The Rain

Because sometimes I just feel like writing.

 

Chet’s casket is closed, confined inside the choky funeral parlor. Corwin takes my hand in his. We move together, two shadows in black dress. Somewhere, nightingales are chirping in trees dismissed with leaves, and Ezekiel “Chet” Cue is inspiring angels with John Keats.

You won’t regret this. You were born for this.

I can almost hear Chet speaking. The echo fills the spacious room. How could it be that this young boy, so close from birth, inspired a career?

Corwin looks over to me with heavy eyelids and a heartfelt stare. He is so beautiful, even in the darkest moment of his life. My arms collect goose bumps and Corwin begins to pull at his ear the way he always does when he is uncomfortable.  I think back to the first time I met Corwin, before the training, before the tennis, and before Ezekiel.

“Are you abandoning the project” questions Luke as I interrupt the conversation by emerging on the scene.

“No,” muffles Corwin.

My first glimpse of Corwin Brookside, a Texas native, is a towering carpenter in faded denim. His blue T-shirt is stained white around his left breast. I wonder if he lost a battle with bleach. Somehow, I can tell this is Corwin’s favorite shirt. It looks as over-worn and faded as his jeans.

Corwin has two very noticeable scars on his right forearm. The pair of short twig-like lines forms a dark upside down V.   Over the still stream, beyond the shaven gray tree trunks, the now hammerless Corwin stands with one hand on his hip. His cocked head points in the opposite direction of my doughy gaze. Luke’s outdoor radio plays a Bobby Darin song. Nothing else matters right now save for Corwin and the music.

I gather my words, praying they will form something that sticks with Corwin for a long time. I watch from a post on Luke’s patio. In my heart, I am hoping for a tolerable first impression. At the very least, an acknowledgment of the fact he is male and I am female would suffice. Corwin surprises me by speaking first, although not directly at me. His eyes survey mine and without blinking, he repeats himself to Luke.

“No” is quite possibly the most powerful word to a civilization of “yes” people. It has the capacity to accuse someone of a crime, the ability to determine life or death. Corwin’s unblinking stare and burning-with-passion brown eyes author the word, transforming it into a lustful poem before me. There is a drastic physical attraction stirring around inside my body.  I feel myself becoming faint and know this man is going to be the image in my head during those lonely nights in bed.

Ahhh, those eyes! It is the desire in his eyes that stays with me more than anything I can say or do to keep him from forgetting me. The startling tick of their burning fierceness catches me in sheer infatuation. Corwin’s eyes roam strangely to my nose, and then briefly to my lips. He approaches me with a deep stare into my face. Those eager, passion drop eyes resuscitate my deadened pupils.

“Corwin--it means friend of the heart,” Corwin announces, stretching his sawdust hand to shake mine.

“Jeanne--it means I think you’re cute,” I flirt, nearly unintentional.

“Don’t hold back or anything!” Luke exclaims with wide eyes and a grin the size of a galaxy.

The handsome Corwin steps closer. Brilliantly, he tugs at his belt. I hide my smile but know it’s pointless. For once, this is too good to not be true.

Corwin touches my arm when he talks to me. It is this subtle, flirtatious gesture that keeps my interest.  Or, perhaps it is the one peculiarity he does that doesn’t remind me of Dylan.

He picks up a pair of bolt-like hardware from the ground and hands them to me.

“What am I supposed to do with these?” I question.

“Those are Zerk grease fittings. Hang on to them for me, please?”

I haven’t the slightest idea what a grease fitting is used for, but I agree to hold them.

Seeing him reminded me of how I used to wake up with my head in the clouds.  I used to long for the unswerving feeling of love. 

Extraordinarily, this man, this Corwin Brookside appeared. I no longer yearned for love, but felt immersed with it. I wanted to convince Corwin that my heart couldn’t be wrong about us.

