Last Night at the Guest's

So here's a funny story that speaks to the craziness of having three kids and owning a home and probably divine intervention:

Last night, about 10pm, Jen and I notice our 18-month-old furnace is acting strangely. We go downstairs to investigate. We immediately smell gas. Call the gas company. We have to evacuate the house. At 10:15pm. This means waking, dressing warmly (35 degree temps), and putting three kids in the car and sitting down the road to wait for the gas man. He comes with a voice like a megaphone. After an hour it's safe to re-enter the house. Turns out the 3yr old stove, that I had used a couple hours before to cook a quiche, is leaking gas like a deflating pool.

Of course, it's an old house, so the gas man and I have to disassemble the basement to get to the gas meter (long story abt previous owners poor remodeling decisions; seriously, who covers the gas meter with a built in bookshelf?). The gas meter is also leaking gas so it needs to be replaced. At midnight. And this man is not quiet either. So he bangs in a new meter. Kids wide awake upstairs. Anyway, he gets it in and turns the gas on and starts rechecking appliances.

Checks the hot water heater first. It's as old as me and so it's, of course it's not up to code (missing a cheap piece of plastic piping it's never had in the 5+ years we've lived here) so he can't legally light it for us. The stove also has to remain off and in need of a repair man. Next comes the furnace. It's getting gas, but it's not staying on. Keeps cycling. Can't figure it out. So he has to keep it off too. He leaves about 1:30am. And we get everyone back to sleep.

So after a short night without heat and a morning temporarily without hot water (new heater on the way; old one took me an hour to re-light because of crappy pipes and air problems. It's also totally safe to be in operation for a few days per the off-the-record opinion of the gas man so no one need freak over that right now) I get ahold of the furnace guy to come check. Meanwhile we've ordered a new hot water heater for Monday and got a stove repair man to come check the stove Monday too. Monday is gonna be awesome.

So the furnace guy comes this afternoon. Checks the machine. Runs diagnostics. The thing is getting gas. It's lighting but shutting off. Like a car engine that won't turn over. He can't figure it out. Brings in a new circuit board to test it out. After an hour of working on it with no luck, he walks the property. I mentioned we have three kids right? Well. Yes. One of them (LUCY) had moved our patio furniture in front of the vent yesterday afternoon when they were playing outside. This vent, when covered, causes the furnace to shut off. So that's all it was. It was Lucy's fault.

But the stove was leaking a lot of gas into the basement at the moment the furnace stopped working. So it's impossible not to be thankful. Kids work for you too. In fact, they pretty much always work for you (except maybe that time Isaac flooded the basement a year ago but even that forced an unknowingly pregnant-at-the-time Jen to organize and sort old baby clothes and saved us time later). We are all ok. The house is ok. The kids are ok. It was just that kind of night.

So yeah. Kids. They require a sense of humor. And, not a day goes by where I don't think it's the same kind of humor God has.

It IS a Magical World

Let's be honest, this happened a while ago. But it's time. Follow me over there. It's been great being here and thanks for coming along. But...

My (365) Days With Lucy

It has been one year. And so I look back on those words I wrote one year ago to the day. It has been one year. One year. ONLY so many days and ONLY so many nights can be measured to have occurred since that day. And that feels un-right. Because what I have enjoyed in this past year has been moments covered in Cantor dust. The further down Lucy has ventured into my heart, burrowed as I hoped it would be 365 nights ago, the deeper yet she has been able to go. There has been no end to the joy she has uncovered in my heart, in my life. With her wide, sometimes goofy, sometimes heartbreakingly happy, sometimes startlingly sweet smile. With her apex of the sky blue sky eyes. Yes, these kinds of platitudes are expected. I figured them in last year at this time. It's part of what you come to expect the second time around. It's still awesome. It's still beyond words. It's Christmas morning. And you just gotta get up, you gotta get up, you gotta get up... It's Christmas morning.

But for all of the Cantor dust, with Lucy there has been that little bit of fairy dust too. Those moments that make you stop. Straight on halt you. For all of Lucy's trying to be like her brother in climbing stairs or by wrestling with daddy, she's got her own magic too. How she dances and claps to certain music and not to other music. Or like when I'm having a bad day or hour and my eyes meet hers and she will deliberately blink at me and smile and blink deliberately again. Always makes me laugh. Or when I find her in her room with several books open in front of her and she is pointing to the pictures. Or when you give her a stuffed animal and she looks at it and smiles and then cradles it under her neck and hugs it tightly. Or when the Mrs and I go away for five days and return with two particular gifts that we placed around her room and that now every morning when she gets up she has to touch these particular gifts. That's the fairy dust. Those are the happy thoughts that make you fly.

Last year I supposed it but it has come true. My chest has been ripped open and filled with treasures. And to borrow a phrase again, Don't ask me how I knew, it just was the first time I saw her.


*new videos on YouTube*

On My Final, LOST Thoughts

It was a superb end to a great, great show. Not the final ten minutes; the final episode. I have been on record as despising Sideways world but after the Finale, came to appreciate it for the moments of remembrance between the characters. Most notably Sun and Jin, Sawyer and Juliet. At the end of it all, it was those singular moments with the characters and their experiences of their characters that made the entire 6 seasons worth the investment. I've seen it numerous places, but concur with the thought that it was a fantastic 2 hours and 20 minutes followed by a head-scratching and hand-holding, light infused 10 minute miasma of fakeness. Though the final, literary motif ending with the dog and with Jack was apropos. And the Ben and Locke final scene together was powerful and moving as anything I've scene on the show. Just gut-wrenching good acting (seeing as how the last time they were together, one killed the other). And that Ben stayed behind... loved his character more than any other on the show. A very, very powerful character arc portrayal by Michael Emerson. He was astounding.

