Meddle

 

Classroom doors flew open.

Students crowded empty halls.

Commotion suddenly turned chaos.

Screams reverberated along walls.

 

Monogrammed bags crunched.

Many carried brown paper sacks.

People hurried to disappear.

They dispersed into various packs.

 

Others crammed into automobiles.

Engines revved, windows rolled down.

Carloads of teenagers reeked havoc.

Some ate hamburgers clear across town.

 

I wish I could accurately describe ~

I sat to dine with a high school teacher.

I absorbed every word spoken.

She rang clear like a well-refined preacher.

 

“Salvation must be genuine.

Words can be reckless and fake.

Your witness as a Christian will radiate.

It is the transformation that you make.

 

It isn’t a set of rigid legalism.

It does not involve religious deeds.

The lifestyle is a faith that clings.

Evidence is a soul that heeds.”

 

God uses everyday interaction.

Divine moments never cease to exist.

Her foremost concern sparkled:

Reflect contagious joy as you persist.

 

Medals or metal trophies need no mention.

She talked impromptu to candidly share.

The Spirit responds in love, to meddle.

Live out conversation with undeniable care.

 

~ Chris Simning

 

Crack a Fortune

Kennewick, WA / July 9-21, ‘09

The swish of sound fluctuated as ears popped with a drop in altitude.  Random conversations among passengers translated to muffled words, slur contributing to white noise.  An occasional “ding” chimed.  I heard the mechanical grinding from landing gear being lowered.

Green farmlands filled in the oval window.  The shades of color were inclusive; the symmetrical squares like patches in a quilt; rolled bales of hay; straight plowed rows, meticulous, impressive.  Silos stood as watchtowers with rugged fences outlining the countryside.

Traffic and pedestrians rapidly emerged in the foreground.  Wheels soon hit the runway replacing agriculture with black pavement, boulevards and signal lights.  I shifted gears jolting from harmonic silence back into the boisterous genre of city life.  This was my third visit to Washington, my second to the central portion of the state.

My next two camps took place in the Cascade Mountains.  They were unlike any others that I have ever experienced.  A close friend, Justin, had just moved to Washington with his family in March to become the new junior high and high school youth pastor.  His creativity, combined with his license as a life coach, made these camps revolutionary.

The process began a year and a half ago when the walls in my living room were covered with butcher paper.  There were phrases, sentences, and lone words neatly divided into rows, columns.  To an outsider, the writing draped upon these walls would appear to be incomplete, and nothing but incoherent ink smudges that required deciphering.

Justin put his skills and expertise to use.   The life coaching he did for me was intensive, a rigorous sixteen hours divided over the course of two days.  I was exhausted from this counseling regimen.  Anger was involved.  There were tears.  Weaknesses were displayed.  Strengths were given.  Justin interpreted the writing on the walls.  He cracked a fortune!

So, I was thrilled to be invited to speak, this first string of summer camps Justin had with new students.  His heart to unpack the uniqueness into the people God created them to be was incredible to witness.  These camps focused upon the writing on the wall, life coaching.  After each chapel, students dismissed for an extended time to journal their life segments.

Justin referenced, “suddenly the fingers of a human hand appeared and wrote on the plaster of the wall” (Daniel 5:5).  “You praised the gods of silver and gold, of bronze, iron, wood and stone, which cannot see or hear or understand.  But you did not honor the God who holds in his hand your life and all your ways” (Daniel 5:23). 

These students needed purpose, not idols.  They needed to honor God: see themes, and categories consistent with their lives to discover talents. These summer camps felt more like workshops.  It was imperative for Justin’s students to comprehend their complexity, transforming such beauty into the simplistic vice of being used far beyond themselves.

God used these two camps – one junior high, the other high school – strategically, and powerfully due to my friend’s obedience to risk the ease of tradition his first year.  Each camp had 25-30 people including staff.  Read the writing on the wall.  Move to live.  It’s a story for humanity.  And, it will crack a fortune.

16 Turns

Hume, CA / June 7-20, ‘09

18 years ago, I counted them.  I’m not sure why.  Boredom?  Fatigue?  But from a certain juncture in the road, I noticed the quick, sharp curves, as well as the turns that never seemed to end.  I was working at Hume Lake Christian Camps.  And now, 18 years later, I still find myself…counting!  16 turns.

We drove that slalom of road leading into camp.  The familiar scents of Manzanita plants and fresh pine filled my lungs with nature’s fumes.  And I did not know what to call it that night; a prayer, a thought, or perhaps a brief brush at a dream.  I will never forget unpacking, and while hanging my clothes in the closet, wondering how amazing it would be to not only stay that week, but be asked to speak another.

Speaking schedules at Hume were filled months in advance.  The likelihood?  Chances were slim.  I dropped it, went on my way, and sensed a peace.  Call me selfish!  I needed two weeks at a place I love.  Besides, I was desperate.  I needed the money, and only mentioned that to a few people.  I did not know how I was going to pay my upcoming bills.  2009 marked 12 summers speaking at camps, and 9 years as a full-time speaker.

At church the next morning, the program director approached me to extend an invitation.  “What are you doing next week?  Are you speaking somewhere else, another camp?”  The peace I clutched showed itself strong.  “If not, we would love to have you speak to our high school camp, Ponderosa.”  I told him that I wanted to pray about it.  An ignorant Christian at its finest!  Doubting Thomas?  Did the Holy Spirit just laugh?  Go!!!

“Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life” (Luke 10:25)?  The moment I started walking across the Meadow Ranch lawn, I stepped into another world of summer.  How fitting that my first week of camps began here!  Hume Lake was the place where I regained my independence; held my first job; relearned to ride a bike after being confined to a wheelchair; and spoke about my redemptive life.

The last couple of years I have wondered.  Should I keep traveling?  There have been months where I have just made it financially.  Should I hang my hat and pursue other means?  Should I settle down in a local church and teach?  Is my story becoming too redundant for others to hear?  It all becomes frustrating, disheartening.  Round and round, I go.  And I keep being reminded – this is God’s story, not yours.

It was that second week.  A friend approached me carrying a sealed envelope.  As I sat on the chapel stage, he said, “This is for you!  I am not sure who it is from.  They do not want to be found out.”  I tucked it away and opened it later in my room to find 10, crisp $100 bills.  No card.  No names.  Sitting in the place where I began speaking years ago, I received a double portion to remind – this is God’s story, not yours.  16 turns.

Some many times, I have been that expert in the law.  Life becomes figured out.  Eternal life, but was I exercising faith?  Students came to Hume this summer being experts in the law.  Christianity has become a culture, and not their relationship.  Many only saw the Parable of the Good Samaritan from a distance, spewing verbatim the right answers.  Jesus desires us to go beyond the know – “Do this and you will live” (Luke 10:28).

I did not become a Christian at Hume, but it has been a place God has used to change my life.  It made me realize one of my purposes in this world: speaking.  I owe that to God; and then to my family, youth pastor, and friends who did not give up on me those times I wanted to quit.

Just once.  I want to announce at the fork in the road “16 turns” and watch the subsequent smirks, curious eyes, ever so oblivious to the sentiment.  I want whomever I am with to roll their eyes, let out a respectful, tolerable sigh as if to say, “Get a life, Simning!”  Just once.  I’ll keep looking straight ahead and just start counting.  And underneath my breath, I’ll respond in kind, “if only you knew…”

City on a Hill

Crestline, CA / August 9-14, ‘09

I was wedged, stuck in the stampede.  A sea of faces, a maze of bodies, I edged my way through the hyperactivity.  As I ended the prayer, I knew that speaking at six summer camps had concluded.  My final words were spoken.  Emotionally stricken and physically exhausted, I wanted to be alone.  I was done. 

I ducked in and out of moving arms, hop scotching in and around all the jumping and dancing.  The students had rushed the stage when the band started to play their last worship set.  Caught in the middle of their jubilation, I was given high-fives and embraces along the way.  I attempted with any remaining ounce of energy to listen to raised voices speaking to me.  Words got lost competing with the loud speakers. 