Corwin’s hand is stained in sweat now. I can feel it getting colder, more distant. He is hurting, and I wish so much he were handing me bolts of hardware in the Texas sun. I wish he weren’t here to witness the finale of a young life. I would endure and suffer through it on my own if I could. Corwin would never see to it, though. He is here in this murmurous haunt of fly-filled summer air. Corwin always withstands the rain. Here he stands. Bold. My refuge. I know he wants to lie down and cry out to the God we both cannot completely understand in this life, but worship nonetheless.

Somewhere, the sun is not hidden inside the clouds. That little boy is smiling somewhere.

Come to the Net

“I know who goes before me; I know who stands behind”

I call it the baseliner’s dilemma: when an opponent hits an approach shot, you must decide whether to follow the return into net or recede to the baseline. The safe option seems to be to withdraw from net after hitting the approach shot. If you remain at net, you leave a vulnerable, open backcourt. Protecting the baseline and allies from a distance seems more advantageous. But, here’s the dilemma--The more courageous and rewarding choice is usually to remain at the net. Here at net, you theoretically can attack any ball that finds its way over it. It is a risk that pits your diligence and skills against an opponent’s strategic grit.

Today is Easter Sunday, and so fittingly I will tie this ‘dilemma’ into one that Christ’s followers surely tackled. Jesus diligently called his disciplines to come to the net—to leave behind their families, jobs and belongings and follow him. These fishermen were called to the net, not knowing whether or not leaving an empty boat (backcourt) was the right decision. They had faith to trust, though they all probably doubted Jesus at some point. Jesus summoned them to His net, to walk away from the net offered by the world.

I often wonder what I would have done if I were in a similar dilemma. I am where I want to be in my career right now. I love my family, my home, car and belongings. I like to think I would have the courage and faith to follow Jesus. I hope that I would sacrifice anything to follow Him, but I know I am weak in the flesh. This world, like the tennis backcourt, offers us glory, protection and freedom. Would any among us give those up to follow the Son who sets us free? Would we go to, and stay at the net?  Jesus and his disciplines knew pain, hurt and persecution. They knew what lied ahead even as they chose to follow their Messiah.

Jesus promises his followers he will provide them the courage they need to be catching people. He promises not to allow anything over that net we can’t handle. In tennis, the net is your strength, and so it is with Christ. Some people, some passing shots, may get away and spill out into the backcourt. Others might crash into the net, too weak to face you. Still others may go beyond the baseline and be too far gone to draw back. A missed opportunity--one that may come up again deeper into the match. Any situation calls for us to come to the net. We, as Christ’s followers, are called to be catching-people, to conquer our fears through courage, to stand up and protect our court. It is a worth-while dilemma, always.

“My strength is in Your name; You crush the enemy underneath my feet”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qOkImV2cJDg

Lawnmowers in Heaven

Dear Grandma Smith,

It was the summer of 1989 when you taught me the value of generosity. You were wearing your white canvas Keds and that lightweight green golf outfit. I was wearing my favorite pair of farmer jeans (or overalls as most people called them) when we walked together into the local Big Lots. The toy section of the store was calling me. There on the wall was a brand new Cabbage Patch outfit for my baby doll. It was a baseball uniform, and I desperately wanted it. I was afraid to ask for it, but you somehow read my mind.

“You and your sister can pick out something you want. Do you want that baseball uniform for your doll, Lindi?”

You made it sound so easy. All I had to do was pick out a toy and it was mine. Grandmothers were great, I thought. Not only did she have the coolest house ever, but she also had a heart of gold. Still, I felt guilty about you buying me a gift. I didn’t NEED this baby doll outfit. But you reassured me.

“I want to buy this for you,” you stated sharply. That serious and commonplace demeanor was something I came to appreciate about you. Those platitudes were consistently reassuring to a girl who worried too much about an ever-changing world.

It was then I realized the concept of gift-giving and generosity….to give without expecting anything in return…to give simply because you loved.

This sort of unconditional love cannot be duplicated or replaced. You, Grandma Smith, can never be replaced.