I'm at peace with the open-endedness of the finale. What happened to the final five on the plane that left the island? How did Penelope end up with Desmond (and where the HECK was their reunion iso) in the church? What became of the three on the island? Why was Jack still alive on the island for that final shot? Walt? Michael? It doesn't matter to me. Not one bit. Though there are a few floating theories that explain it and the more I've dwelled on the Sideways world being a temporary world for all the LOSTies to reunite, the more more is explained. So I'm on board with that.

The ending certainly reminded me of The Great Divorce with some choosing to stay behind in Sideways world. And, most notably, with characters coming to enlightment/awakenings by being touched by those whom they loved or experienced the events with, and that touch being shocking and painful and good. Very much The Great Divorce's idea there. It reeked of the best and worst of the relativistic branch of post-modernism ("Make your own rules" followed by Hurley giving everyone the chance to reunite).

But more profound was its attitude toward love. Toward forgiveness and loyalty and happiness and morality. And of sacrifice.

I would've preferred an ending like this:

Jack sacrifices himself in the pool of water and light. He dies at some point, much like he did. The other three get off the island or the island sinks and disappears. Sideways world happens because Jack wills it with his last breath even though in it Jack becomes the only one who can no longer remember the Island world. That was because he made the ultimate sacrifice: he died and remained lost so others could remember and move on. He then doomed to live out in the gray world, in sideways world, off the island. That would've been harder and more difficult and a more risky play from the show than they may have been willing to take. But would've been infinitely more profound. One character remains LOST. C'mon. How did they not think of that!

Anyway, I've thought about this all day and made updates to this post and I know that I'm not done thinking about it. And I miss that it's over. And for the Kumbaya moment at the end, I'm more okay with it now that I really do believe that Sideways world was a type of purgatory/gray world That it was timeless and existed when everyone had already died even though some escaped the island, and some didn't and that the island was very much a real place and the events were very much real events (the last shots of the wreckage not withstanding).

It was a great show and this was one of many ways for it to end and that it chose to end like this sits better with me the more I think about the characters and what I loved about the show -- and really, wasn't that the point?

On Lost

If you've followed me on Twitter, it's been no secret that I love Lost. The Mrs. and I started watching it last summer and finished all five seasons in time for the start of season 6. Sometimes we watched three episodes a night. Once or twice maybe four episodes. Sometimes up till 1 in the morning watching this show. I've maybe not as much invested as those who've toiled for six actual years, but I've got a lot invested in this story. In it's characters and ideas. So to say season 6 has been a disappointment is being nice.

I'm okay with the Sideways world plot-line. My only complaint has been it has sucked momentum out of the Island plot-lines. The cutting back and forth has pulled us as viewers too thin. Too much guess work to see connections between the Sideways stories and Island action. Where cut-a-ways before helped with character arcs within the plot, here they dilute the plot itself. It would have been a better strategy to just concurrently run the Sideways world plot at the start of the season sans Island story. This way we actual invest time and interest in Sideways world. Then, finish the season strong by building straight on the Island plot to the end.

They didn't do that. So where are we?

If this season has done anything it's cleared up Jacob and the Smoke Monster. It has given us back story. It has made the archetypes actual characters. Brilliantly in the "Ab Aeterno" episode too. And for awhile we couldn't decide who was black and who was white. Who was evil and who was good. When the line was drawn for us (or when we were roped into believing who was good and who was bad -- I'll explain) we all seemed to find ourselves on Jacob's side. Jacob was the good guy with the noble heart. And after watching the penultimate episode I found myself very bored. Very bored. I fell asleep. I was annoyed. It was all so predictable. So pedantic in dialogue. So...so... exactly like I was being lulled to sleep by hearing what I expected to here. That Jacob had brought them there. That they were better off for being there. That the island saved them and now they must save it...Blah blah blah. I just considered it a terrible episode and both Jen and I wished the show would just end so we didn't have to care. It felt like the show had just lost something. It's sense of magic. It's sense of a one idea that was making this whole thing have purpose. Everything was heading right where it had no choice but to end. I considered that maybe there was never actually a completed ending when this story first began. That what's coming just happened organically through the writing. I can appreciate that, but this show has always suggested that's not the case. But after this last episode, it felt, well, lost in some plot and character contrived corner and was ready to keel over and just end.

But a lot has been revealed about Jacob and the Smoke Monster/FLocke/MIB in the past two weeks. Last week we saw Jacob a mere patsy for his crazy mother and MIB as a man who sought knowledge and enlightenment. Jacob became narrow minded and cultist in his grasp on the "source"/ "light". Borderline fundamentalistwack job. In this last episode he conceded he was just that. He brought all this people there for his reasons. For his ends. Making the ends justify the means (a philosophy well represented in the six seasons of Lost). He claimed everyone was flawed. But that he only made one mistake and needed to fix it. That mistake? Killing his brother in the first place. So he created this situation and then created the situation to get out of the situation. Selfish. Arrogant. Not what I look for in my hero. And what about the Man in Black? He seemed a good soul. Hard-working. Seeking knowledge and escape from his crazy wacky murderous step-mother. I can appreciate that more than Jacob's patsy attitude.

