safe and sound; (2) we have the shadows and they've got light in their eyes, lamp-lit like stars on a stage -- if we hit the ground now -- right this second -- we'll disappear; (3) I don't want James to think I'm afraid. Ah, good old pride. I'd spent the last three years trying to prove my fearlessness to an absent audience, and I just couldn't stop. Clearly, I hadn't learned to finesse the details between courage and stupid recklessness. And my best friend and I were about to pay the price for that.

The conversation ambled forward, and James and I did as well, relentlessly closing the space between ourselves and the two men walking down the middle of the street. As we grew closer, I observed the posture of the two men: The tall one had his hands jammed in his coat pockets, head down; the short one walked with his back arched, head held high, marching. Not good. As we drew parallel to each other, the short one said, "How are you two gentlemen doing this fine evening?" And my heart sank. Here we go. Any doubt I'd had about how this evening was going to end evaporated in an instant. Although we have never talked about it since, I have to believe that at this point even James understood that he was about to have an "experience." For my part, my thoughts went from "bloodless robbery" to "dead friends." I wondered what my mom would say to Ron Magers; how long it would take for my girlfriend to hear the news.

We continued walking, and at some point I actually closed my eyes and began praying, "Please let it pass, please let it pass, please ...." And then we heard the shouting: Non-descript yelling. For a split-second, I thought these two were staging some sort of fight with each other. Maybe they were drunk, or high. Maybe I was wrong. But no. The short one was marching toward us, presently, his hand extended, gun in hand. He was much closer than I'd anticipated. I don't know what made me look, but I saw the tall one dive into the driver's seat of a car parked alongside the road. How long had they been watching us? Just how orchestrated was this offense? I don't remember the exact words he used, but we were instructed to stop in our tracks. Somewhere in there, an order to let him see our hands was registered. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw James put his hands in the air. I was stuck in the moment. I was still trying to figure out the best way to approach this. While I was treasuring all of this away in my heart, the short one was marching steadily forward, small-caliber gun now pointed directly at my face. "I SAID show me those hands!" Ah. My hands were still jammed into my coat pockets; the fire-red cherry on the end of my Cuba-via-Winnipeg cigar still glowing happily in the post-yuletide night. And now the short one was marching blindly, angrily across the urban landscape, over curbside and storm sewer, rapidly and madly closing the distance between us, that black barrel now painting its shadow on my forehead. And I thought about the time James and I were shooting his dead father's guns out in Beecher, and I held that double-barrel 10-gauge that he liked to call "The Hammer," with both triggers cocked, when my foot caught a clog of mud in the field and I let both barrels go in one whisper-thin finger twitch, launching two heavy, solid-lead slugs not more than four feet in front of me. Such a hole in the heavy autumn earth they made. I imagined what my head would look like in the morning after the short one's careless, twitchy finger let adrenaline change his life and mine forever. I wondered what my father would tell my mother to give her peace.

And just like that, I was close enough to the short one's gun underneath the lamplight to be able to accurately describe it as a .25-caliber pistol to the police. My hands finally found their way into the air. "Throw your wallets on the ground!" we were told. Easy enough. "And there better be money in there or I'll kill you, both of you!" Oh. Well, now, there's a problem. I'd gotten out of the habit of carrying cash. Or, for that matter, I.D. Both were inconvenient freight when on the road. I honestly had no idea how much cash -- if any -- I had in my wallet. Three dollars? Maybe two. Wallets on the ground, now, the short one crouches down to begin examining the spoils. As he does so, I watch the gun carelessly slant this way and that, angled always toward my head. "Get out of here!" the short one barks. James and I begin backing away. Ah, sweet impotence. "What are you walking for? run ... RUN, motherfuckers!"

Well.

For a moment, I experienced a feeling I didn't recognize again until many years later, the first time one of my boys looked me square in the eye and said, "NO!" when I told him to do something. That "motherfuckers" was simply not necessary. I even made a point to tell the police afterward that the short one was left-handed, and had conspicuously avoided profanity. Until the end. Guns in faces, barked orders, careless trigger fingers ... but humiliation for humiliation's sake? Hadn't I lost enough face, already? Good God ... what more? Just how humble did I have to be? Abandoned for another man; no wealth, no ambition, no cash, no cache ... I brought three dollars and no I.D. to the table, and gave it all, and now the last of my dignity as we ran, James and I, through the night back to my parents' house. They thought we were joking when we burst through the door and I exclaimed, "Give me the phone! We've been robbed at gunpoint!" They laughed. Such a joke.

James went home to his good wife and a warm bed. I couldn't sleep in my childhood bed, alone, and ended up on the floor, blanketless and cold. I awoke at dawn and told God and the streets that they'd have to do better if they were going to upstage the terror of limb-severing boxcars silently gliding through the yard. And I marched the streets indignant and ugly until I found James's wallet, cashless but otherwise intact. My wallet was retrieved the night before by a neighbor. Two dollars were still safely ensconced therein. I like to think they knew they'd be drinking damnation upon themselves had they taken it. I like to think the short one saw my eyes.

So, what did I earn? What have I carried forward? In the most practical sense, I've learned to listen to that relaxed voice of reason that most of us ignore. When it's past eleven, and I've buttoned up the exhaust manifold, but that one stubborn bolt won't cooperate ... I stop. There's time for a glass of Scotch and a short conversation: It isn't worth a wrist and a paid-for family car to force my pride in the moment. After that night, I was much more introspective about the difference between "fearless" and "foolhardy." Many of the things I'd been routinely doing up until then suddenly seemed horrific and irresponsible. I had an alarming sense of responsibility to my undefined future, and the people who lived and loved there.

Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday comes and goes most years with little notice. Maybe you make your way up the concrete stairs to your cubicle in the morning, and you’re startled to see the imprint of ash on the forehead of a Catholic coworker. Ah. It’s Ash Wednesday, isn’t it? Or perhaps, like me, you log onto Facebook and see this, from a friend: “Knows that Ash Wednesday takes on new poignancy when one has the ashes of their child sitting on a shelf. We are dust, and to dust we shall return.” Indeed.