I felt like I finished the last final exam of a college semester.  Six weeks gone.  A sigh of relief swept over me.  Nervousness evaporated into thin air as songs to God lifted in praise.  Mental walls that I constructed to help cement scriptures, lodge stories, and to allow analogies to mortar everything together let loose.  Driving away in my Durango would never feel so good once tomorrow dawned. 

For six camps, I have been involved within a city on a hill.  A rush of sounds from laughter; playing games; conversations; and worshipping; camp is a makeshift community.  The world as we know it ceases to exist.  Computerized societies and cell phone leashes no longer distract.  A focus reemerges. 

“…A city on a hill cannot be hidden” (Matthew 5:14).  One can never dispute the hand of God moving.  His truth can never be shaken.  His word never returns void.  No, it transforms us, making us salt, helping us to shed light.  “You are the salt of the earth…  You are the light of the world” (Matthew 5:13, 14). 

I ended my last camp at Thousand Pines.  As for their summer staff, this was their last week of program.  The students represented ages ranging from sixth grade to seniors in high school.  They had never been to this camp nor had the majority ever heard my story – except for a handful, at most 10.  The staff and I shared something in common…to make the most of it.  What a joy this staff, these students, and their leaders were! 

As I broke through the mob of students and rounded the last of the chairs, I walked outside wanting to hide.  I was simply tired.  Spent, I realized the obvious…a city on a hill cannot be hidden.  Their voices rang.  The instruments played.  All within the chapel celebrated.  I welcomed a bit of solitude, sat down, and enjoyed the cool mountain air.  I could feel autumn.  Help us to be that city! 

“I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death.  For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:20,21)

Corridor Alley

I giggle the moment I see it.  Disappearing behind the concrete metropolis, my car descends down a paved slope leading to corridors.  The pale blue horizon meets with the dark blue of the Pacific in the distance.  These ocean shores become treadmills for scenery, a pedestrian hiatus for tranquility.  A broken hourglass shatters the confines of time.

I spend countless hours here…alone.  The smell; the sounds; the feel; the locale allows me to revisit deep impressions upon my soul.  I have walked miles upon this Pacific seaboard throughout the years leaving indentations.  I stroll through my corridors.  The chapters of my individual journey unfold, some trailing behind me, while others are still a work in progress.  Those waves rush in.  And that thunderous noise soundproofs any intruding dialogue from people passing by, setting the stage for my commune with God.  A breeze wraps itself around me.  Seagulls swirl overheard.  A soul is protected, calming a heart that might suggest otherwise.

“I wander through fiction to look for the truth buried beneath all the lies”, begins a song played by the band the Goo Goo Dolls, written and voiced by its singer, Johnny Rzeznik.  I always applaud lyrists who coin a phrase that cannot easily be shaken from my mind.  This one is certainly no different.  I often reflect upon this particular lyric from the song entitled, Before It’s Too Late, first recalling it without even trying.  It describes the depths of me.  Perhaps, it encompasses everyone on some small scale or another.  It is a well thought out, methodical lyric, that will always tickle my intrigue.  It reemerges like a revolving door…and then vanishes only later to reappear.  I wander the seashore time and time again searching, longing, and wondering if there may be something I’m missing.  I wait in anticipation for something more that could happen: a blessing; a miracle, a reprieve, freedom realized.  Do I believe?

What is God up to?  Jesus came to save my soul from sin, dying a gruesome death upon a cross.  Words come up empty every time I attempt to describe the crucifixion.  I have eternal life through this wonderful gift that was never meant for me to repay.  The forgiveness of sins and a connection with an Almighty God destroys that dividing barrier of separation.  It happened all because of love.  It is all due because of His holiness.  God emulated grace in bodily form.  It came in and through His son, Jesus Christ.  Indeed, I know these truths.  They have set me free.

The stirring doesn’t cease.  I think I’m missing something.  For example, what did Jesus truly imply when he told the woman at the well, “but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst” (John 4:14)?  Or when Jesus declares, “then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32)?  Is this why in Ephesians 6 the belt of truth is specified first in the articles making up the armor of God?  Is this knowing of such truth absolutely essential in order for me to be free, to live?  But do I fully know such freedom?  Am I living it out completely?  Am I wandering through a world allowing its societal messages to convince me of a truth when really it is just burying me further into its lies?

I realize that this song by the Goo Goo Dolls is in reference to a love relationship, but isn’t that also my relationship with my Maker.  He loves me.  So, with this inquiry into truth, what does it mean to never thirst?  Or more specifically, Jesus says, “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full” (John 10:10).  How is that lived out?  After all, the wisest man that ever lived penned “utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless” (Ecclesiastes 1:2).  Everything is just a chasing after the wind.  So in my current world, like that of King Solomon, there must be more in how I am to be used!  There must be more in how I relate to God!  Is there more to this life?  Is there more to my relationship with Jesus Christ?  What does full, abundant life truly mean?

I will keep walking this connecting perimeter with my Lord.  The ocean, for whatever reason, has become that line…I wait, I search, I yearn.  “As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God” (Psalm 42:1).  The beach has become my hallowed ground, my fragrance, extending limbs reaching.  Those crashing waves pounding the seaboard make the Pacific the noisiest of places, and yet one of the quietest of pathways I will ever know.  So, I will walk.  The ocean sands have become corridors of exploration.  My pressures of life take on a revised, refreshed meaning.  The experience is always a resemblance to freedom, mirroring an image of peace.

I will never know the answers.  I am meant for the sea.  It is my place of true worship.  If people know me, they understand this.  Nature’s seascape has its way with me.  I am home.  I reside in the depths of solitude.  It leads me to my corridors.  It is a stroll of meditation.  It is a jaunt filled with conversation with my Lord.  It is a treadmill that gives life.  The act of being caught up in doing Christian things retreats with the tide, and the heart of simply being a Christian fills any fictitious space.  I wander searching for truth down my corridors that represent my life chapters, my individual journey.

I don’t want my life to be buried in lies shadowed behind a world that subjects itself to protocol, routine, all the while apostatizing through the guise of a silver lining.  Am I a born again Christian who lives life by the apostle’s creed?  I know truth, Jesus Christ, God’s risen Son.  My life is transformed because of it.  I am in a career that proclaims it upon mountaintops.  It has certainly set my free.  This I know.  But do I truly know what it means to never thirst?  Do I understand this possession of abundant life to the fullest?  Or, and quite unbeknownst to me, am I just wandering through a fictitious worldly paradigm that has buried me in lies?

My corridors catapult me into yet another chapter!  “Blessed is the man who listens to me, watching daily at my doors, waiting at my doorway” (Proverbs 8:34).  Truth is speaking!

Just Pause…

It reminded me of being in a gigantic aquarium.  You gawk through the glass at the other side.  And whatever creature you are staring at, they show no acknowledgement to your undivided attention in return.  They just float by, unaware to your perusing.  I was sitting in the airport in Seattle looking through a huge sheet of glass.  I became fixated to the world on the other side on mine.

 

The busyness of air traffic caught my eye immediately.  The airport personnel drove luggage carts and concession trucks.  Lights flickered on the aircraft.  Planes rolled down taxiways to either make an exit into the clouds, or to pull up to a designated gate allowing masses of strangers to disembark.  These passengers would soon enter the world where I was sitting.  They were faces of unfamiliarity.  There were those who appeared tired, some who smiled, and others who were just indifferent as they entered the terminal.  I was curious about where they were heading.  Where did they come from?  What did they consider to be their biggest blessings in life?  What were their curses?  What strengths about themselves would they claim?  What struggles did they need to own?  They, too, floated by with their baggage trailing behind them, or totting cargo slung across their backs.