MIB wanted to reveal the light. To let everyone experience it. And here's my revelation. LOST has drawn from innumerable sources. From religion to history to literature to music. It has referred to a panoply of knowledge. So much so that to call it Christian or to call itKabbalah or to call it pagan pigeonholes it into something it is not. It is consistently universalism . So we have this light source that we are told if it leaves the island, if it is uncorked, will no longer be on the island but unleashed on the world.Hmmm. That seems universalist. And MIB who, we can wonder, is that actual light source (after he was thrown in the cave the light went out and out came the smoke monster), and if he gets out, will give everyone that light. Seems rather noble, again.

Say what you will about FLocke's cold, murderous hand. But he has always given people the choice to follow or not follow. Jacob has been gray at his best. FLocke is black and white. Blame him for Sayid and Sun and Jin but remember he didn't actually kill any of them. Despite what Jack claimed in this episode. Sawyer did it. They did it by making the wrong choice. The choice not to follow him. Call it cold. Call it justice. But he's never beenwishy-washy. He's always been clear. Jacob is controlling under the guise of free-will. But Flocke has always been for free-will and displayed it at all costs. Remember that names have always been referential on LOST. From Lewis to Sawyer to Jack to Locke toBentham to Faraday to Hume to Penelope to Eco. Jacob's name means liar. We don't know MIB's name.

So, I'm rooting for FLocke to win. It explains Sideways world (notice how when all of them see the alternate Island life, it's via a bright flash of light). It wraps up the show very neatly. It shows there was always a set ending in place. And it fits in with so many themes of Lost I can't even begin to get at here (this is long enough, Doc Jensen eat your heart out).

Finally, this Sunday is Pentecost. LOST's pre-season cast photos modeled after the Last Supper painting. There are numerous references in this season to the idea of Easter weekend and beyond. Numerous. And what is Pentecost? When the Holy Ghost was poured out on the world. When he was uncorked from heaven.

At Almost Thirty

My 30th birthday is this Sunday. I've already received a card from Nana and Grandpy (not allowed to open it yet, but thanks in advance Nana and Grandpy) and three small gifts from the Gilchrests of Waco, TX (slightly disappointed that the included Starbucks Gift Card was not for the $1,000,000 that Eric had penned on the sleeve). The rest of you... let's go. Let's get those gifts here.

If you're looking for gift ideas here are the only three I ever and always ask for and really only ever want if I want of anything: books, coffee, t-shirts. Maybe it's sad, sure. I'm a grown man and I wear t-shirts everyday (it's in the job description, though!). Maybe it speaks of being content. Of having the things that really matter: health, salvation (as much as I can be sure of something like that -- oohh, there's some theology for you), family, friends, two really wonderful and special children and the stillness and passion of loving and being loved. But if you're looking for gift ideas, I only asked that the coffee be of good quality; used books and Goodwill t-shirts are preferred.

I suppose at this point in my life I should muse over the past. That I should entertain and relish those things I am thankful for, those things I have learned from, those things I have striven and attained and those things I've yet to attain. And I suppose I've done that as I approach this day. But not more or less than I've done it in approaching any other day -- or tried to do. Yet one thought in the past months that has circled the drain of my 20s has been my enjoyment of fairy tales. I know on Twitter I've mentioned that I like them more at almost 30 than I did as a child. I'm not sure why exactly. But get past your conception of the word. Though here's a perfect sermon on why you should and can(seriously listen to it. It's inspiring. And on Easter!).

And here's Chesterton on it:

"In the fairy tale an incomprehensible happiness rests upon an incomprehensible condition.
A box is opened and all evils fly out.
A word is forgotten and cities perish.
A lamp is lit and love flies away.
An apple is eaten and the hope of God is gone.”

And Tolkien on it:

[Fairy tale] does not deny the existence of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance. It denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat...giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy;
Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.

I find great pleasure in seeing the imaginative side of things. Seeing things maybe as not what they are but maybe what they could be. Sure, it's not always the realistic viewpoint, but it's also not idyllic. My worldview takes into account much that isn't right and allots for it. But it sees past that -- or tries to. Maybe this is of fairy tales. Maybe I just walk around with the magical realist viewpoint. Maybe I'm crazy and maybe my 30s will fix all of this.

But for right now, at almost 30, give me that warm hand I love to hold, and lips I love to kiss, that merriment of laughter I love hearing every morning, some coffee, a crisp t-shirt, an old book, ripped jeans, some sunshine, a cool breeze, maybe a birthday party at a giant indoor playground for adults with lots of bouncy things to bounce on and into, a melody with a hook and a beat.

Tell me it's all a fairy tale. And I'll tell you it's my life. My incomprehensible joy and happiness that is based on the incomprehensible condition of me: a man who insists upon always wearing t-shirts and ripped jeans.

On Broken Things

It's been the better part of the past two days but certain things around the house have been fixed. The blinds have been taken down and new ones installed: white, faux-wood ones. Then there's the leaky bathtub faucet which has been plaguing my quiet moments for four months. I finally got the whole thing disassembled thanks to my frustration and a hacksaw. After some running around, I found the replacement part and we're back in business; that means the water's back on in the house.