(And isn’t it strange how, before I awoke to the realization of the liturgical significance of the day, my wife and I in one accord thought we ought to head out one of these days to Resurrection Cemetery to visit our lost baby’s grave?)

Being a solidly half-Dutch product of the Evangelical Free Church in America, I am no scholar of the traditional liturgical calendar. (Until Wikipedia explained otherwise this very day, I thought Shrove Tuesday and Fat Tuesday were different days in separate weeks.) Sure, there’s Palm Sunday — replete with the congregation’s kindergarten faction parading down the church aisles carrying palm fronds and marching to the strains of “Tell Me the Stories of Jesus” — and obviously Easter, but Ash Wednesday … well, what’s a good protestant to do with *that*?

From what I’ve heard about Ash Wednesday, it seems that people either view it as an opportunity to prove to God a willingness to deny themselves one comfort or another as a nod to the way Jesus denied his own divine nature so that he might voluntarily suffer and die for our sins, or … as an acknowledgement of the weight and reality of death in our lives: “We are dust, and to dust we shall return.” Leaving aside for the moment the valid argument that the two views are in no way mutually exclusive, I cast my vote for the latter. The way I see it, before you can hope to in any way “identify” with the suffering of Christ, you need to be very clear on what your status is without his intervention. And that status is, dust … mud … nothing to speak of. After every grand argument; after every well-told story; after every Oscar nomination, every Nobel Prize acceptance speech; every standing ovation, every “journey of self-discovery” … the yawning emptiness of the grave awaits.

And that’s that.

The wages of sin is death. And who of us does not sin? And what is death but the reduction of all of our consequence to dust, ash … the return of our physical presence in this place and time to meaninglessness?

And now our formerly benign “Ash Wednesday” comes into sharp focus. The reality of this day, I think, is not best spent pretending that by somehow denying ourselves that slice of pizza, that swig of Scotch, that piece of chocolate, that we’re somehow communing with the Son of God. I think the time is better spent considering what life and death look like without the infusion of grace that God gives: “A meaningless movement; a movie script ending.” We are dust. We’re a vapor. Ah … but with an asterisk. The story of Lent is a story full of hopeful — and foreboding — foreshadowing: The Good News is that Ash Wednesday is meaningless outside of the dark shadow of Good Friday and the blinding light of Easter.

When I see myself graveside, grief-laden and barely able to push the top of my head upward against the falling rain, yes, I do find comfort in seeing Jesus there, head hung low and hiding a smile. “Just wait … it’s only dust, but dust isn’t what it used to be any more.”

The Tyranny of Comfort

So ... I'm part of this men's Bible Study group at our church, and we're currently going through this "Servants By Design" study. It's been an interesting discussion. Slowly, we're getting down to brass tacks: Getting to know each other; getting honest. Sneaking around the corner are confrontations with our chosen careers, examinations of the bones of our dreams and our failings, and understanding exactly what "vocation" and "calling" mean. As I careen recklessly into my mid-life, it's all quite appropriate.

We all completed extensive personality assessments -- and by extensive, I mean 2+ hours, over 200 questions -- to help us take a (hopefully) objective look at who we are as men. Being a "learning and development professional," I'm no stranger to these sorts of assessments (I'm an INTP, by the way), so I generally approach with caution. What turned out to be more interesting than the individual assessments, was the way this group of men slowly began to admit to what generally remains unspoken in our world. Tonight, I think it all came to a head, and everyone finally admitted the sad truth: We are all slaves -- yes, that's the right word -- to comfort, security, duty, and possessions.

It's such a subtle lie, and such an insidious plan of attack: How better to steal us away from our intended purpose and design than to press the form of our efforts into the clay of the world's wisdom and call it "fidelity to duty"?

There are nights when I read about the New Testament church and, like Francis Chan, I wonder: "Are we hopelessly far from what God asks us to be because of the convenience modern life affords us?" I don't know. I know that what I and my family consider "needs" are far different from what most people 3000 years -- or miles -- distant from me would consider the same. My children throw themselves to the floor and wail when the Transformers toy they were promised isn't in stock at Target. They don't know hunger, thirst, or cold. I wonder, can we understand what God is asking of us if we're so melded to the earth -- so distant from the surfaces of heaven and hell? I don't know.

I left the men's group tonight with more definition around the discomfort I've felt for a while now. I made the error of saying tonight, "I think they had it easier back in the early days of the church in some ways ..." Someone stopped me, and rightly clarified: "Not easier: simpler." Starker or more plain might be another way to say it. And that's it. I'm mindful, frequently, of the great Choir song, "Children of Time":

Columbus sailed across the sea to trouble our theology,
What goes up still comes down,
Where is heaven if the world is round?
Cosmonauts were first in space, to look for God and find no trace,
With a killer cloud of reason for rhyme, the devil enlightens the children of time.

I told the guys tonight that one of the scariest verses in the Bible to me is "Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added unto you." What, then, does that mean, to someone not seeking God's Kingdom? And what exactly does seeking his Kingdom look like in 2011? I suspect it looks quite different from what I'm spending most of my time doing.

Young, Beautiful and Stupid

Back in high school and even into college, I spent my summers at Camp Timber-lee serving in various capacities. Those were formative years for me, and I met friends there who are friends for life. A few years back I put together a set of CDs containing music from the era that more or less served as the soundtrack for those summers -- at least for myself. As the era of Facebook has brought me back into contact with many dear friends from my Timber-lee days, I thought I'd share the "liner notes" (ha!) I wrote for that set of CDs. And here they are:

Picture if you will a bright summer Saturday. It is hot — 90 degrees or so — and there is a stiff breeze blowing from the west. It is nearly noon, and the last of your kids has hugged you and walked off into his future and your past. You have 24 hours before the next crew rolls into camp. Depending on your disposition, you have a choice ahead of you: grab lunch at the lodge and go immediately to bed to catch up on some much-needed sleep; load up the car with a change of clothes and your favorite tapes and head off to spend the night at a friend’s house a couple hours away; cash your check at the office and head into Whitewater or Elkhorn with a load of laundry; or, if you’re lucky, take yet another shower and begin preparing for your big date in Lake Geneva tonight.