I always knew you were mortal, even though you were always the freshest cookie in the jar. You would make a quip at me every time I bounced a ball against your basement wall or each time I tried to jump on the bed in your attic. I hope I didn’t test your patience too much. There are some many wonderful memories I have of you, Grandma: your green house, your homemade waffles, playing ‘store’ in your basement, learning how to golf and garden, swinging on your wooden bench, walking to the park with you, learning how to hang clothes on the clothesline and make peanut butter balls. It was in playing Canasta and RACKO that I realized what a sore loser we BOTH were. It was during the winters in West Virginia when I discovered that I was just as stubborn as you were (Why couldn’t I go outside without a jacket? Why did you insist on shoveling your own driveway when people were willing to help?) It was during the nights in my mother’s old bedroom where I learned to laugh. You would tuck me into bed, with more blankets than any child would ever need, and ask if I needed anything before I went to sleep. I would laugh, thinking how crazy old Grandma always wanted to turn the heat on in a bedroom that had to be the warmest one in the world. Now I realize and understand those endearing moments were about so much more than blankets and good night’s sleep. They were about a loving, comforting Grandmother. A Grandmother, who without question, provided for her grandchildren. A Grandmother who loved golf, playing the lottery and mowing her lawn...but one who would have done anything for her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Our lives are too often consumed by days we take for granted. I wish you could have been there to see me play tennis in college, to witness my graduation from high school. I would have liked to have had you visit me in Texas and see me get married one day. I wish I could have said goodbye to you, Grandma. I would have liked to have been there to hold you one more time, to feel your embrace one last moment. I admired you and loved you. I always will. I have taken from you more than your toys and gifts. I have taken your loyalty, sensitivity and selflessness. I have taken your passion for life out on the rolling mountaintops.

It was time for you to leave us. God brought you home. You will be missed here among the mortals, Grandma. We take comfort in knowing you are now mowing the lawns of heaven…and who better than to have that responsibility than you?

Renewed Strength

“Go on now, go, walk out the door”

This week has been difficult. I’ve been hurt, bludgeoned, stabbed in the chest. I have felt the loneliness and emptiness of trusting too much too soon. I have, regretfully, allowed another person to take up space in my heart. My head has been dealt a serious blow but the message has suddenly become crystal clear. Truth, so it seems, has been a mixture of shattered promises and convincing lies. And so, I am left wondering how I missed something so obvious, someone so arrogantly self-serving. The series of compliments, whisperings of sweet-nothings, showering of gifts…it turns out some people will say and do just about anything to get something they want.

I’m stuck picking up the pieces (again) of my glass heart. The pieces will come together again. Each time, it seems I get a little stronger. I get a little closer to gluing the fragments back together into one piece. I pray for renewed strength. I pray for courage, and the ability to forgive and forget. I believe something remarkable will happen to me. I will somehow be given a new sense of strength. I know this because my hope is never going to walk out the door. There is one greater than I, more superior to the coward who broke my heart. He is always looking out for me. He is with me, and for that I can be grateful for everything that has happened—good and bad.

“I’m not that chained up little person still in love with you”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmwwQBWRIAs

The Worst Is Over

“I remember running through the wet grass, falling a step behind”

If you had a chance to do it over, would you change anything at all? That is the question circling the air at various times in our lives. The light at the end of the tunnel hangs in view. We know it does. It can’t get any worse. We hope the light comes sooner rather than later.

I’ve been cooked, down and out, practically wiped off the tennis court by opponents who could beat me even if they played with a wooden racquet. It’s all part of the game. You are, eventually, going to lose. In fact, you will probably begin by losing. There are seldom few people who come out swinging in their first tennis match. The sooner you accept defeat, the better your chances of improving as a player. Not only is it difficult to experience defeat first-hand, but it’s just as excruciating to watch it if you’ve been through that set of emotions yourself. I’ve seen more than a handful of severe beat-downs occur between the lines. When it’s happening to someone else, it’s easy to point out mistakes. Soon, however, you begin to feel the pain of the player being pounded into the ground. The player, who cannot do anything right save for lose points, becomes someone you pity. Isn’t it like that elsewhere in life? How many of us don’t give a hoot about other people’s problems until we have those same problems jolt us into reality?