But as I finished cleaning up the final project tonight, I found myself circling a kind of drain. A steady maelstrom going around and round. I am waiting for what I fixed to be broken again. I'm listening now for the drip that I can feel coming. I'm anticipating Isaac swinging at the blinds and destroying them again. Call it a lack of faith, but it's inevitable. What's fixed will be broken again.

Quite possibly we lose our faith in products and machines and even people when they breakd0wn. For right or for wrong we expect them to maintain their equilibrium. Their status quo of reliability. I for one don't always mind a broken and fixed item. I buy refurbished Apple products (same warranty, 15% cheaper). I buy cars used. I read books from the library. Yet still this feeling lingers. Even my previously broken bones ache thanks to some mind over matter thoughts. These things repaired will break down again. They will have to be fixed again. What it must be like for God...

As I take survey of the thoughts present in my quiet moment tonight, as I come to the realization of things fixed and things broken, I am quieted even more by the importance of not making junk in the first place. There's a whole theology in that. Know things in this life aren't perfect. Love, passion, happiness, joy. It's all flawed somehow. It's all besought with mortal wounds. But it's got built into something that bespeaks the ideas of a Quality. Of Not-Junk. And so if those things must break, let it be so; it will be an easy repair. But may we not lose faith in them.

As for my faucet repair, stay away from the Delta 1700 Monitor series. And from me, the plumber.

The Pacific Northwest

Perhaps it's because the last MFA application I'm waiting on (due any day now) is from a school in the Pacific Northwest. Seattle. Maybe it's because the book I'm currently reading, "Snow Falling on Cedars", is set on an composite island in Puget Sound. Maybe it's because I've been there. Been to Seattle. Visited Mt. Rainer. But I've been enamored all morning with Washington State.

Sitting over breakfast with Isaac I was suddenly warmed by the memory of a picture taken on our honeymoon at the national park at the base of Mt. Rainer. Jen is standing in a red t-shirt and light brown cords. Her then long black hair pulled tight. Sunglasses atop her head. Head tilted, eyes squinting in the sunlight. Small in the foreground set against the backdrop of the mountain. It's a picture of her I love. Loved taking it. Love looking at it. And holding it, I can feel the mountain trembling in my hand at her beauty.

The trees in Washington, especially around Mt. Rainer, are massive and prolific. They stretch high and tall into cloudless blue skies (incidentally, Seattle gets less rainy days per year than New York City). The landscape envisions most accurately what G.K. Chesterton surmised of man's attempt to place himself in relation to the universe, "Man has always been small when compared to the nearest tree". And I have never seen trees that tall anywhere else. Sequoias I think is what they were. Stolid giants stood still over time. Possibly speaking slowly, like Fangorn. Telling us, in the slight swaying of the branches, their names over the millenia. For a moment that that trip through the forest on our honeymoon, I had a moment to listen to them. To stand, small and contrite and in awe of the structures of nature.

What I hear today is that memory of a time some eight years ago. And that I am still small. Small compared to the Sequoia. Small compared to the pine tree teetering next door. Small next to the saplings. But I have a love that is giantesque. A love, I suspect, that has only just got around to speaking to me her name.

Knives and Spoons

Maybe it's a sign of this generation but occasionally phrases arise that spark in me this idea, "Hey, that would make a great blog title!" It's the transference of doing it for band names I suppose (do they even have bands in music these days?). But as I'm doing dishes this afternoon (yes, we do not have a dishwasher. And once Lucy is off the bottle... please let it be soon. No more bottles to hand wash)... Anyway the phrase "Knives and Spoons" popped into my head. This probably had more to do with the inordinate number of knives and spoons I've noticed I wash on a daily basis. So if I were to write a blog about being a post-modern housewife I would call it "Knives and Spoons".

Then it occurred to me that I may be measuring my life in terms of knives and spoons. In terms of the banal work around the house I do daily as a result of me being home with the kids. T.S. Eliot's Prufrock certainly had a similar sense about him, proclaiming "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons". It's been easy to succumb to this entrapment of sorts. Recently I've been bombarded with 4 MFA rejection letters. Part of the staying home and not working idea the Mrs and I had was so that I could work on my writing. And I have (not on the blog though). I've gotten better. Yet here I sit with four rejection letters in front of me- on my inspiration board no less. There's still one school I'm waiting to hear from -- so maybe... Regardless of what transpires I've found myself slipping into the temptation of "Knives and Spoons". Of seeing myself unapart from the daily routines. Perhaps it's the failure of MFA applications -- the embarrassment of failing anyway is certainly palpable. So I've measured my life, I've discovered, my days by the daily tasks. The coffee spoons, the peanut butter knives, the diapers, the bottles, the hours.

But the preceding line in Eliot's poem is transcendent. It's the realization of the best part of why I am staying home. For I "Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons". I have had time with my children. With my son. With my daughter. With my wife. I have had days upon days of books and building blocks and Curious George and bike rides and soccer and crawling contests and standing contests and singing and OREOs while watching LOST. And not only have I had them. But morning, noon and night I have known them. Felt them in the deepest and best parts of the chambers of my soul. And I know that I am lucky and that I am blessed. And I know that I am loved because yesterday Isaac on one of our patented early evening bike rides turned back to look at me and the Mrs and said, "It's my mommy and my daddy. And I love them."

So is it worth it, after all -- Prufrock senses us asking, I sense myself asking as I count the knives and spoons and rejection letters. I will certainly have the knives and spoons tomorrow and the next day. But I will also have the human voices that will wake me. And they are singing, often. And to me.