Or maybe it’s your night off. A tense wait at the dinner line leaves you fearful that your relief counselor is going to beg off for the night, but to your relief he arrives and leaves you free to explore the Wisconsin countryside as you see fit. Sneak into the Lodge long enough to grab a pear or an apple for the road, and make your way to your trusty LTD, Caprice, or Chevette for a few hours of automotive abuse on Phantom Lake Road. After sundown, you and a few friends will head to Lauber’s for ice cream and general hanging around. Later, you’ll take command of your cabin once more. When you’re sure your kids are asleep, you’ll spend a few hours talking, laughing, and eating cheese and summer sausage in the village center chalet with some fellow counselors and your village leaders. If you’re in Oak Ridge, you’ll laugh at Rat Patrol when you take the back trail to family camp for a load of Coke, Sprite, or Barq’s root beer from the pop machine to replenish your supply.

Whether it’s the weekend, your night off, an hour or two stolen while your co-counselor watches your cabin for you so you can spend some time by yourself, it’s likely that you’re accompanied by music that will come to mark these days as some of the best you will ever know. There isn’t a soundtrack to those days, but I hope these disks come close. Some of these songs may cause you to flinch in embarrassment; others may yet be living healthy, active lives in your CD player or car stereo; still others are very specific reminders indeed of certain moments you will never forget. (U2’s Spanish Eyes will forever bring back to me a car ride shared with Paul Robinson, Jim Fritzsche, and Jim Perry back from Lauber’s late one night.)

We were young and stupid: why didn’t we ever pause to consider whether we were really equipped to do what it was we were doing at Timber-lee those summers? Now that we’re all so much older, we know that this is precisely why we were so perfectly equipped.

Remaining

Some words are as old as God—
meant for things barely remembered,
or assigned to wonders
seldom seen.

     Think of stopped
     watches
     buried beneath
     the pike;

     night dissolving
     in aurora
     quietly above
     the final miles
     of dead-ends.

There are songs that have only been sung
in imaginations of men
long dead,
whose bone-dust
stays in graves
that flute
the tired meadows.

There is a world there
left open, always,
slipped beneath
the mundane
daylight of
ladder-climbing
and fencelines.

The pathway always cuts away
from even fields
of fine and fertile soil;

and fades from
forever-lit cities
and monuments
hoping to commemorate
the past self,
the future self.

There, when eyes
have ceased insisting
on life’s plentiful lies
and settle—defeated if need be—
for the muddy, cricket-chirp truth,
then there is the silver script;
lost words of a beautiful tongue.

And we are wondrous again,
and fearfully made.

As few as we may be,
and lower than the angels
with our landscapes sweetly fading,
the wind is always new
on redemption-white, cold winter nights.

And in the middle of what once
I named nowhere,
I sit and watch the owl-wing clouds
fanning fire and ages
through a tired flesh
that stretches over the sky.

It is a pilgrimage in sitting still;
epiphany in remaining—

watching the old order
pass so quietly away
with eyes wide
and left behind.

Poor Man's Pockets

I have a poor man’s pockets
full of roadside monuments;
the sparrow-speak of
seraphs’ wings sewn into my soul

with Indian tobacco,
pocket watch tickings
slow so near
the mass of heaven;

a bedroll full of ashes.

I have collected recollections—
tire-iron frenzy
in the valleys nearing dusk;

Kerouac ghosts
in troopers’ eyes,

passersby
as angel as
damselflies

beneath the bridges;
breathing down the corridors
of wide expanse,
weak invincibility
made perfect, whole, and round,
and all these things made new
beneath a Jesus-feet sky,
crucifix power-lines
glowing in the sun;

the grace of fire
frightening
spiders
from my sleep,
mandibles
of old hard breaks
away,
glamorous lies
fading in the blood-red flames
that flare behind closed eyes.

I have a brimful of life
pouring over
duct-tape thin-worn boots,

shimmering wilderness years
through great cities,
overland all night
to dawn;

empty pockets
inside out
and mopping up the wonders.

All the Worlds in Each of Twelve Hours (fragment)

~~~

Even great diesel engines cannot last forever.

     They have to give out in the end
     with a fierce finality,
     usually near ruined steelworks,
     liquor shacks in bad ends
     of towns.

There might be a long walk
through tall grass,
fields of wreckage
where nothing parts
to allow passage.

     And life is full of climbing
     and tetanus.

You find yourself in the strangest
places,
     waving to imaginary companions
     to avoid armed robbery,
     begging hot showers off of
     motor inns.

You learn to drink whiskey.

You force upon the tired world
     improbable miracles:
          the night’s last sober man
          loves God
          and has been where you are going,
          tells you where to sleep;
          a woman you know
          worries about you
          and decides that she is in love;
          an old man in a bar
          warns you about bears,
          offers you a gun.

~~~

Spirit Moves

What can I say?

     The grass leans that way
     and light pours between.

     Dusk shakes shadows
     from the hours.

     In empty houses far from towns,
     curtains breathe
     through open panes.

          And suddenly I am home.

     I invest myself in being led
     to certain strangers’
     doorways;

     in lying unnamed with my days
     across a grandfather’s grave.

          And suddenly I can fill anyone
          with lamppost light
          that shivers like leaves
          near bays;
          with the patience
          that carefully wears
          all lives from slate.

          And you recall
          moonlight over church roofs.

               You smile in my distance.

     Wind pushes smoke into my eyes,
     and I can live in quiet persistence.

Heading East

These nights come to us
in waking dreams,
where American freightways
disappear before halogen
can find them.

We strike our recollection
on the anvil of distant
storm fronts,
break open the great sadness
of time’s passage
to find six or seven words,
then silence; the smell
of distant shoreline, rainfall.