 

And, I paused…  A few weeks ago, I had the tremendous privilege of visiting the Pacific Northwest, and that on two separate occasions commuting back and forth from home.  I wish I could be an artist painting his masterpiece upon an easel because of the scenery I surveyed.  On those trips, I saw vivid terrain: lush greenery upon rolling hills; pastel colors of wildflowers poking through the earth’s skin; white blossoms hanging on trees ready to explode into new life.  There was the rushing Columbia River that accompanied us, always on our left.  Or, those cascading waterfalls that surprised us at every curve, pouring down crevices embedded within slabs of stone.

 

The past couple of months I have been writing blogs pertaining to segments of my life story.  I’ve entitled it the Segue Series because life is a string of transitions that weave in and out of our existences.  Needless to say, writing these tidbits has been an extraordinary process.  I have not only described them in ink.  I have relived them in heart and in soul.  And frequently, I have had mental collisions with writer’s block along the way.  Either, this is due to my striving to make things absolutely perfect, or it is the emotional content of regurgitating a life lived that becomes overwhelming because you discover cobwebs that linger in places you didn’t notice.  Perhaps, it is a combination of the two.

 

I have been encouraged through listening and dialoguing with friends to simply…write.  So, this is my first post where I am not worried about getting it right – grammatically, or in use of vocabulary (ok, maybe a little).  I am quite positive there are many mistakes in this entry, and even in my previous entries.  No doubt.  Yet, I wonder what would happen if I allowed my mind to drift to explore ideas and concepts in an uninhibited fashion.  What would occur if I just write and put the brush to the easel?  Would my writings be even more polished, colorful, and clear without my obsession to make it rhythmic, or to flow in that precise manner.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the continuance of my Segue Series would be more impactful, poignant without any unnecessary effort I attribute to it.  After all, every entry I have posted thus far has been at least a nine hour process. 

 

Just pause…  There are things that float by me everyday.  My focus is elsewhere when all along the beauty of things unseen is staring back at me.  Worlds always collide.  And, I can easily miss their intermingling.  How about you?

Perforated Lines

I tasted the metallic prongs on the microphone.  My teeth grinded against the steel shoved to my mouth.  My sighs were amplified, obnoxiously exaggerating my heavy breathing through the crackling static that came over the loud speakers.  The hollow, wind-blown thuds interspersed with my parched, smacking lips, filled empty space.

 

The moisture varnished my face.  The track lighting above burned my flesh like a magnifying glass exposed in the sun.  Beads of perspiration clung to the tips of my bangs.  Nobody moved.  Stuck on the edges of seats, my peers morphed into wax figures and porcelain dolls with fixed expressions already chiseled into place.  Their eyeballs remained locked, periscopes targeting upon a subject only to fire back comatose glances that detonated on impact.

 

Shifting my weight upon a defective four-legged stool, I rocked in front of a silent crowd.  It was the first time I had ever been asked to share since my diagnosis.  I tried controlling my feelings on a thermostat dial; dominating the environment either gave me the power to heat things up, or the ability to stuff true emotions by cooling the elements down.  I had nothing to say, yet everything I wanted to scream.  I had not one ounce of optimism to give.  And I loathed the notion of others seeking me out simply because, according to them, I possessed some unique quality of God’s hand on my life.  They sought perspective automatically assigning me to an expertise status in the field of tragic circumstances that happens to good people. 

 

The folding chairs sat atop well-worn, matted carpeting.  The plastic paneling on the walls bulged.  Crumbled pieces of sheetrock periodically fell like stuck commodities hanging in vending machines.  The floors creaked.  Rusted pipes moaned.  Splintered wood frames opened gapping holes to the outdoors.  Thin-like papered panes of glass easily fractured, perforations tearing among a milieu of shattered lines.

 

The High Life house, as it was called, was the high school building at our church.  A decrepit, condemned structure, several students called this home when all else seemed lost.  Ricky matured in his faith here.  Bobby has been a missionary for years.  Many who are currently in vocational ministries first emerged through those rustic doors, and have since spanned the globe igniting others to faith, helping cultivate growth along the way.  I never fathomed factoring into those ranks.  My life was heading to nowhere, a dead-end street where graffiti, abandoned debris, and tumbleweed found company.

 

“Surprise testimonies” originated from 1 Peter 3:15.  The high school staff in our youth group encouraged us to always be prepared to explain the reason for the hope that we have in Christ.  Called upon this one particular day, supposedly at random, I wasn’t ready.  No, I instantly became an exhibit in a museum as jaws dropped.  Attitudes were not ones of mockery, but instead ones of curiosity that were filled with wonder, awe.  This was no longer the Chris they had known.  Elated they did not wake up with this disease, they did not know how to compute such a mystery.  My peers had difficulty adjusting to how this muscle and nerve disease made me look, made me sound.

 

The only thing my peers could do was just sit.  They strived to discover my life as quite possibly it imposed distaste in what that meant for their life.  Sitting in front of them, given this opportunity, what would be my words?  Did I dare express my anger in front of them at who this God was?  Why had He done this to me?  Or, would I continue to look into those blank faces allowing my tears to plummet, letting the carpet absorb my bleating heart sentiments now turned to mush?  Either way, I was raw.  I was real.  Though, I hated being both.

 

No words came.  I could not take the silence, the humiliation any longer.  I felt like a puppet being manipulated by the marionette.  My torsional dystonia was moving me in ways that I could not stop, could not change.  I bolted from underneath the lights, making my escape like a frantic victim in an evacuation process.  I left everything behind wanting to never return, literally running for my life in urgency.  It was catastrophic.  I failed miserably as if the already throbbing shame was not enough of a wound.

 

Those days became irreplaceable.  They made their mark.  In spite of the embarrassment in facing my peers, this ill-favored “surprise testimony” started the ever slow toilsome process of me standing in confidence.  Most of my life, I’ve been encouraged to tell my story through a voice of familiarity.  I am humbled that God has enabled me to resonate with others on a trajectory that is commonplace.  It happens through obscure encounters that we reduce and summarize into what is called life.  These are intersections among humanity’s path that connect all of us be it the small alleys or the many lane freeways in similarity through our experience.

 

I remember being that whimsical boy in that recognizable place; although deficient, filled with cracks, dilapidated.  The street lights reflected off of wet pavement.  The trees hovered over the perimeter.  The sidewalk had uprooted sections.  Weeds sprouted.  Leaves flurried.  The white chipped paint on the outside of the sanctuary skinned itself in layers.  Men grew tired, laboring in making me a wheelchair ramp here.  I became acquainted with the Bible through the kid’s program called AWANA. I confirmed my faith in Jesus Christ in a small room backstage as a high school student.  A steeple hidden among the branches displayed a cross.  Our humble church stood on the corner of Broadway.  And, the High Life building that housed the high school ministry was located just around the bend.

 

It was a community that accepted, nurtured, and loved.  I see why people called it home!

Cinder Blocks

I sat confined in a maroon motorized wheelchair.  It had been five years since the diagnosis.  I had deteriorated quickly.  I looked white as a ghost.  Torsional dystonia reduced me to a mere shell of a frame.  My arms had to go out to be raised.  Hands had to go up to be dressed.  Limbs hung limp at my sides to be bathed.  People lugged me around like a rag doll.  I swallowed a lump in my throat as I had to ask one of the most difficult questions confronting me.  Was I going to die?

 

The black birds congregated on telephone wire.  The cornstalks rustled, rolling out waves to the wind.  A rush of noise oscillated like a fan throughout the fields.  A voice called, distant yet ever so near.  With a raised brow, the farmer stopped.  He hungered after truth.  “If you build it, he will come…”  In the movie, Field of Dreams, a whisper from nowhere emerged from an abandoned cornfield.  It offered the process of healing in exchange for a price to be paid.  Would the farmer adhere, take heed to its beckoning?  Like a child sneaking into a cookie jar, would he cease the plow to express a craving with wide-eyes; reach in to find meaning; dig deeper to experience delicious taste?  The movie spoke meaning to my soul.