On Six Months

We are celebrating Lucy's half-birthday. I recommended half-cupcakes in honor of the occasion; alas, no. But here I am, 6 months into my daughters life. I am fully invested in diapers and bottles (again) and making our own baby food. Fully immersed in getting her to roll over, crawl forward, sit up and laugh. Laughing the best part. Lucy, like her brother, loves to laugh. Mostly at him. The way he dances about and sings songs to her. Her laugh is true and simple, full to the brim with happiness and joy. And like the best of all laughs, utterly contagious.

With Lucy it's been a different experience entirely. And not because she's a girl or because she's the almost opposite of Isaac in temperament. But because I'm around. I was around for Isaac, always. But I wasn't home for Isaac. And wow what I missed -- I realize now. I am home now. For four of the six months. Like I said, fully in the process of her growing up. Right before my eyes.

Being home has been a blessing. How Jen and I did it before, I don't know. Why we did, I don't know -- I do, but... This is better. Raising your kids is better. Watching Lucy outgrow clothes isn't as sad, because you realize she's worn that outfit everyday for two months because she goes through six outfits a day because she throws up all the time (ask Isaac, "she spits up", he'll say. He'll also jump out of the way if she even burps and he's across the room to begin with. "She can't spit up that far Isaac," we'll say. But it doesn't matter).

Lucy hasn't outgrown many clothes. She's little. Maybe a little too little even. Enough that we're monitoring it. Increasing food where we need to. Some of it may be because of the September scare she gave us -- in the hospital for almost three days. But she's little -- she'll be little. But man can she eat. Out eats her brother at this age. Complains to me because she's hungry after I've just fed her three helpings of sweet potatoes.

Have I mentioned the laughter? That our house is filled with it? We named her in part because her name meant light. And she's brought light to the house -- to other people (see previous entry). But she's brought the lightness of merriment. Of joy unmitigated by constraints of time. There has been time aplenty for her to laugh and smile and cackle, and time for me to enjoy it. So maybe that's it. Maybe that's where her light to me has been cast: showing me the absolute importance of time and of making time.

And in one more place: she lights up when I enter a room. Literally lights up. A switch goes on. A jolt of energy released. A 108-minute button never pushed. Smiles, eyes wide and blue. Recognizes and exudes a smile of recognition and happiness when she sees me. There is no feeling that encompasses that moment. No real way to describe it. You know it when you see it. When it blinds you.

















And you never forget it.

On An Experienced Joy

Bottom line: My kids bring me an unquantifiable amount of joy. Joy, my pastor described recently, understood as a sustained happiness. For me, I ask no questions after a day of battling with Isaac to take a nap or be potty-trained (Only three pairs of pants today!) that a simple gesture or comment or facial reaction can resonate so deeply as to make the whole day seem like it was filled with that singular moment. I don't contemplate why. I analyze everything and I don't analyze that when it happens. Because it fills me with such joy for my son.

It's another thing entirely to understand that your child can do that for others. Today, Lucy made a surprise visit to her aunt's work to see the elderly women she cares for. One of the particular women, well into her 90s, recently suffered several strokes and has been put on hospice. Today had been quite a bad day for her. And so to her came Lucy, all 10lbs of her, wrapped in blankets and jeans and a t-shirt. Both frail, both communicating in simple ways. She held Lucy for 20 minutes. Silently. More than one can count, Dolores pressed her faint lips to Lucy. Watched her. Smiled weakly at her. Lucy reciprocated it in the way babies do. Never took her eyes off of her. Lucy was the first to fall asleep. Dolores soon followed, holding Lucy has tightly and lovingly and joyfully as her old arms would let her.

I heard this story when I returned home tonight. I felt proud. Not of my daughter's ability to comfort and provide a joy for a particular person. She's four months old. She smiles and then toots. But a pride at what exists outside merely parental love. That things can be shared and experienced that truly can sustain us. Great things. Deeply felt things. Musical things like: Love. Joy. Laughter. These are the sustained and suspended chords we experience. Even if and though we know life will resolve itself again tomorrow.

Return From Absenteeism... For The Moment

It's been a long while since I've written anything here. That's a small shame because so much has happened in the interim. Let's see: I've stopped working and am now staying home with the kids; I've been to Florida to visit my brother; I've watched Lucy grow into a magnificent, face-lighting smile and red hair and have been stymied by how Isaac has grown like a weed with opinions; I've watched my fantasy football team go from promising to mediocre to frustrating to Red Sox circa 1993 (seriously, I've been scouring waiver wires for Tim Naehring and Jody Reed and some guys named Billy Joe Robideaux and Carlos Quintana); and made it through the first four seasons of LOST in less than two months -- really, the best show I've seen in a long, long time (Dad, since you're the only one reading this, you should really watch it 'cause you'd watch it like me). So a lot's gone on. Fertile ground for blogging that I've just not done. And maybe won't do again but I've got a small case of writer's block tonight and was looking back over old posts and remembered that, on occasion, this outlet was fun.

One thing I've noticed since I've stopped working is all those things that I thought we're important or, rather, worth my time. Blogs I've stopped reading. Sites on the Internet I've just completely done without. It's funny now, but, clearly those were absolute ways to waste of time while I was at work. Or, maybe more to the point, ways to spend time when I couldn't spend it doing the things I really wanted to do. And the thing I've really wanted to do was be a Dad. And a writer. And a husband. I was those things before, but, now, I've got fewer obfuscations to those goals.

