And We Are But The Players

Here I sit again, with a flashlight to disperse the darkness that hangs so thick. All around me is the hush of muffled footsteps, whispers, stifled laughter. And out there beyond us an audience cheers the hero, boos the villain, and laughs at all the right times.

This time around a new face sticks out. Body taut with anxiety, the only part of him that moves is his foot inside its cowboy boot. Tap, tap-tap, tap, tap, tap. His friends laugh with nervousness and hold hands in a circle to screw up the courage to face the crowd. And him? He sits in a corner tapping. Years of living with a father whose insatiable thirst cast a shadow on his home has had its effect. Earlier today he had an attack, the anxiety crushing him and stopping all speech. Now all I can hear in the darkness is the tap, tap, tap-tap. 

The lights come up, and the tapping stops, then moves stage right and out in front of them, the eyes. All of the eyes. My breath catches. And then I hear his voice. He is no longer the cowerer, the tapper. He is someone else, and he is magnificent. 

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Lanky, tall, straggly hair, acne. The new kid who fits all the stereotypes. Dad says he never would have guessed he'd ever see his shy son on a stage. Mom says he's learning to fit in.

He says he feels like a celebrity.

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He had missed it again, for the third time this week. The whole thing sunk because the words...they just weren't there. The more he tried to find them, the more elusive they became. His tongue felt swollen with embarrassment. He couldn't really apologize anymore. Even those words started escaping.

And tonight? Tonight is the real deal. Shaking, he clasps the gavel, lifts the curtain, and strides out. I listen intently as word after word drop like leaves in a stream, one, then another, then another. Soon the whole stream is full of leaves, the whole room is full of words. The last echo dies, and he exits.

He comes back into the dark broken only by the light of my flashlight, and I can't stop looking at him. I've never seen such unabashed joy fill up a person. I'm seeing something odd, something unexpected. I'm seeing redemption wearing nothing but a bolo tie and a smile that lights up like a crescent moon. 

Gift

My oldest brother, Andrew, lives in Alaska with his lovely wife Wendy and their four kids. Before they moved two years ago, they had lived just a mile up the road from my parents for twenty years. Needless to say, they left a large hole in the fabric of Nanticoke when they left.

Upon arriving at my apartment a couple of weeks ago, I found a package lying in front of my door. The postmark? Alaska. Surprised, I hurried inside to open it. Nestled inside was a note and a china doll.

I had an inordinate love for dolls as a child. My brother must have remembered this about his baby sister when he spotted this one.

The sentimentality of the gesture struck me with a wave of missing.

A few days after she arrived, my niece requested pictures. They're below.

Can you guess why Andy wanted to send me this doll?

Odd post, yes. But I'm in an unapologetically sentimental mood right now.

So there.

Godric

Saint mingles with sinner, and I can see your heart. The heart that longs for purging, seeks purity in the waters of the Wear.

My heart is of a piece with yours. It, too, bleeds the ugly and the beautiful. The ugly comes from me; the beautiful comes from my Father. 

I understand you, you who are so caught in the weakness of your frame, the flesh that holds your soul. I know you, for my soul, too, is bound. 

You deny the name that you were given, saying you are no saint. You shout, you rave, for you know the self within. 

Haste the day when you and I are gone and only He remains, the Christ living in us.