 

Likewise, there was another story involving wall-to-wall people.  They waited.  Elbows connected.  Hands brushed against foreign fingers.  Body odors intermingled in a transparent cloud of stench.  Claustrophobic urges taunted the crowd.  Nobody moved.  An invalid lying on his mat possessed a passion for hope just inches away.  His gaze glimpsed the eyes of Jesus.  “Do you want to get well?”  The miracle of the invalid at the pool of Bethesda impacted my entire life.

 

In the Gospel of John, chapter 5, Jesus Christ extended a healing touch that required faith.  Would the invalid respond with haste?  And why, out of all people was only one particular man signaled out, not the masses?  The pool of Bethesda had a mighty, supernatural reputation.  Those blind, the lame, and those paralyzed strategically had themselves positioned upon the banks of the water.  They clutched to the only truth they knew; the first one in after an angel of the Lord stirred it would be restored.  They sat mesmerized, expectant.  They were people who anticipated opportunity.

 

The pool of Bethesda was unlike any other miracle Jesus Christ performed.  There were many more people present in need of divine intervention, a healing touch – not just the one man.  Jesus approached him.  He surveyed the surroundings.  He observed this man lying on his mat.  Jesus learned that he had been an invalid for thirty-eight-years.  Not only did he long for physical transformation, his disability screamed the severity of his plight without uttering a word.  This invalid was desperate for help, dire attention.  His focus wasn’t Jesus.  No, his faith was in Bethesda – but the people kept cutting him off, getting in front of him.

 

I wondered if this invalid’s mentality hid behind cinder blocks.  As years progressed, his heart must have become calloused.  He must have stacked, constructed his own wall, block by block.  Cold to the touch; rough around the edges; his defense mechanisms thick; he built for himself an embittered fortification of isolation.  He frantically coveted change.  And, he was so close to attaining it.  The obstacles just stood in his way.

 

“Do you want to get well?”  It has become the anthem for my life.  Jesus has often whispered it since, reminding me.  This question has revisited me on ocean sands, nudged me upon mountaintops, and accompanied me in the most random day-to-day scenarios.  John was the only Gospel writer to describe the miracle at the pool of Bethesda.  What did it mean to him that he would take the time to include it when Matthew, Mark, and Luke never make mention of it?

 

Jesus asked the most obvious question.  He did not do anything until the invalid was struck by its simplicity, and then grappled over its complexity.  Jesus demanded faith.  At that precise moment, Bethesda faded into the background.  Jesus stood in the foreground, inviting.  He never requested that the invalid rid himself of his mat, either.  No, he took his mat with him.  I wrestled over if that was true of my brokenness, or even more so my convenient mats of reliance.  What was I building?  A wall of cinder blocks?  Or, an unwavering trust?

 

Today, I stand on platforms proclaiming the Good News of Jesus, proselytizing the message of hope for people to get well.  I never imagined motivational speaking as a ministry, a career.  I never dreamed this miracle would revolutionize the purpose to my existence.  It is where movie meets Scripture.  Hearts get stirred when needed the most.  If I trust, obey, and have faith – He will do His work.  He will come.  It may mean that I carry my mat with me.  So be it.  I can still walk, and thus be used.  I choose to get well!

Irrevocable Sound

My skin plastered itself to the vinyl seat.  Every movement sounded like fruit roll-ups being peeled away from saran wrap.  The summer temperature rose above the pavement.  The heat waves wobbled in front of me.  Puddles of water stood on the highway in the distance.  It was the first day of the rest of my life.  I wanted it to vanish like a mirage.

 

The brace harnessed around my neck suctioned in the perspiration.  I wore it as a mere guise to distract from the inevitable.  Who was I fooling?  This spongy apparatus became an irritant like lingering mosquitoes that one bats away to no avail.  It clung to flesh as an adhesive to a wound.  My pulsating bruise clawed much below the surface.  I knew I could no longer hide no matter how hard I tried to disguise.

 

Those Viacom commercials had spun me into a deep depression.  I owed that to being cocooned in blankets upon the hospital bed a few months prior.  The succinct, riveting pitches in their tunes sent chills down my spine.  I correlated those irrevocable sounds to the reality confronting me.  Day-time television pacified me, but those days were over.  And now, the click, click, clicking signal for the final left-hand turn dealt a punch in my gut.  My high school stood on the right.  Flashes of people in my peripheral sped by.

 

I’d rather had face the guillotine.  Societal influences had my head in other ways.  I permitted the few names lashed out to pigeonhole me into a categorization.  I became captive to the perception of others, defenseless in the vicious cycle of mind games.  I could not win.  Defeated, I did not venture a rebuttal.  The key to my self-esteem had been locked, thrown away forever.  The messages communicated.  Labels associated.  I lived in a cesspool of lies.  I floundered in stagnation.  I enabled even misconstrued intentions to get the best of me.  A look here…a nod there…I often misinterpreted what people were conveying.

 

The gears downshifted.  The brakes applied.  The drowned out noises resurfaced.  The music on the stereo boomed.  Voices heard from our rolled down windows came from the sidewalk curb.  My stepfather pulled into the parking lot.  There was nothing to say.  I sat in the passenger seat hoping to melt away.  Mortified, I had started counting down since the beginning of July.  In a blink of an eye, this was now August.  I listened to the bells ring indicating the start of a day, a year, a new life.  I felt like a dead man walking.  How dare I possibly live?

 

The first day of high school plucked me from any routine that provided comfort.  It forced me out of seclusion to being exposed.  The training wheels had disappeared.  On my own without neck braces or other forms of masquerades, this was me.  This was it.  Was I going to walk?  Or would I crumble in fear?  Those questions blasted the rallying cry.  Family and only a few committed friends sacrificed everything to speak love to me.  And for the next six years, I relied on intensive counseling to revive truth back into me.

 

Life is an arduous road.  I knew it before, but my traumatized high school experience heightened it.  That day, I stepped from a vehicle of familiarity into a means that has transported me to other places.  I have faced many dark days, sleepless nights, and hopeless tomorrows.  It has been a long ride.  And then…those irrevocable sounds chime.  They resound, and more often than not I hear them ever so faintly.  My tracks ahead may be muddied at times.  Nonetheless, they still extend into the horizon.

Post-It Notes

“Jimmy!”  My words pierced the silence.

 

Hot tears began to roll down my cheeks.  Deep sobs began to shake my body.  The humiliation terrified me.  I tried everything to prevent it.  I crossed my legs, uttered psychological babble, prayed relentlessly, and pondered happy thoughts.  I flopped like a fish out of water, squirming around to ward off what I knew to be the inevitable.  My efforts did not suffice.  To my demise, diarrhea exploded throughout the insides of my sleeping bag.  My bowels, like firecrackers resounding, left nothing but filth to wallow in.

 

The struggle seized me with fear, put me further into seclusion, and locked me into a world of my own.  Would anybody ever understand my brokenness?  Clearly than ever before, I wanted to be somebody else.  After all, who was I in this feeble, debilitating shell of a man?  What was in store for my future?  I stared into the darkness feeling utterly alone.

 

It had been a glorious day.  Lake Shasta looked smooth as glass against the rustic orange, reddish hue of the dusk.  Our two houseboats sat anchored upon the shores.  The stars now painted the skies.  The dim moonlight shined through the window.  The crickets strummed an ambiance of stillness.  The gentle wake slapped up against the hollow sides of pontoons.

 

Jimmy lay tucked away in a corner oblivious.  It was 3 a.m.  He wasn’t stirring.  His deep sleep, among other things, was something I envied.  Jimmy had known me since the 6^th grade and had witnessed the progression of my muscle and nerve disease.  Regardless, how could I tell him what happened?  Would he think of me differently?  My soul screamed rejection.  My self-worth had already been tarnished, but now the pulsating loudness of self-condemnation continued to rip my spirit into two.  Why had I agreed to go on this trip?  Why didn’t I just stay at home?

 

It was a houseboat trip for high school seniors.  As a youth group, it would be our last.  We sat for hours sharing heart felt stories, laughing one moment, while crying the next.  For me to look into their eyes, it was a group who had seen me in my darkest of hours.  It would be difficult to part ways.  The tears I had already shed at the mention of growing apart became paralyzing.  Some of them were venturing off to college and moving in different directions.  I, on the other hand, did not have that possibility.