These towns are dying on the
onyx chain of suffering
roadbed —
the faulted pavement of troubled tributaries
bypassed by larger streams.

Still the dim, gold light
of faltering mainstreets
remains amazingly bright,
and we pass through
until a world of twilight
fades into creosote again.

Distant lightning
has called us further out
into the ionized air,
away from cities
where forced light
paints with murder and with shadow.

Two comets hang
loosely over great plains,
and the arms of the galaxy
are thick with entropy
and slowing spin.

     We think of orbits;
     the rotation of storms;
     and ages end in the
     miles behind us
     where the roadway
     dies into a faint red glow,
     and taillights in the rearview
     are Perseid showers
     that dip below slight rises.

Every memory flickers and waves then,
blinks out into static
between each station.

We have spent the miles well
and lost the moments wisely,
launching our eyesight upward
from the road into the
edges of storms,
and then starlight,
the dead radio silent of
all ghost-green time,
dying signal near the sea.

East Kill Valley

After a thin lifetime,
the only center is
light reflected from often-safe bays,
and in the distance
the horrifying onyx of
the open sea at night.

There are silent times
of gathering worn fabric
to the sternum;
of keeping warmth.

     There is a single, new moment
     that rises up and surrounds
     the sudden knowledge
     that there is still unalterable,
     unspeakable sadness left
     after all wrong gods
     have stepped from shadows
     to be felled by grace.

And you find yourself standing
on coastlines, unvoiced
beneath a turning sky,
and you are as empty
as the dark between the stars.

And in that moment —
in that same, ancient, wave-weathered
moment —
you want nothing more than to
turn away from
the ocean you have found
opening up at the end of every trace.

You want nothing more than to
turn inland,
find deep-valleyed
graveyards where uncertain, distant
ancestors lie
and say,
     “I have been where you have been”
     and,
     “I feel your bones
     beneath my feet.”

How All Things Are Made New

A pond suddenly awakens,
takes notice of the wind
breaking moonlight over its surface.
A circle of trees grows inward
toward a center.

I spill whiskey beneath a table lamp,
find something otherwise unseen
reflected from the hallway.

I am kept from one conversation
too many,
and so it is that I am traveling
over mountains,
see the bruised treeline open up
into thin air,
collect an age of words
in that broken-throated moment.

A ring of galaxies abruptly
tilts its face-plane earthward;

rafters in firelight throw
crucifix shadows against a ruined wall,
torn curtain;

a linen closet door is left open
in the middle of the night,
and all moments rearrange themselves
into one endless orbit.

Creation paws at your
crumbling doorframe
until you notice,
stand up to see
what is the matter.

Storybook

Trees whisper.

You sit by a lake
or an ocean at night,
and the world of moments
you have not yet lived
is strangely familiar again.

There is an ancient story
like that,
where an old man
finds his way to shores
by mistake,
knocks on the unfamiliar door
of a darkened coast-house
and his son,
for decades estranged and given up for dead,
answers and welcomes his father home.

Or a young girl
walks into the
storm-swept waves
and is never heard of again,
until she makes it back
to town for a funeral,
and in the cool summer evening
beneath the trees
she remembers that she is that girl,
and in knowing this is saved.

You know stories like that:

     The fragrance of full green leaves
     after rain
     reminds you that you
     once believed in heaven,

     or the sound of your feet
     on a gravel road
     at twilight
     makes you suddenly want
     to cry
     or talk to children.

This story is yours.

     Look; if you go outside
     and find trees, or water,
     or tall grass,
     the wind will murmur it.

     The world wants to tell you
     why it is so tired.

It's been about a year

One thing I've learned over this past year: People don't like to talk about dead babies. I'm sure just reading that last sentence made you uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable too. It was about a year ago that we lost our baby, and long before this milestone was upon us the "get over it already" vibe had taken hold among many of our friends, family, and co-workers. And, in fact, many of them had suffered the same kind of loss. (I still cringe when I think about the day my very thoughtful and well-meaning boss told me, "God is in control, and everything happens for a reason" and I shot back, "He was in control of the Holocaust too, and that happened for a reason: Does that make it OK?") Innumerable times, my wife and I have looked at each other and wondered out loud, "Are we weird, or is everyone else?" Is this just easier for some people? Or was this child's life less of a life because we never got to meet him or her? But the truth is that everyone who has lost a child to miscarriage or stillbirth has a choice to make: Suffer as part of a whispery, mostly silent group, or act as if it really wasn't a "whole" loss like the loss of a spouse, parent, sibling, or older child. Either way, it's a lonely, long walk.

So, I've made a conscious choice to do the uncomfortable thing: To honor this lost child by acknowledging his or her life; to always be sure to explain to people that I am the father of three, with two at home.

As you can tell, we didn't get a chance to find out if we were having a boy or a girl. We're not quite sure how or why -- in the rush of the events leading up to the loss -- we did not have the presence of mind to ask for a confirmation, and why nobody had the thought to make us the offer. So, we're left in that hazy perpetual state of mystery that all parents experience with their children early on. Blue or pink? New clothes or hand-me-downs? In a way, that makes it more difficult. (Grammatically, especially: It's hard to be eloquent when you're constantly saying "his or her," "he or she," "his or hers." But we refuse to dishonor him or her with the label "it.") In another way, it leaves a surprise to one day look forward to. Either way, we wanted to name this child, so we settled -- somewhat tentatively, I think -- on "Wynn." It's an ambiguous name, but also a family name, on my dad's side. For a long time, we had considered a Puritan name, like "Welcome" -- also, as it turns out, a family name. It would be a fitting name, because in spite of the loss, Wynn was most surely Welcome. And I take comfort as much as I can in two things: First, that all this baby ever new of life was peace, comfort, and love; that he or she knew the muffled sounds of the joy of his or her brothers, mother, father, and grandparents. Second, that God has a perspective so wildly different than that of my own mind's comprehension, that in some way in his vast being, this is somehow not a loss at all, and we just haven't entered into that knowledge yet.