Lucy is a red-head. Beautiful. A smile that literally lights up her face. It's the best joy to be the first one she sees after waking from sleep. She can currently roll-over and has out-grown her clothes which shows me how fast it's all moving.

Isaac can count to 15. He is learning his letters. He can operate the CD, DVD, computer, ice-maker, and our iPhone's flawlessly but can't manage to go the bathroom in the toilet. His prayers are hysterical and challenging and humbling every night-- I know why God is God: it's because of the prayers of children. And he talks to his imaginary friends Dora, Bob the Builder, Boots and Swiper on a daily basis. Oh, and he's scared to death of train whistles.

So I'm here. I'm well. And I'm writing more than ever before, just not here (and I'm not counting Twitter). And that's because I'm inspired more than ever before. Oh, and Frank Gore just scored a touchdown so maybe I'll win my fantasy game this week.

Fresh From God

We have enjoyed every moment with Lucy. And while she sleeps a lot, she's starting to become aware of her surroundings, quietly. Tonight, a snippet of this and, to borrow the phrase of a little girl in the store the other day, I invite you to watch it, because she's fresh from God.

On The Day She Came

Lucy Hall. Lighter than her brother, smaller too. Looks a good deal like him at this point. Though, the Mrs. informs me she has a sprouting, Daddy-like cowlick. Her eyes are shyer than Isaac's, always half-hid, darker and still that bold beautiful blue. Yes. She has burrowed into my heart very nicely.

We named her Lucy for a couple of reasons. Both coming to each of separately. The Mrs. likes the named because of it's meaning: "Light". Which gives us, now laughter and light in our house. A grand metaphor for our two children. My passion for it came about from "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" which stands as my favorite children's book. Lucy was the main character in that story. The first into Narnia and it's wonders. I imagine my little girl taking me to those types of places. To snow-covered lands with anachronistic lampposts and strange white stallions. And a talking Lion.

On the Day She Came we completely expected her to arrive. We didn't wait long for it, only some three hours. We are happy happy happy. Isaac held her numerous times, put his giant hand on her little face in awe at the size difference between the two of them. On the day she came I held her the first time and cried. Unexpectedly. Softly. Proudly. The Mrs cried long, fast, wet tears.

The day she came is winding down. I'm at home. Mom and Lucy are sleeping or feeding or holding each other in that Pieta, that impenetrable shield of love between mother and child. The words fade with the minutes. The ideas and thoughts and phone calls have dwindled for the moment. I'm left trying to figure the wonderfulness of it all out. And I can't. I can't. But it's there, hidden, burrowed down into my heart, waiting to burst forth in those glorious moments of parenthood. Those times when you're caught unawares and left unhinged by the abounding love and joy your child brings.

And so on the the day Lucy's come, to borrow a phrase, I'm willing to rip open my chest and find all the new treasures that are there.

On The Day Before You Came

I'll be honest, I thought this day had already come. Every morning I woke up, I tried to ruminate on the previous day: Was that the day before you came? But that day just hasn't happened until now. So I woke up this morning, three times: Once to meet your brother at the foot of our bed, once with my head cricked on the bean bag in your brother's room and third time back in my bed. I woke up this morning, the day before you came and so far nothing much has happened. I made myself a cold coffee drink and a bagel. Your brother gave me a kiss before I left and told me "Bye Daddy, see you in the morning." He says the funniest things. I just finished some pretzels and downed a liter of water. I wanted a snack from the vending machine but it was found lacking.

I know your mother (who your brother affectionately has taken to calling Moms) is nervous. Her mind, if I know her, is wandering today. Mine too, for that matter. I wonder incessantly about you. What you will look like, how you will laugh and sing and dance. How you will react to your mildly insane older brother who will smother you with his affection and opinions. I wonder about all the things a typical parent wonders about. How much will everything change tomorrow? Beyond that: how much will it change like we are expecting it to change? I know, slightly metaphysical for you. Perhaps I won't read this to you until you're a little older then.

I'm trying to think if I've got anything profound to offer you about the day before you were born. If some prescient bright shining star or angelic rapture or heaven stricken silence has occurred. Some moment that signifies the leaping off of some great height, across some great chasm, landing, tomorrow, with you in our arms. And on the day before you come, I've not been able to find anything. And I think it's because I don't know you yet. I don't know, that maybe the way the sky has cleared brilliantly will be indicative of your eyes. Or that I've heard a song on the radio that will one day be your favorite song. Or the man you will marry was born today. Or your best friend was born today on the day before you came. Or the person who will help you the most in this life stubbed their toe and set off a serious of events that will culminate in the moment you need them the most. I don't know.

I know this day will meld into tomorrow and the next and next. That your presence in my life will work backwards. That's how love tends to work. It stretches out infinitely in the present, reaches ahead of us into the future, and becomes inextricably and inexorably intermingled with our pasts.

The rest of my day will pass by. I'll finish work. Go to the gym. Go home. Have dinner with your grandparents and aunt and cousins -- spaghetti!- and spend my night trying not to think about what I can't help but think about. Maybe I'll look for a profundity or two for you. One I'll share with you and tell you about over and over again. One you'll get tired of hearing but will want to hear nonetheless. I'll keep my eyes and ears open.

But as this night wanes, as it heads off to that second star to the right and I close my eyes and put my hand across Moms belly and feel you kicking inside, on the day before you came, I will say to you "Good night, sweet daughter, see you in the morning."