 

“Jimmy!”  I ventured again with a bit more urgency in my tone.

 

It seemed like forever.  And then…a beacon of hope registered by a confident whisper.  Jimmy’s voice was slurred and groggy from being awakened.  He called back.  My cue had come.  I stumbled upon what seemed to be eternity.  Jimmy was my rescue.  And yet, I thought twice about uttering anything.  How was he going to deal with this?  Was it my pride making my comatose?  Did shame play a role?  Captive to a wheelchair by this point, I already felt victimized by the clutches of despair.  This night only added fuel to the fire.

 

“Jimmy, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I…had a…an accident,” I managed to muster through intermittent sobs.  The weight of emotion expressed in each syllable was a tumultuous wave crashing down, hitting the core of my being.

 

His voice rang with the assurance that everything was going to be fine.  Jimmy and I were the only ones sleeping in the kitchen area of the houseboat. Everybody else slept up on the top deck outside, or on the front of the boat.  It must have been the intensity of my alarm that sprung Jimmy into action.  The realization for my emancipation came when I faintly heard his footsteps, barely making out his silhouette against the backdrop of a pale-lit moon.  He walked to the front of the houseboat where my youth pastor, Rich, lay sleeping.

 

“Rich?  Hey Rich!  Rich…” Jimmy nudged a shoulder.  “Rich!”

 

“Jimmy?  What is it?  What’s wrong?”

 

“Rich, it’s Chris!  He had an accident.  He’s not doing well.  He is in there crying.  He’s in a fit of rage.”

 

“I’ll take care of it.  Jimmy, thank you.”  Rich assumed the fatherly role.  “You can go back to bed.”

 

“No!”  Jimmy countered.  “I want to help!”

 

“Do you realize what you are saying?  Jimmy, I appreciate your heart.  I like your attitude.  However, I don’t think you will be able to handle it.  I have washed Chris several times and it is not a pretty picture.  It’s gross.  It stinks.  It’s going to be difficult for you.  It won’t be easy.”

 

Jimmy never wavered.  After a few minutes elapsed, he and Rich brought in my wheelchair.  The stench brewing from within the confines of my sleeping bag rushed into open air when the top layer was peeled back.  Inhaling that lingering stagnant smell was more than I could bear.  I gasped like a person struggling for oxygen.  They scooped me out of my soiled sleeping bag and wheeled me until we reached the door of a tiny bathroom.  They dragged me from that point towards the shower stall with my limp legs trailing behind.  And it was Jimmy, my peer, who volunteered to get into the shower with me to clean me up.

 

My head hung low.  Words came up empty.  A friend my age was washing me.  I couldn’t look at him in the face.  My lifeless body was propped against the shower wall with hands holding me up.  Blanketed in mire so profuse, my legs were covered in slimy warmth, a soupy consistency that oozed down my sides.  Jimmy’s nose never flinched.  He did not say anything, yet his actions spoke louder than any megaphone could ever convey.

 

“Thank you!” they said as they put me into a clean sleeping bag later that night.

 

“It was a privilege to clean you up.”

 

I could not decipher the meaning behind their words.  It countered anything but a privilege.  I was stunned and in awe at such loyalty, love.  I saw Jesus in their actions.  It was a beautiful post-it note that I knew would serve as a constant reminder.  I, indeed, would reference it in the days, months, and years that followed.  My life transformed.  It reiterated that I was loved.  God would be faithful.

 

Chain Link

School lockers slammed latching to metal.  Students zipped their backpacks closed.  The warning bell rang signaling that last minute dash to class.  There was always the smell of salami sandwiches in brown paper lunch sacks.  Or, the myriad of times our backs rested against those chain link fences.  One by one the captains of teams would call out names.  I was always the last one standing, waiting to be picked.  It didn’t seem to matter.  My optimism in this schoolyard hustle was that I was considered one of them.

 

Yet eighth grade left me a stranger, fighting a war among those I deemed to be friends.  He came to conquer my world.  At least, that was my impression.  Smirk across his face, he held his head high.  He was mighty, a champion.  He knew how to hunt, and annihilate with words.  The arsenal that contained his ammunition resonated power.  The weaponry at his disposal relegated me to mere prey, a mishap.  He certainly knew how to choose his battles.  He wounded me deeply, and fired at will.  It has taken years to recover.  The mental limp is still evident.

 

It was a bright, clear day.  My eyes squinted in the afternoon sun.  The moment I saw his figure in the distance, I froze.  I could have retreated to my front door, waving that white flag of surrender.  Instead, I stood like deer in the headlights.  Confused; caught off guard; immobilized; the outside forces advanced, while my inner voices helped pull the trigger.  A smile turned into a frown.  My shoulders slumped.  A chin fell low.  His laughter became the prelude to my discontent. 

 

The shot he fired lodged deep within.  It was that name he used.  Everyday he saw me, his strategy fortified his stance.  He stood as a giant in my midst.  It became a toilsome drudgery to go out of my own home.  I wrapped a neck brace around my ill configured, bulging neck as a decoy.  I coveted that peace, a freedom – anything.  However, the yearning to ward off my nemesis resulted in an infantry of hysterics.  The attacks were relentless, pawning my armor to the value of filthy rags.

 

He knew how to shout it, and even mimic it.  “E.T.”, he screamed.  He pointed at my neck.  He gawked.  The scope through which he aimed presented him with an accurate target.  “Look at him”!  The blood spilled.  My scars remain embedded.  He kept stalking, combing the battlefield for more.  He lurked.  He waited.  It happened like clock work.  And, on this day, I was just going to check the mail.  His tactics proved exceptional.  His sarcastic whine of E.T. wedged a piece of shrapnel that became a festering ache.

 

Torsional dystonia, as it is called, would stigmatize me for a lifetime.  Everything about me physically in eighth grade seemed to be dying.  Mentally, I believed I was damaged goods and a curse.  I had been stained spiritually – lashing out unanswered questions, shaking fists at a so-called loving God.  The outside world personified fear.  I wanted nothing but walls surrounding me.  The stronghold of structure, I craved amnesty from a life that now held me captive.  Society routed me with glances.  Some spoke precise words contributing to my demise.  E.T. was a name that delivered the final blow.

 

It was family and true friends that saved my sanity.  A poster hung on my bedroom wall.  It was a banner to motivate when all else seemed lost.  It stayed for weeks, penned with lines of encouragement, get-well sentiments from those who cared.  I had not seen a classroom in weeks.  School was not a possibility.  Hospitals were the educational institution of choice.  A series of medical tests debilitated me for months, only to confirm expert opinions.  It was a rare muscle and nerve disease that would be difficult to pronounce not to mention predict a prognosis for.

 

So… there was power in his words.  It was an onslaught of a name that he used.  He mustered his rank, and declared victory.  He brandished that insignia scrutinizing his plunder, beckoning a confidence that I so desperately desired.  I wanted to rise above my impoverished state.  For the time being, my self-esteem provoked other issues.  Words spoken against me became my gospel truth.  With a back resting against those chain link fences, I just wanted to play.

Meandering Drops

Beads of water plummeted down the windshield.  In sporadic fashion, many of them bounced upwards, only to spike downwards, tracing out trails like a heart monitor gauging a heartbeat.  Others descended swiftly in a straight line; smooth, fast, unencumbered.  I sat in the driver’s seat staring out into tiny, big, oblong, and circular water droplets obstructing my view.

 

My imagination wandered to shooting stars, huge masses of brilliance dislodged from out of space that people wish upon.  All the while, the gush of water sprayed.  The swinging gigantic wash cloth waved in the manner of a matador warding off a bull.  The round spinners ricocheted off of my SUV like a pinball machine.  Crazy as it seems, it was the precise moment when I speculated the inauguration of my journey with God.  When did it really, personally begin?