At any rate, today I remember Wynn. This child was precious to us, and very much loved.

Things Unseen

Maybe things aren’t as bad as you think they are,
Or maybe they are, or they’re worse.
Seconds pile up in the river against
Broken tree limbs and dead muskrats,
And that’s the way minutes, hours, and eons are made.
That’s life, the way it is.
It’s the ugly truth.
Your children are sweet,
But this does not
Necessitate a future
Free from cocaine, pornography;
Legs lost in foreign lands.
Links, bonds, marriages
Are made and broken. Who remembers? Why?
We all lose sleep — in some measure —
Trying to remember if we are remembered;
If we still matter in some way to this person or that,
Bandaged in the snow.
In the end, just one question:
Is there something more, or nothing more?
It only matters
If you care about the way your cousins
Laughed when you were seven
And wonder if that has made a difference;
If you have watched the leaves turn
Gold, red, orange
And supposed this captured meaning
Beyond apparent logic.
Or, if all else fails,
And the great multitudes of distances
Between darkness and light —
Gradients to some and gulfs to others —
Are unconvincing,
And you should choose to waiver and wager
Trackside in the morning,
Remember that
If you travel north and leave a body
For moose hunters to find
In the spring,
You were worth everything
To somebody
In the moment before the last,
And this singular truth lights great fires
Along narrow pathways
Through the dark woods.

Is Canada Haunted?

This Halloween, as I was lighting the candles in our hastily carved jack-o’-lanterns on the front porch, I was wondering what I would one day tell my kids if they asked me to tell them a real-life ghost story. My brushes with the paranormal have been few and far between, no doubt, but there have been a few. Nearly all – secretly – I’ve been able to dismiss using any number of rational explanations with a wink and a nod. Oddly, most have been experiences shared with others: There was that stage screw that flew in a straight line stage-left to stage-right in the supposedly haunted auditorium of Thornridge High School right before the startled eyes of myself and my friend Greg as we prepared to lock up, the only two remaining souls in the building … or so we thought!; There was that mysterious man who seemed to materialize out of nowhere before my cousin Alan and me near the old decrepit hunting cabins in Gladwin, Michigan in the November snow. (Only years later did it occur to me that he may have been … a hunter.)

Some twelve years ago, I found myself in circumstances that – at the time – seemed to warrant a bit of coming unhinged. We won’t go off into the weeds here … suffice it to say there were freight trains, lost vacations, and rubber-tramping ventures into the jungle.

One week in November, I had the crazy fool notion to point myself north and see just how far I could get. I had a map, and the vague idea that I’d like to see what Manitoba was all about. And so it was that I found myself well north of Winnipeg in what was supposedly a haunted motel -- or so the elderly-ish woman named Marge who managed the place told me. As it happens, I had a terrible time getting to sleep that night. On one occasion, I heard what was clearly the sound of something heavy falling and hitting the floor somewhere in the room, only to find nothing out of place. On several occasions, I was startled awake by what I though was someone shouting "Kevin!" I ended up walking back to the lobby/lounge area, where Marge had a happy fire glowing in the fireplace. Marge and I talked for a long time that night, and I whiled away that night partly in conversation, and partly underneath the Canadian stars.

When I've recounted this to others, they've encouraged me to write about it. The thing is, I've written about it quite a bit. In fact, I wrote this in my notebook the following night, and included it in the preface to a poetry chapbook I "published" back in 1998:

"The hotel I am staying in is supposed to be haunted. Last night I awoke with a start to the sound of a woman saying my name, to find the room empty; sub-arctic starlight gracing the room with icy silver. It seems I carry some ghosts with me; perhaps some will stay behind. Margaret, the sixtyish women who manages this place, has found me scrawling these notes as I sit wrapped in a blanket on a worn red-velvet chair before the hearth. She is a poet too, and asks me to read a few out loud. My voice rings strange against the firelight — cold and filtered through smoke; older and more sad than I have ever heard it. She listens, the words straining through days that have lacked all audible speech. She tastes each syllable, her eyes gazing off to a place somewhere far behind me, a smile spreading across her face as though she recognizes an old friend; though clearly there is no one there, in the gold-flickering doorway. When I have finished, she clasps her hands loudly together, surprising the night, and exclaims 'Wonderful! Wonderful!' Grace again in the strangest, most beautiful places. I talk with her long into the night, knowing that her eyes give such wonderful gifts; knowing that already I long to squeeze these hours into some small, antique bottle and keep it always near me."

(Why I wasn't handed the Pulitzer Prize for literature immediately upon publication, I'll never know.)

Reading that now, it's clear why I've struggled so often to capture what was going on that night and why it was such a big deal: What is lost in the whole account is the sense of grace that it left me with ... which, admittedly doesn't really make for much of a ghost story. But it isn't the "ghostiness" of those nights that is worth anything anyway: I WAS after all exhausted and sent to bed primed with stories about ghosts waking up weary travelers by shouting their names, so, yeah ... perhaps not really much of a mystery there. The supernatural aspect is much more "Holy Ghosty" in nature, I think. Now, when troubled days come, I think back to that trip and am comforted by it somehow. So here is another attempt to get at what was going on back then, so far away from home:



Remembering
The ride
Up through both Dakotas —
Hands, ears
So cold,
So set against the proud rush;
Embers on the skyline;
Red River
Everywhere that year
And embarrassed with twilight.

Unwashed, unworthy
Of that horizon,
I entered in regardless,
Underneath
Clouds belly-full with snow.

Somewhere
Against an unnamed bay,
The voice of the road
Flickered
From whisper to hush,
And American dollars
Were barely enough
To buy a haunted room
In a haunted inn in November.

Recalling
The walls there —
How they whispered
My own name
Always at the edge of sleep each night
And chased me to fire-lit places,
And warmth —
It is good to know
That name is
As familiar as it is
To wild shorelines;
Abandoned trestles;
Dead innkeepers;
Aurora.