The Descent

I think it must have taken a lot for him to come down. To wander out so aimlessly into the darkness. To measure each step so accurately, trusting eyes that barely knew how to see but needed to see depth. And the darkness. Existing in a world he was not at all familiar with. Without the ambient light he ascended with. Or was forced to close his eyes too. The world was much different than he remembered, if he remembered at all. But down he came.

I think he must’ve felt trapped. From where he was he could see the moon and the stars and faint blowing breeze dancing on the tops of the trees. Down here he must’ve felt trapped in his father’s house. Destined to walk a path that a hair’s breath on either side would have succumbed him to the unfettered and unsoothable pain of something as simple as a stubbed toe. Maybe it was a pain he was prepared for. But I contend that a pain you know is coming is far worse than one you get blindsided with because you can do nothing to stop it. The world down here: in a succulent darkness. But down he came.

I think of the timber of his heart. The courage to risk the fall to risk it all to descend and traverse and withstand what he feared most: knowing the absolute worst could happen. And whatever measure of choice brought him to the penultimate moment, to the riskiest risk in the darkiest darkness, I cannot imagine the courage it took for him to speak.

We did not hear him as he called out from right over our heads, loudly, screaming at us asleep in our darkness. What made him think we would hear him even if he stood in our very presence, knowing we were very much asleep. What kind of courage it takes to endure a descent into such darkness and yield such a little but bright colored word that can so powerfully awake us, is something you’ll need to ask him.

But last night, down Isaac came, from his new room upstairs to the foot of our bed before calling out in a final breath: “Momma”. It’s a journey I don’t think he was the first to make.

Imaginary Conversations That Lead To Real Events

Characters:
Isaac: a freshly turned two-year old with blue eyes. Able to compose short sentences such as "I wanna play DS" and "Bye-bye Daddy". Remarkable sense of balance. Short.

Tiffany: almost three; bright blue eyes. Doesn't speak using contractions. Tall for her age. Likes to play with dolls.

Aaron: concerned twentysomething parent who is busy upstairs. Finds humor in random things.

Setting:
Interior of two-story home; other children and adults milling about on second-story. Isaac and Tiffany are downstairs in living room. Isaac is holding a Nintendo DS; Tiffany a generic baby doll.

Isaac: Hey Fee! I'm playing DS.
Tiffany: I can see that Eye-Zack. You are having fun?
Isaac: Yuh! DS!
Tiffany: Well, I am playing with my doll. She is pretty. I am pretty.
Isaac: Yuh! Momma?
Tiffany: Mommy is upstairs, Eye-Zack. I need a tissue.
Isaac: Yuh! Tissue. Nose! (points to his own nose histrionically)
Tiffany: Yes, Eye-Zack.
Isaac: Bathroom. Yuh? Go.
Tiffany: Okay, Eye-Zack. We can go get tissues.
Isaac: Yuh! DS. Gross. Needs tissue.
Tiffany: So does my baby doll.

Isaac and Tiffany walk together to bathroom. Tiffany half-shuts the door behind her. The bathroom is dark, a soft yellow light filters slightly through the brown shower curtain.

Tiffany: Here you go Eye-Zack (hands Isaac a tissue)
Isaac: Nose. Tissues.
Tiffany: Tissues are cool. I use them on my nose. And so does my doll.
Isaac: I play DS. Nose!

Loud banging noise heard overhead. Aaron comes pounding down the stairs calling for Isaac and Tiffany. Sees the bathroom door half-open.

Aaron: Hey guys, what are you doing in here?

Isaac is polishing the DS with a handful of tissues. Tiffany is rubbing the dolls head with the tissues.

Scene.

A Memory: Earl and Marge

It always fascinates me, the things that jog and stir memories. The catalysts that can launch us into the seemingly insignificant, yet vivid details of our pasts. I was just heating up some leftover orange chicken (with rice)...

The engineers were discussing a recent funeral for one of the workers' great and distant aunt. A woman who lived to 97. But in doing so had outlived the people who knew her. And as a result, the worker had to be a pallbearer at her funeral even though he barely knew her. For some reason that reminded me of Marjorie Blundell. Struck to life an occurent memory: I was a pallbearer at her funeral.

Marge was a tall, thin woman. She wore vintage horn-rimmed glasses and had jet black hair that flared out over her ears. Small eyes; a round, sharp face. I don't remember ever hearing her speak, and if she did, her voice was too soft, too frail and unsure to leave an impact. Marge just had an air of lightness and simpleness about her. She could've walk on top of a snow drift, if the wind didn't carry her over it.

Then there was her husband Earl. The church's janitor. A grumbling curmudgeon with a large face, weighed with jowls, had heavy, hunched shoulders, the type of walk that made you wonder how he got anywhere before the day expired. Earl mumbled, seemed always to be talking to himself about something. He was a simple man as well, a simple, short man with giant hands and a massive heart. He was could've been much younger than he seemed. But at the same time, the aspects of devotion and loyalty he showed to Marge and the church couldn't have been learned in a hundred lifetimes. I knew that then and I know it now.

I remember my dad telling me to always respect Earl. To help him carry bags of clothes to the back. To tear down tables and put them back up myself if I wanted to use the gym; or the gym needed to be set-up for church functions I needed to do it for Earl. And anytime I could help Earl, I needed to help Earl. Even though his temperament scared me as a teenager.