 

Without a doubt, my first sincere inquiry about God originated the night the iron hissed as mom rested it on the ironing board.  The hot steam rose drifting towards the fluorescents lights.  The linoleum floor in the kitchen sparkled, reflecting flashes of colorful light generated by the glare from the television.  Lying on my stomach in the family room with my chin propped up on one elbow; my world was minimized to a 32’ screen depicting the Hollywood dream, sucking me into a mindless tinsel town charm.

 

My escape into make-believe terminated as soon as my sister walked into the room.  Her face was a fire engine red with eyes glossed over, glazed.  Her cheeks watermarked.  Her countenance displayed a worn sentiment.  Her thick eyelashes twitched as eyes blinked, ringing out, and shaking any excess of tears that still clung to a reservoir of heart felt emotion.  The volume from the TV suddenly was reduced to white noise, blaring sounds of disinterest.

 

February 14, 1978.  My only sibling and four years my senior, my sister had been talking to two strangers in three-piece suits.  For what seemed like hours, these men disappeared with my sister into another room of our home.  When they returned, they proclaimed that she had just become a child of God.  I was nine-years-old.  And once being deemed as the man of the house, I now feared being alone, separated.  Going through a second divorce as a family, mom and my sister were all that I had.  Now on this night, I witnessed a transformation in my sister, and at such a young age understood the severity, reality of it.  It affected me deeply, greatly, that I was confronted with my own uncertainty.  It instigated questions, causing me to ponder, think.  Who is this God?  Was I going to Heaven with my mom, my sister?  Isn’t being dragged to church every Sunday by my mom enough?

 

A year or so earlier, my mom gave her life to Jesus Christ.  She worked in a grocery store striving to make ends meat.  It was in this place where her life radically changed.  I will never forget the barrage of cash registers clicking in unison, their drawers chiming, clanging every time they popped opened.  Or the havoc of loud speaker madness used for calling out price checks, retrieving an item for a customer standing at the check-out line, that interrupted the soft ambiance of strumming instruments.  Oftentimes, I hung out in the store waiting for mom to finish her shift.

 

She was befriended by a particular customer who began standing in her check-out line if it had 3, even 10, or 20 people.  It didn’t matter to Carol.  My mom’s personality was contagious – she was hard working, loved her children dearly, and always smiled from ear to ear.  Carol wanted to be a good friend and when the opportunity presented itself to share the love of Jesus Christ.  Through a matter of time, that friendship ensued, talks ignited, and mom became a Christian.  Old ways behind her, she had become new, whole.  Carol remains one of her best friends to this day.

 

So, when the ones I depended on the most where joined together spiritually, I asked mom questions about Christianity, God, and Jesus Christ.  Fear, I believe, was the driving force into why I thought I asked Jesus into my heart at such an early age.  I merely did not want to be deserted in the cold, left behind.  For whatever reason my decision to follow Jesus Christ was made, it escalated later into a deep, intimate relationship that is difficult to describe.  If I wasn’t a Christian then, believe me I am one today!  Some people may gasp because dare I be angry at God; question Him; struggle with depression; and be tempted, at times, to quit.  Yet this has been my story.  This is my song.  Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine.  And that, God continues to teach me, is plenty.

 

A few years ago, at a local car wash, I looked through a windshield speckled with drops of water.  One by one the drops fell – in different directions – some streaming down rapidly, while others trickled in jagged lines.  In a matter of minutes, my Dodge Durango was clean.  And I realized.  Isn’t that me?  Clean.  I am a child of God who has the ability to radiate: shine like a star, whole, new, and luminous.

 

I’m not sure about you, but I often desire to peer at drops of water through a lens hoping for something better.  Those shooting stars…  What do I wish for?  There is that old adage about the grass being greener on somebody else’s lawn.  What looks greener beyond what I am currently experiencing?  I need to be concerned about watering my own lawn as somebody once suggested, and not wishing upon shooting stars.  There is that struggle.  There is that hope.  My journey with God is unexplainable, ever so personal, and extremely rich down a roadside of brokenness.

Polyester Clone

Rows of vineyards passed us by like still frames swiftly moving in succession, pages of caricature figures rapidly turning.  He sat in that yellow school bus.  Unscathed by reality, his gaze burrowed holes in the glass, peering into nowhere as gorgeous terrain flashed before his glossy eyes.  He kept singing; slowly, methodically.  Persistently banging his head against a window, he wore a helmet that protected him from injuries.  His speech was impaired, but his voice harmonious.

 

The hot dirt permeated in the noon day sun.  Our bodies bobbled, bouncing up and down an old highway, the reverberation of that rickety bus heard.  The veterans’ home was situated on a velvety green hillside among billowing oak trees that resembled ice cream cones from a distance.  It was located in Yountville, CA on the edge of the luxurious Napa Valley.  A huge building off by itself, my school, it modeled as a gateway that welcomed caravans of tourists from all over the globe to the world-renown wine country.

 

That day, I paid no attention to such astounding beauty.  I still picture him sitting there, undisturbed, in that yellow bus.  The constant rocking in his seat was a distraction to many, but to me his movements were rhythmic. The repetitious phrase that he sang compulsively was a hook.  It baited, lured me in, wetting an appetite for more as my curiosity heightened.  I was awestruck as he religiously obsessed over and over his tune.  Today… it is a melody that I often think about.  I never caught mention of his name, nor do I recall what he looked like.  But I hear his voice decades later:  “Cal-la-phone-ya, here we come”!

 

It wasn’t always the yellow school bus.  I started kindergarten in a public school.  It tasted of finger paint, Elmer’s glue, and empty milk cartons.  The alphabet, in both small and capital letters, was spaced apart meticulously, and used as a border around the classroom.  Graham cracker crumbs; pencil sharpener shavings; construction paper of various shapes, sizes; eraser markings; littered the desktops.  All was lost in the shuffle of the American dream.  A cookie cutter existence, we all expected a piece of the pie.

 

Yet, my teacher noticed that I had slight tremors in my hands.  This made writing legibly a difficult endeavor, and the ability to cut with scissors next to impossible.  I grew frustrated because I was unable to tie my own shoes, and buttoning things were a laborious chore for me.  My mom always had suspicions that I wasn’t progressing along with the others who were similar in age.  The doctors, however, dismissed her concerns immediately, blaming my developmental delays on baby chubbiness.  Their prescription was patience as they vowed that I would soon quicken up the stride.  The day never materialized.

 

I found myself on a yellow school bus instead.  I was now transported every day, miles away, to a special needs’ school.  I was diagnosed with a mild form of fine motor cerebral palsy.  For the next year, the curriculum consisted of occupational therapeutic methods that would equip me to handle the “world” out there.  I learned eye-hand coordination skills that dealt with minuscule objects such as picking them up, pinching them, and making sculptures out of clay.  I also learned how to type by color.  My therapist multi-colored a keyboard and matched the corresponding colors of tape to the appropriate fingers.

 

I could care less.  These slight limitations were not threatening – no, that would come much later.  I believe that was why I was grateful for my experience on that yellow school bus.  Because what I could not comprehend then, I came to understand years down the road.  This one year represented a small segment in a series of segues that bridged events into an ensuing story.  And one day, due to such hindsight, it would enable me to embrace faith all the more.  Anchored in a trust, it would be my hope to look at yesterday through tomorrow’s lenses.

 

There remained evidence that God’s design was not to clone, but to create an individual that lives out of a purpose.  As far as the composition that young man sang is concerned, it simply taught me that.  “Cal-la-phone-ya, here we come”!  It would become a hymnal for future aspirations.