And so, often,
I find myself
Looking north,
Humming to myself “It Is Well”
In times of trouble,
Not because it is,
But because it was,
And will be again.

"Neverland Wynn's Owl Remix"

One last remix from The Choir's excellent "Burning Like the Midnight Sun" disk. This is the "Wynn's Owl Mix," courtesy yours truly:

Silver

Won’t your hand
Find my hand
In the watery grave
Of the moon?
When the silver
That drifts
Along the sliver
That lives
Between the light
Of stars
And the ink of night
Alights upon
Leaf-tips;
Sleeping barbicans
In the flicker
Of long-gone autumns?
When the combines
Swarm along state routes,
And their reflections
And their shimmerings
Quiver in the wind
As we pass in the silence —
That Silence.
Among trees;
Among ruined bridges;
Among rail-spans, spillways, and lift-bridges;
Among the shadowed spans of doorways
Awash in the last
Innocent Christmas
You remember;
In the ash that leaves my lips
And settles on my sleeve
As we traverse each distance.
You lean in close,
As the road descends
In its grace
From blacktop, to gravel,
To grass.
You have found a secret; that secret:
An ending — here —
The beautiful ending of lights —
In a world that never once
Deserved those lights,
Or the finding of those lights.
We move together, then:
Beneath, among, above
These horizons that
Have held us to the earth,
And we are free:
As free as
Every silver thing.

It was not all a dream.

My parents recently concluded what can only be called a terrible real estate transaction that began with discussions about the changing economic profile of their neighborhood, the realities of yard upkeep, and proximity to grandchildren ... and concluded with curses issued to our federal government, a brush with financial fraud, and several episodes of yours truly brandishing a glass of straight gin on ice cursing under his breath very late at night. All of this over five months, in the worst real estate market this country has seen since the Great Depression. It's an interesting story, but not meant for this space.

Back in 1976, I was as much of a mess as one 7-year-old boy could be: I was at the top of my form in good old Riverdale, Illinois, in my quaint track-side school that went from kindergarten to third grade: I was the fastest, the strongest, the funniest, and -- I thought -- the smartest in all of Park School. (Ah ... big fish in little ponds.) And then my world went upside-down. When I first caught the scent of the possibility that my parents were considering pulling up roots and moving elsewhere, I was indignant: This was not possible. What motivation could explain this absurdity? Here, all was well: I was within walking distance of my school, my grandmother lived in the "apartment" upstairs, my great-grandma Torrenga lived a mere two blocks away, my best friend's grandmother lived right next door (affording me access to said best friend upon his frequent visits), and all was right with God and his universe. Of course, my seven-year-old brain failed to recognize details such as the gang- and riot-riddled high school my sister and I were destined to attend based upon our address, or the fact that our parents were forced to sleep on a fold-out hide-a-bed so that my sister and I could have separate rooms.

And so we landed in South Holland. I remember how terribly conflicted I felt the first time I stepped foot on the property: Here was a foreign land, a virtual desert expanse of suburbia compared to our near-Chicago bungalow jungle in Riverdale. Here, few backyards had fences; the railroad passed right behind the house -- and there were four sets of tracks! The block offered no less than four neighbor boys -- boys! -- to play with as opposed to the oddly imbalanced overabundance of girls to be found on our Riverdale block. It seemed oddly rural compared to our Riverdale address: there was something sad and lonely about the evenings here, and the dark seemed darker and the night more deep. The school wasn't a simple kindergarten to third-grade affair: No, it was kindergarten straight up to sixth grade. It seemed like a college campus to me, where I was at the bottom of the seniority list.

But, my vote was a small one weighed against our circumstances, and we took the move. I think back on it now, and I feel bad for my parents: The grief I must have caused them. My oldest son cries whenever we cart an old piece of furniture or a decrepit appliance to the curb, he's that sentimental: "But I LOVE our old water softener!" he sobs; "But I love that washing machine." My heart aches for him, but I'm exasperated: Life finds innumerable ways to explain to us the grief we've unknowingly caused others, no? But I digress.

The day we went to our soon-to-be-new house, I was nervous, but excited. There was a basement stairway, with grapevines growing upon the railing. (With real grapes! That you could eat!) There were, of course, the rail lines, with their regular schedule of house-shaking freights. There were dirt bike trails and their attending dirt bikes -- soon to become the nemesis of my father. There were the string of backyards that would become a convenient baseball diamond/football field/battlefield/graveyard. And there were paintings, left by the previous owners, of naked ladies in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Wow! (These were seen once, and never again.)

So we bought our house on Prince Drive in South Holland. We settled in, we made a life, we grew up. It was a good place to grow up -- the right balance of comfort and toughness that a kid needs to learn his way. There were the crazy kids, and the good kids, and the bad kids, just like every other neighborhood. In the summers, we would spend too much time with each other, get bored, get into fist-fights, storm off, and realize that we were the only game in town, and learn to negotiate peace. My poor father -- forever pining for a return to his pure rural roots -- found ample space for a large garden; my mother, a daughter of Chicago, found herself on familiar ground. It was as close to a perfect compromise as the family would ever find.

I don't know what you can say about a home, except that you know what makes it a home while it is yours, and whatever that is can never be truly expressed to anyone else. Thinking back, I have glimpses: Of hot summer afternoons spent swigging cold Coca-Cola from glass bottles beneath the mock-orange tree in the backyard while the freight trains rocketed by; of snow-days and blizzards spent too-long in the backyard making snow forts until runny noses chased us indoors to hot chocolate and Spiderman cartoons. It was a good house, a good home.

My parents stayed as long as they could. Things were getting to a place where I was uncomfortable letting Liz and the kids travel there on their own. It's just one of those things. The church was gone; most of our friends and family were gone. My best friend and I were robbed at gunpoint two blocks away one Christmas: "Throw your wallets on the ground, and there better be money there or you're both fuckin' dead!" There you go. Welcome home. It was time. Dad had to give up a glorious yard, hard-fought-for and hard-won; Mom had to give up the home she'd tweaked to her tastes over three decades. And, for me, on that last day -- as the moving vans closed their doors, and I backed out of that driveway for the last time -- I couldn't resist one last circuit around the old sights. The thing is, I realized fairly quickly that I'd become a relic; a stranger among my old haunts.