And from that memory came a haunting piece of Scripture. A verse my father told me Earl expressed to him when asked why he continued to work well past retirement. A verse that was his life's verse. One that made him happy and summed everything up about Earl. And I remembered that verse.

My heart, for the rest of the day, was reheated by those memories of Earl and Marjorie.

On A Year: March 12, 2008 - March 12, 2009

Isaac woke up this morning a little early and very much cold. Seems he and his cousin messed with the thermostat the previous day, unbeknownst to all of us, resetting the entire schedule. Resetting it to 60 degrees. Not to mention his abject disapproval of socks on his feet while sleeping, he was very cold this morning, in the hour before dawn. So he laid in bed under the blankets with us. Warming to the day. Listening to us sleepily tell him Happy Birthday. 

When he got up he noticed decorations, multi-colored streamers, dangling from his door. Then more cloaking the back of his highchair. He flicked at them. Giggled. Then he noticed a giant Happy Birthday banner above the table to the right. He pointed to it and smiled and called out for Momma. He smiled real big and pointed to it. Real big. Today was going to be something a little different. 

I'm not sure it ever set in for him. Even though he peeled away wrapping paper on present after present. I'm not sure it dawned on him when we sang to him and convinced him to blow out his birthday cake. Not like it dawns on the Mrs and me. Our son is Two Years Old. 

Last year I penned lines about the abundance of love Isaac had instilled in us. How something very big had happened and transpired and transposed it's greatness so firmly into our lives that it had stumbled back into the past and was pouring out into the future. My point was to describe the magnitude of it. The infiniteness of it.  Another year has just exponentially increased infinity for us. 

But the grandeur of that love is felt most deeply in the tiny, yet infinite space we have traversed between 1 and 2.  It's in the little things, the infinitesimals, that I have loved Isaac most this past year. Tickling sessions. Simple words. Running. Jumping. Sentences. Dancing to songs (even if it is All The Single Ladies! (and Ray LaMontagne!)). Reading books. Animal sounds. Brushing his teeth. Riding bikes. The first year was about the largeness of it all. This year was about the glorious details emerging.

Tonight, weary and up way past bed time, I rocked him to sleep. He puts his head into the crook between arm and shoulder, and arches his neck just a little. His body relaxes and collapses. But his eyes are open in the darkness. And he is looking at me as his day fades under heavy eyelids. I sing to him. In one of those little moments. I sing to him Happy Birthday. And I ask if he wants me to sing it again. "Yeah." So I sing it again. Quietly into his ear as his eyes disappear. 

I put him in bed. 

His bare feet creeping out from under the blanket. 

Happy Birthday Isaac.

How I love you.

On Reading The Bible

For around a month now I've been reading the Bible. I've tried in the past. Never getting much past Exodus, at times hardly through Genesis. The Bible is a difficult book to read. An anthology of short stories, epics, poems, history, cultural hieroglyphs like Leviticus. It's hardly cohesive in style; wildly, powerfully cohesive in theme. I've tried, in the past, to read the Bible from a certain vantage point. From a theological perspective. A devotional perspective. An historical perspective. This time around, it occurred to me to read it as a book, from a literary perspective if you will. Even picking up a literary approach to the Bible version(which, for the most part, I've abandoned for the convinence of my iPhone's multiple versions and ease-of-read on-the-go. I only revert to the actual book form at home).

This all seems simple and rather obvious. After all, it's the Greatest Story Ever Told. But it's not an easy read. It's an anthology and who reads anthologies of Mr. Norton all the way through? The final four books of the Torah alone can trip you up. Lure one into negligence and absolute boredom. Make one rethink or all together abandon the desire to read the Bible. But get through it. Skip parts if you have to (especially since it repeats soooooooften). And once you are through it -- into the promised land of stories-- you will never want to put it down.

This gets me to why I've become more engaged by the iPhone version. Because I can read it anywhere at anytime. I can, effectively, never put the book down. And sure, with a cup of coffee and a dark, cool spring evening, I will flip through the actual book form. But, for the most part, the bulk of my Bible reading has occured on my phone.

Anyway. I love Genesis. Parts of Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy. The final four you should read because Moses is a fascinating character. Truly fascinating. I was abjectly depressed when I found out Moses couldn't get into the Promised Land -- even though I already knew he didn't. And knew why he didn't. I mean. It's just sad. Just really, really sad. Joshua is enjoyable and rewarding -- hey, we're finally here!. Judges is awesome, horrible, terrifying, morally weird but filled with stories you will never forget. Like my Dad says, it's a Western. And I love Westerns.

Ruth is my favorite book. As this funny and enjoyable Slate reviewer summarized brilliantly:

No smiting. No prophecies. No laws. No kings. No God. Just the story of one family and its two good women.... it shows Bible laws in action... Ruth is the quietest of all Bible books, a short story that manages to combine extraordinary power and extraordinary serenity.

I agree. I love Ruth. It's details. It's romance (Rebecca and Isaac is still the best though. When they look up and see each other for the first time...) Love where it is juxtaposed where it is in the Christian Bible (as opposed to the Jewish versions) because 1 Samuel starts off where Judges seemed to end. But Ruth. Ruth is just a great story. In a much greater story.

So that's where I stand. Looking forward to 2 Samuel and beyond. David is in the picture now. I have felt the coming of this man. Felt him coming in the LCD pages before.

And that's the sign of a great book.