Stadium Lights

I remember the first time I grieved.  Sycamore trees lined our residential streets bursting with a pageantry of color that fluttered on delicate limbs.  The leaves tumbled, spiraled, and whirled upon an autumn breeze, discarding golden memorabilia that quilted the asphalt.  Now whenever I see hues of seasonal change flaunting its beauty, I step back in time.  I crave lost innocence…

 

“23, 37, 18” rang out his call.  The huddle had broken up seconds before.  We scurried to the scrimmage line.  With arms hung limp at our sides, we stood posed as manikins.  Draped in oversized white fruit-of-the-loom t-shirts, we modeled our jerseys as the felt-tip marker fumes lingered.  Odors from the numbers we had drawn on our shirts orbited, intoxicating us into hallucinating about other dimensions, dream of new worlds.  The frigid air gripped bare skin.  Fingers tingled.  Hands grew numb.  Snot oozed from our nostrils.

 

It was the last play of the game.  Parents were getting restless; calling us for the third, now fourth time as dinner waited.  Aromas of mesquite drifted from outside grills, blending in flavors that caused us to salivate.  Street lights buzzed on, revealing a playing field where the cars roamed.  Evening mist lurked on either ends of the street, bookends of haze encapsulating a moment that later proved to be a means to something greater.  My mind raced.  I rehearsed what was to come next: visualizing the precautionary steps; obsessing over the appropriate execution; romanticizing the outcome.

 

“Hut… hut… hike…”  Off like a bullet, I shot.  The ball was rifled into the sky.  I concentrated of how to outwit, outmaneuver my opponent.  He kept a leisurely eye on me, not at all concerned about me catching the ball.  I passed the lamp post entering into the end zone.  The football now descending, it was heading directly to the center of my hands.  Time had warped.  Slow motion crystallized in strobe light fashion.  Paparazzi camera flashes.  I imagined the ticking clock winding down – 5…4…3…2…1!  I had scored that winning touchdown…

 

I have often wondered about the feeling of success underneath stadium lights.  Within the realm of sports, I savored this one day on a street of autumn gold that remains enshrined in the annals of my thoughts.  I was in seventh grade.  A stroll down memory lane often widens into boulevards instigating sentiment, deepening with emotion.  I grieved not recognizing such acclaimed innocence until it had already sifted through my fingers.

 

My achievements would be reserved for another time, another place, used in the context of a different light.  I would spend years, though, wrestling with an awkward appearance, a peculiar gait, and a speech difficult to decipher.  I strived to understand this debilitating disability: I yearned for simpler times; standard routines; day-to-day luxuries that so often I took for granted yet never had the chance to revisit.  They were lost forever.  Thus, I began my journey with God.  Does He exist?  Does He love?  Does He care?

 

It started on a day when I simply woke up.  How I hungered for any inkling of normalcy as hordes of spectators now watched my physical demise through ignorant and often demeaning eyes!

What if…?

The day became brighter as the minutes passed.  The illumination from the morning light slowly intensified as if a curtain was rising, transitioning to another scene in some play.  I wish I could have been a fly on a wall tucked away in a crevice, discreet but with an unobtrusive view.  I wanted to conceptualize the course of the proceeding night.  There were no clues.  Sirens did not blare to allude to its warning.  Whistles never blew triggering a lead.  Like all mysteries, it happened quietly.

 

I will never forget Easter morning, 1983.  The sunlight beamed through closed blinds.  The rays protruded through the cracks.  I distinctly remember particles of dust shimmying and whirling above my bedspread.  Silhouettes from backyard plantation projected shadows on the walls.  The birds were chirping as they sat perched upon the windowsill.  The water gushed through pipes transmitting a constant drone that initiated tranquility.  I wanted to roll over, go back to sleep, but I lay still – rocking to and fro as the waterbed sloshed.

 

Her footsteps grew louder the closer and closer she came.  My mom jangled the doorknob, cranked it, gently swinging my bedroom door upon its hinges.  She bid me good morning, closed the door, and was soon heard ambling back down the hallway.  The mood seemed to forecast the standard holiday cheer: opening cellophane wrappers from gifts placed in Easter baskets; attending church; and the entire family congregating to celebrate the festivities.  The only thing different…  This particular Easter marked my mom, her twin sister, and my step dad’s birthday.  But wait, there would be more.

 

The stillness shifted to panic the precise moment I stood.  My neck buckled underneath an insurmountable weight that felt like a ton of bricks, springing my head forward as if on a pulley.  My chin instantly latched onto my chest like a magnet and under no circumstance would relinquish its hold.  The friction to lift my head back to its rightful position was beyond any strength I had ever known.  It was a constant tug of war of push, then pull.  My head finally just dangled in surrender, weakened by such a magnitude of force.

 

It changed me forever.  Alone, and as an eighth grade student, I thought my life was over.  A few months later I would be diagnosed with an extremely rare muscle and nerve disease that shattered my reality into fragments.  A terror so gripping that it begged the question:  What would have happened if I never went to sleep the night before?

Dismal Gray

When I was escorted in, their pens snapped into place.  Notebook binders popped open.  The pages turned.  The crowd’s carefree conversation shifted to monotone professionalism that eventually trailed off into slight murmurs, then into a haunting hush.  My neurologist began talking in a foreign tongue, medical jargon too lofty for me to understand.  The eager medical students feasted their eyes upon me.  I was more than a scripted textbook.  This was for real.

 

My forehead fell against the cool panes of the window.  My breath fogging up the glass with every exhale, I watched the residue evaporate with every inhale.  I stood motionless, helpless.  It was the first time I questioned my existence.  I wanted to extrapolate answers, and the reasoning to all of this.  The explanation never came…in my time.  There I stood breathing in, breathing out.  I peered into a reflection only to see my blue eyes staring back at me.

 

I waited.  This day a dismal gray lingered.  Standing in the halls of the UC San Francisco Medical Center atop a hill with obstructed views of the Golden Gate Bridge, I was beyond tears.  I was a worn out well where the sieve had run dried.  I was fatigued, emotionally numbed by all that had transpired.  My soul was cast into perplexity, garnished with anxiety, and filled with an anger brewing to the onslaught of rage.  I would be sentenced to a life for something I did not deserve.

 

San Francisco is a city that demonstrates exuberance.  The skyline builds an ambiance bigger than life.  The bridges span the bay.  The spiraling spotlights protect the harbors.  The white caps dance upon the surface of the deep.  They spray a mist as the waves clash. Generated by strong winds, the chill cuts a reddening to your skin.  The seagulls squawk.  The cable cars clang, rattling along the rails.  Pungent smells of crab and lobsters infiltrate the air.  I have fond memories standing on that water’s edge.

 

This day would be all too different.  The electricity of the city life I cherished fizzled when my vibrant world of adolescence loomed in utter darkness.  It dismantled all the dreams once hovering as that beacon of hope.  The day I was diagnosed, I screamed -“Just cut my neck off!”  As I fidgeted and jerked my body away from that medical forum, the door slammed thundering an echo throughout the corridor.  The gavel banged down.  The verdict was in.  Oh, how I wished this had been a dream!  I was living a nightmare.

Here Nor There

My luggage slammed against the well-worn pavement.  The handle on my suitcase snapped into place.  As I pulled my possessions, I could hear the small wheels spinning along the sidewalk.  Vehicles rushed in.  Passengers emerged from car doors.  I was in the middle of this pandemonium of flux.  Voices rang over loud speakers.  People stood in lines of make-shift labyrinths wrapping in and around corners.  Cell phones embraced ears.  Fingers danced upon keypads.

 

Destinations have always been an intrigue.  A travel document with my name of it makes me a recipient to transience.  I have lived the life of a vagabond even though I reside in the comforts of suburbia.  Airports become that mechanism, a mosaic of strangers by which we share a commonality regardless of nationality, belief systems, or indifference.  Airports are hubs of limbo transitioning us to localities; people; and dreams.

 

I never thought the day would come.  I didn’t think my life would amount to anything.  Looking back, it has been an autobiographical blessing.  There are those who argue that my life is what it is because of me – my will power, my optimistic fervor, that determination.  Some herald me a hero, resigning what has happened as a tragic mishap due to unfortunate circumstances.  I have been labeled their inspiration.  I don’t want such a responsibility.  I would fail if you knew my inner workings.  I struggle with depression.  I am lonely.  Sometimes, I want to quit.  No… this is God’s story.