My parents are blessed to have a wonderful home in a wonderful neighborhood, not more than 10 minutes from where I live. Our kids are silly with excitement, apparently because they have a new house to explore, but clearly because their beloved grandma and grandpa are now only 10 minutes away instead of 45 minutes. My father has lost a wonderful backyard, but gained an entire neighborhood that is safe to walk around in, day or night. It's taken me a long time to get that life is nothing more than a series of chapters that conclude and subsequently serve as the prologue to the next, and that this isn't a bad thing, or even a sad thing, just a true thing.

Burning Like the Midnight Sun Gold Ring in the Mud Mix

Well folks ... this is probably it for the "BLTMS" remixes for me. This was particular fun.

Latest remix effort: Old Man Byrd Baby's Heartbeat Mix

Mr. Chandler "Drive into the Wilderness" Mix

My second remix from "Burning Like the Midnight Sun." This was more or less a response to my good friend Jeffrey Kotthoff, who suggested most remixes were too "safe."

Burning Like the Midnight Sun "Forever Rising" Mix

The Choir has provided mix stems from their latest album, "Burning Like the Midnight Sun" so that those so inclined can take a turn at remixing the tracks. This is my first effort, basically just a more ambient take on the original.

RIP Michael Been

Michael Been, lead singer/songwriter for the semi-obscure post-punk band "The Call" died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of 60. He was to music what Flannery O'Connor was to literature. He was someone who described his musical and spiritual journey as the "slow wearing away of ignorance." He understood the realities of grace — both wonderful and terrible — better than most. I count myself very fortunate to have discovered his talent in my formative years. Tribute poems are seldom good, and I seldom have written them, but here's one — for what it's worth. RIP Michael Been.



God arranges to have certain people
Born in Oklahoma, where Union Pacific
Lines are straight as the skyline
Save for the earth’s curve,
And twisters noose downward from cliff-clouds
To lasso thin towns and two-lanes.

Your voice is still heavy as blacktop —
Grace and mercy washed against
The cinder block basement-wall of law.

In back country like this —
Jungled up in the scrub next to the tracks,
Sharpened against the edge of hot panhandle nights —
The ache for a glimpse of treeline or riverbank
Leaks
Into every voice you might carry to the world.

In ways like this
God arranges to grant to the earth
The meek,
Those who know well to whom we die,
To whom we’re to be reconciled.

They lead us through the desert,
Some urgently singing at each fork in the path;
The mocking governments, the mocking mainline,
The mocking fringe, the mocking world
Held fast — dumb — by the throat
While the poor in spirit snake by.

It’s a violent grace —
A dam-breaking,
House-swallowing,
Brother-drowning grace.

It presses even the preacher
Until the preacher cries out
“Hell’s been raised!”

And there in the ending of all moments
There is mercy in Hell.

Untitled ...

Blurring, stammering,

Miles pile close together against years —

Cold ash on calloused hand-skin

The remembered feeling of fingertips

Against palms:

Nickels rubbed dime-thin in hidden earth

And smeared across the decades

While you remain,

and wait.

In the late wind, you sleep too near the shoreline;

Too near the railyard.

It’s a crime,

They say.

Truth be told,

You dared the eye of each horizon’s devil:

You paid your dues;

You awoke to hail;

You gave your shoulder over to bent, broken tree trunks

And lost cemetery names —

A sea-crashed view;

A shadow

Left in last night’s fire-ring

And given over to the morning —

Which finds the night (along with you)

Mis-remembered, precious, alight.

There it is — the crux of all things —

Christ on his cross,

And you in the man-tall weeds, much later,

Waiting for the conduction of crew changes near the viaduct;

Waiting for straight avenues out from underneath

Storm warnings

Via hotshots heading west —

Bolt-out of prairie-school nights.

Still, there — adrift, awakened, remembered —

The lightning-soaked cloudfields

Have no part of being escaped, or left alone.

Treasures

This week’s list of treasures/artifacts nearly lost to the lawn mower: one small rubber lizard and one small rubber frog from the dollar store; one piece of orange sidewalk chalk; one non-functioning squirt gun; one hand trowel; one spark plug gap gauge (i.e., “space money”); one Matchbox Corvette (lucky save); one Hot Wheels “highly modified and stylized” school bus (Hot Wheels … would have happily mowed over it); multiple “favorite stones.” A pet peeve I share with my wife is a yard cluttered with the detritus of the day’s joyous chaos — the inevitable evidence left after two little explorers/spacemen/bad guys/Jedi/firemen/policemen have run roughshod over the property — so this was a somewhat unusual yield.

I sigh with frustration when I nearly mow over these treasures, not because I am afraid my Briggs & Stratton might be threatened by an encounter with any of them, but because I remember the strange combination of jealous attachment and fickle abandonment that accompanied similar treasures when I and my friends were young. In fact, I recently had the weird experience of not only putting my hands on some of those forgotten treasures, but also passing some of them along to Sam and Luke. This weekend we helped my folks clear out their attic in preparation for their impending move. I spent a sweaty, spidery, uncomfortable hour in the attic followed by a six-hour hike down Memory Lane. Here, preserved undisturbed for 30 years, were the possessions I treasured enough to carefully entomb in the attic when I was still a child. For my kids, it represented quite a haul: As I type this, I’m glancing over at a Ziplock bag containing Princess Leia, Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader, Chewbacca, Boba Fett, and one hapless unnamed stormtrooper — a length of string still firmly tied around his waist, his terrible yet well-deserved last moments spent dangling over the source of some no-doubt horrific demise frozen forever in time. There were hundreds of Topps Star Wars trading cards — harvested from untold numbers of hot summer-day walks to Kim’s Rexall to buy bubblegum packs. There was the big box full of Legos — the revelation of which elicited an actual gasp of surprised shock from my oldest son and some sort of “ecstatic collapse” upon his grandparents’ floor (promptly mimicked in slow motion by my younger son) — that still contained several fully realized space fighters carefully sculpted by yours truly when Ronald Reagan was our new president. There were notes written in the language my best friend James and I invented; pins and coins; birthday cards from my great grandma; diaries and first love letters; bullet casings and “No Hunting” signs from the farm in Michigan; that big bowie knife my grandpa bought me over the protests of my mother; a forged ring and length of chain unearthed at an abandoned farm; countless railroad spikes found along the tracks behind the house; a rusted horseshoe unearthed at a Boys Brigade sleepover behind our church in South Holland; and on and on.