You have to learn to accept hardship. I don’t care who you are, you’re going to have a wrench thrown into the toolbox of your life at some point. What will you do? How do you react to a brandishing racquet across the court? How do you respond to life’s strains and exertions? Do you spit in the face of the worst of it, sink into the net or continue to toss the ball high in the air until the match is over…until the light appears again? We all have a choice when the rough patches, the rough opponents, challenge our comfort zone. Think about all the unfair, difficult times you’ve faced in your lives. When the worst was over, what did you think? Would you have changed the circumstances or would you have changed your reaction?

I think sometimes we have to begin by losing. We need to go through something difficult to wisely earn the easy. It makes sense in tennis. Unless your name is Pete Sampras, you probably weren’t born with a gifted serve and perfect forehand. And even Pete played through hardship.  It’s the same way through life’s rocky road. This should not be a revelation. Everyone deals with problems of varying sorts. But sometimes it helps us to remember that.  On a related note, my college tennis coach once recommended a book called “The Dip” by Seth Godin.  He explained the book’s lesson as: no matter how good our lives are, no matter how happy we get or how successful we are in our jobs, we will go through ‘dips’ in our lives. Successful people are able to decide quickly what to do, while others wallow in in their dip until it’s too late. I think ole Coach’s words have stayed with me all these years. I never read the book, but somehow I didn’t have to read it to know what he was saying.

“They say the worst is over”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gl6gaF_6Wcs

Silence

As are many around the world, I am still trying to wrap my head around the senseless tragedy in Connecticut. I am thinking of the fallen, the grieving and the surviving children everywhere who attend school every day. I think it’s important to find comfort in the word of God. To the grieving, take comfort in the fact that God is taking those children in his arms and raising them up as we speak. They will never have to know hurt or pain again. To the children around the world I say be not afraid, for the kingdom of God is still among you. For every bad guy, there are thousands and thousands of loving hearts who would have gladly given their lives for each of you


Silence

(In memory of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting victims)

Their silent hearts no longer race,

The pitch of death brought on this place.

Where once their dreams did sit akin,

Their hands are now joined by sin.

Lo, these violent hate-punctured souls,

Giving new meaning to evils and woes.

Oh, for the children who witness and weep,

Pray them joyful, happy to sleep.

He will take them by His might,

Illuminate their gloom with light.

He will christen them His own,

Beautiful angels the world be known.

Time to the Lost

“Every corner of creation lives to testify”

Do you ever want to change something so badly? It must be the holiday season or perhaps it is the commercial about hungry children I just saw on television (this is what I get for having Cable after seven years without it). Something is stirring inside me and I don’t know exactly how to put it into words. I’m upset, but what is bothering me most is beyond being upset. It’s a deep and tremendous burning being aroused.

It’s upsetting to me that I cannot reach out to people, that my resources are limited in helping them. There are people struggling to survive around the world. There is upheaval, injustice and unrest. There are swarms of children who will not survive through Christmas, let alone next Christmas. And what am I doing about it? What can I do about it? Somehow, I don’t think offering to donate $28 a month to sponsor a child is going to change the way I feel. It’s not going to change anything about this world in which we live. And that is what frustrates the most. Our world cares more about which football player will score the most points this Sunday than they do about which country will accumulate the most deaths due to disease. I am first to admit I get lost in the entertainment of our world, putting second the people who truly deserve my attention.

I was taught to always be thankful for what I have. I was brought up to be not greedy, but generous. I was raised in a home where we were provided for and never without. My daily worries never consisted of where I would find drinking water or how I would make it in this world as an uneducated, underfed child. My soul aches for those in need. I cannot understand their pain and yet I feel so much for these people. It’s saddening to me.  It brings tears to my eyes, and there are even moments of guilt. Life for me is not without pain, but when compared to the cares of others, my pain passes out of sight. Perhaps what I want to change the most about myself is this very facet. To not only think about the hurting and hungry, but to nurture and feed them. To not just feel for them, but to be with them. To give my time to the lost, that is the most precious gift I can think of providing this Christmas.

“All the hope in every heart will speak what love has done”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gb_AqCTp6rQ