 

With that said, speaking was not on my to-do list before I died.  I used to cry when talking in front of a group.  Now, airports are like reporting to an office.  Traveling is protocol, a commonplace.  It is neither here nor there.  Conversations get stirred.  In random fashion, I remember when a baby caused me to crack a smile while tears trickled down my face upon reading a book.  And I wonder how he is doing, or what she is up to, though I talked to them for not even an hour on the airplane – and that just once.  I travel nationally as well as internationally speaking about my story of brokenness. 

 

Life is a series of segues.  We have a ticket in hand that grants us access to a destination.  Unlike the transactions we are privy to purchasing, this one is free – yet it seeks all we have.  Our ultimate destination is Heaven, of course, but currently we wrestle with neither here nor there. 

 

My desire is that these autobiographical segments, which may or may not be in chronological order, will be an encouragement for your own series of segues that weave the tapestry of your life.  As we contemplate our place, my hope is that it will further your questions, deepen a faith in Jesus Christ.

 

What are we doing with that ticket in hand?  Am I making the most of every opportunity?

On The Bench

It is humble in origin.  It isn’t much to gaze upon.  Thank goodness…it is camouflaged by the darkness.  The shadows from headlights barely catch glimpses of it, sweeping over well-manicured grass, like a prison spotlight on a pendulum waving back and forth.  It stands as a fortress, anchored, guarding against intrusions that taunt at freedom.  Amid the quiet night where crickets play; dogs roam; and people jog; the innocence still attracts.

 

It is simply a bench – that is all, nothing more.  It is a green piece of metal supported by two white pillars where people are meant to sit.  And, it is situated just feet away from my front door.  Here, I am transformed to a place of peace, comfort.  Thoughts alternate, my hopes coagulate, and life stagnates…for a time.  I sit.  I reflect.  I pray.

 

The leaves flutter on a desert breeze.  Conversations fade into the distance.  Sprinklers succinctly spray the putting green of a lawn in sporadic intervals.  Flickering airplane lights up above connect the dots to twinkling stars, poking their way through a black canopy, outlining that vast array stretching towards endlessness.  Sitting here… waiting…  It opens up a world that otherwise I might dismiss.  I feel small!

 

The daylight doesn’t do the sanctity of the moment justice.  I look down upon the empty bench from an upstairs’ window.  From the view, I appreciate the sentiment and the earnest quandary, pouring forth my soul from the night before.  Though the sun melts that kaleidoscope blending my vulnerability with transparency, I know that this is my escape.  A cry that celebrates the process of what it means to be free!  I yearn for the night again.

 

It happens on the hem of a green belt.  The rumbling commotion found within a day comes to a halt.  My utterances spew forth like an incessant rain falling upon lush foliage.  I am weak, powerless.  Eclipses of truth coincide to embrace me.  My dialogue resumes prolonging the countless hours I have spent in this sacred place.  It’s a resemblance of a pilgrimage.

   

I must believe; be expectant; realizing God’s provisions; and taking Him at His word.  I think I’ll sit here for awhile.     

Peace … by Piece

My home is scattered with pieces of sentiment.  They sit upon countertops.  They adorn my walls in frames.  They are hand-crafted, prized possessions, given to me by people who have been in and out of my life.  Some I barely knew, while others, such as a grandpa and a great aunt, I had meaningful relationships with.  Due to death, or a few one on one encounters, I have lost connection.  I no longer see these people, but their craftsmanship displays a demeanor that speaks about faith.  It echoes throughout my home.

 

There is a painted portrait of me when I was ten on one wall; a pier with a sailboat floating in the ocean on another.  There is tree bark propped in a stand in my entry hall – someone whittled a cross from it.  Yet, the one that screamed out loud recently is a penciled drawing I received from a college student who happened to hear my testimony years ago.  The detail and imagery is astounding.  Inscribed upon the right-hand side is part of the verse from Isaiah 30:15:

 

“In quietness and in confidence shall be your strength”

 

Peace.  It is a lesson that I revisit religiously, and not by choice…piece by piece.  My life has certainly been a revolving door of shrapnel flying in the face of uncertainties, fears, and brokenness.  Throughout the years, I constantly hear His voice not in decibels blaring through megaphones, but in that inaudible reassurance which beckons me to trust.  My home is one such place…but there are others.  The acoustics ring loud, crystal clear.

 

This time it happened in the heart of downtown Los Angeles.  A friend and I were driving back from lounging on the shores of Malibu.  Lethargic from the afternoon sun rays, the music provided the backdrop of ambiance, filling in the gaps of silence.  Bright red taillights shone up ahead.  Lanes merged from various arteries of traffic combining thoroughfares into one route.  Cars swished by us.  My hair danced to the rhythm of the autumn wind.  I simply cherished the day.

 

The skyscrapers stretching towards the heavens towered, providing patches of shade here, illumination from light there, depending upon the angle and position of the setting sun.  Those architectural marvels hovered over our world, highlighted from hues and contrasts amid the ebb and flow.  This is when I noticed in the passenger mirror the vehicle next to us.  I snapped this photo to capture the experience.  I am not sure just how long that vehicle lingered.  I hadn’t noticed, looked, even paid attention.  Regardless, it was still just a glance away, reflected in a mirror.

 

God speaks in the most familiar of places, and simplistic of circumstances.  He is closer than I think.  And, I worry.  I have insecurities.  Like everybody, the outcome of my future remains unknown.  Fears swarm.  My loneliness festers.  Frustrations run rampart.  It comes back to peace.  Do I possess the confidence it warrants?  It makes me consider those cherished commodities that pose as relics in my home.  I walk by them everyday, and have seen them for years.  They were made with voiced intentions.  Still, they are just a glance away.  Will I stop…stare?  Do you hear the nuances?

 

Outer Fringe

I sat in solitude on the lake front.  Nestled into a cozy chair that caught, supported my feeble body, I pondered the previous six days.  Behind me, charter buses were making their exit: the hissing of their hydraulics; the squealing of their brakes; the percolation of their engines as they gained speed.  Traces of adolescent screams, in tribute to a week gone by, trailed and disappeared with the exhaust fumes.

 

A hush covered the landscape.  I could actually hear the distinct sounds of oars digging into the waters.  The pristine chirps from small black birds darting across a pale blue sky amplified.  The faintest whispers of trees swaying softly like a baby’s lullaby became the ruckus of mid-morning.  I basked in this silence, catching glimpses of ripples reflected in the sunlight, wakes slapping up against the shore.  And, I realized this was just the outer fringe.

 

Surrounded by a coliseum of pines, lounging on the floor of a deep basin, the backdrop of my day was something I would have not traded for the world.  I had stared into this scenery for many years.  I have studied its delicate detail – the jagged mountain peaks and the barricading walls of that steep, daunting granite.  I have been enamored with such astounding beauty that I must readjust my eyes every time.  I have discovered that the view is not just a life-sized postcard.  It is real.  The gaze never gets old.

 

The lake before me became a welcoming threshold extending, expanding out into greatness.  Beyond its dam, a chasm carved its way, dropping into a deep canyon.  All the while, the cumulus clouds floated above like blimps, hanging poised with the décor.  These were sacred moments, hallowed times.  It’s when God spoke.  His love for me was voiced, again.  I was gently asked to reaffirm my trust.  If I reflected too long, the tears would well in my eyes…because it struck a chord embedded into the depths of me.  My fears and all my insecurities surfaced.  How easy I add to the noise to drown out sorrows!

 

God displayed His handiwork as I sat on the embankment not saying a word, just observing.  His magnificent creation demonstrated.  And to consider, these are but the outer fringes of His design!  How much more He proves over and over His provisions for me.  His faithfulness has been something He continues to teach me.  I must trust having the appropriate stance to hear those faint whispers.  They can serve both as a conduit ushering a peace that sustains, and motivating a life to be lived amid the ambiguity for what lies ahead.  Do I trust?  Will I listen?