And then of course there was the actual treasure box: A little wooden chest bought as a souvenir on a vacation to King’s Island, containing the absolute cream of the crop. When I was a child, the box and its contents were so important, I wrapped it in bicycle chain and secured it with a padlock. Here were all the objects that one little boy treasured above all else. Seeing them now was vaguely touching — my grown-up brain now able to connect dots and make connections that I was then unaware of. Here was a toy stopwatch, given to me by my father: When I was very young, I spent an extended period of time in the hospital with pneumonia and a terrible pancreatic infection. It was touch and go. The day I was finally released, while my mom was wading through paperwork, my dad hoisted my still weak body up into his arms, took me to the hospital gift shop and asked me if there was anything I would like. I was fascinated by watches and stopwatches — still am, actually — and I was fixated on a particular toy stopwatch behind the counter. “Are you sure?” my dad asked. “That’s not a real stopwatch, you know. It’s tin and plastic.” I didn’t realize it then, but I know now he was happily prepared to buy his surviving son an actual, honest-to-goodness stopwatch. But I wanted that toy stopwatch, and so I had it. When I lifted it out of my treasure box on Saturday — and you need to trust me when I say I’m not adding this for dramatic effect — I’ll be damned if the thing didn’t start ticking away loudly when I thumbed the start switch.

There was a jumble of keys, each one a story. One skeleton key was unearthed while digging in the backyard of our corner house in Riverdale. I was delighted when it happily engaged the lock of our heavy oak door. I was doubtful, by my great-grandmother encouraged me to give it a try. It was like magic. I still remember the way she smiled when the tumblers clicked. Several of the keys came from my Uncle Gil, who knew I loved keys, and would produce one or two of them upon every visit to our house. I was a shy boy, but Uncle Gil would make a point at the beginning of every visit to crouch down to look me in the eye, and carefully display and explain each key — what it was for; how it was used; how he came to be in possession of it; what he liked about it; why someone would want a key for its given purpose. I didn’t know a lot about Uncle Gil, but I knew he had fought in the Philippines in World War II, and that he never talked about it, and that I should never ask him about it. Uncle Gil never had any kids of his own, but he sure was a great uncle. In fact, all my uncles were great, and I’m thankful for my own kids’ uncles — every crazy one of them. Most of my keys came from uncles, most with a story. There were keys in the box from other sources: Some from old cars we sold; others from the old house; others found while playing in the yard or in the park. But all the keys from my uncles are together on one ring, a separate ring.

There was a chunk of fool’s gold, a vestige of one of the many vacations my family took with my best friend’s family. We were in Cuba, Missouri, and the walkways were literally paved with fool’s gold. James and I thought it was fantastic. Our dads patiently indulged us as we gathered literal buckets full of the stuff. Not only did we collect these buckets during our time there, but we actually carted them home. At the campground where we were staying, they would show Yogi Bear cartoons just after dusk. One night, while we were waiting for the cartoons to begin, my dad and I saw a fireball streak across the sky. My dad said that was a piece of a rock that had been flying around in space for thousands of years that was burning up in our atmosphere. I was awestruck. For years these buckets of fools’ gold remained in my parnets’ garage. Years ago, I had chosen the most brilliant specimen and sequestered it in my treasure box.
There was a pair of cufflinks and a tie bar my father gave me — no doubt around the time cufflinks and tie bars were going out of style; a piece of gunflint unearthed at the Tippecanoe Battlefield near Lafayette, Indiana; a 4H pin from my dad’s days on the farm; Indian head pennies rationed out by my Grandma Bink over the years; my first pocket knife; a ring with my birthstone in it; a resin-embalmed scorpion given to me by my aunt and uncle who moved to Arizona back in the 70s.

I watch my sons play together, and I instantly recognize the shorthand of their love and their interaction. There’s something about boys that leads them to talismans or totems … treasures … little altars built to their conquests and discoveries. I have a sister — who I love dearly, and who I happily played with on countless summer days. My childhood neighborhood was bereft of male companions, so I made do with my sister and her friends. But our play was in some ways always negotiated: We’ll play house, but only if I get to take off Ken’s head and pretend he’s the Headless Horseman; we’ll play Batman, but only if he’s happily married to Barbie and has a baby. But there’s just something about brothers and the mischief they make and the treasures they uncover … I wasn’t born with a brother, and so I had to find one. His name is James, and we have been of one mind for a long, long time. Our play never involved negotiation: We innately knew that the Lego vehicles we spent 30 minutes carefully crafting and engineering in silence were going to meet their fate crashing against the side of the oven from atop the stairs; we knew that, while camping, we were going to wake up at the crack of dawn with the unspoken mission to conjure the previous night’s fire from nothing but ashes and cooling embers, armed only with our breath and a few dry leaves. When I was crazy, wreckless and wandering with a stupid, broken heart, the Spirit moved and gave James the grace of his dead dad’s gun collection and the wisdom to drive me to Beecher to shoot shotguns at empty paint cans and pumpkins. That’s the way it works. As old as we get, it never leaves. It’s a weird, undefined thing … call it the Holy Spirit moving over the face of the deep. I see it when Luke is scared, and Sam drops every treasure he owns in that moment to the ground to rush to his brother’s side.