A: Never Alone

Loneliness is more often a state of mind than my reality. 

I have, in moments of self-hatred and denial, felt the sting of loneliness, on my birthday, surrounded by my friends, who were in the room to celebrate my life. 

My loneliness was was form of self-belittlement, and the older I grew the more I knew something was amiss. Akin to self-imposed isolation, it stemmed from an insecure crack in my chest, when I craved approval and validation. I’d slink into my hovel desperately hoping for anyone to break through and scream “I LOVE YOU NIK, YOU ARE GOOD MAN, AND YOU ARE BRILLIANT, AND KIND, AND FUNNY, AND CUTE, AND ALL THE THINGS A GOOD MAN IS.” 

It was an evil game with no winner. 

During the summer of 2020, I spent as much time by myself as I have ever spent alone. And yet, loneliness did not come calling. The solid truth is I never was or ever will be alone. 

I am loved.

I am worthy of love.

I love myself. 

And He, the Goodness and Gracious Gifter of Life, is always with me. 

A: Ode to Bo

He stood up straight, and wore his confidence like a crown. His broad face and iron stare preached louder than any sermon.

This was the greatest athlete you ever saw.

He glided on the football field, until he needed to charge. It’s uncommon to see such grace and swift feet attached to body of a bulldozer. In a world full of fast men, and strong men, he was both. In the same violent body.

But we are not talking about a mere football player. No. No-no-no.

For then we turn to the outfield. And out on the grass, he was there. Upright and focused. Like a video game glitch, he ran up walls in defiance of gravity and logic, unleashed throws that captured the attention of all baseball, and manufactured the prettiest swing in generations.

No. Bo was no ordinary man. We are ordinary. He was extraordinary.

And life being life, it was all gone on a lazy Sunday afternoon. One show-stopping injury against the Cincinnati Bengals, of all teams, ended this brilliant display of athletic glory.

I can mourn the loss of something so good, and find gratitude in the same space. Bo Jackson is not a myth or fairy tale. I was a witness, the greatest athlete I ever saw.

A: Peace In the Fog

He lingered in the mist. His face wet and cold, but not weary. “Memory is a tough chain to break,” he admitted. But soon after, his feet touched earth to the rhythm of a stride, to where he could not answer. Deeper into the mist he went. 

Alone in the endless gray cloud, he began to ponder his life back in the old sloppy house. Though he hated it, the routine and ease were comfortable. Predictable. Almost bearable. And still, always a shadow, a derivative of what could be. Never the gospel of genuine substance or Love. 

To be in the fog, walking toward an unknown destination was a feat of itself. He battled to leave his tiny dark room, plugged his ears to ignore the shouts of apathy and desperation as he ran down the hallway. And then at the last, he forced himself from the porch, the last visible place of safety, into the Midst. 

He wanted a plan, a goal, a point on the map, anything to rest his mind while he strolled. Everything inside him told him he needed a plan, because “it’s responsible.” At nearly 40, how could he look a woman in the face, a potential companion and confess he did “not have a goal?” (He did have a goal, but who wants to hear a grown man say his life goal is to walk with Jesus everyday, into this great expanse? To allow life to dip and duck and rise without doubt? To be himself?)  

Without warning or needed explanation, Wisdom rose within him. He stopped to focus on the voice within.

“You no longer need a plan or a goal. You’ve done the will of the Father. You’ve leap into faith, and go daily into the Midst, to know and to be known by the Lord. I promised to see to everything else in your life. And so I shall. You keep walking into the Midst. I’ll get you where you need to be.” 

He continued to stand in the fog, no longer interested in the destination. His future will be with the others in the mist, not the miserables back in the house. In the mist, they will understand his heart and his joy. They will not find comfort or have need for elaborate blueprints of control. “Goodbye house mind,” he chuckled. In all his years he never felt the peace he felt in that moment. His mind no longer focused on the future, but on Jesus the Christ. 

A: From Safe into the Mystery

In silence my dream vanished. The safety and hope of my glossy future disappeared like the make-believe it was, and I possessed nothing to bring it to life. I was empty-handed as ever.

Faithfully, I opened my eyes to reality, to my pathetic room in a sloppy old mansion. “Why had I settled here?” I wondered. The only sign of hope was the light which beamed through the thin window at the far corner of the room. The brightness covered the dark, but only where it could. Still, the glow was warm and invited me onward. 

For a beat, I thought about going back to my dream, a return to the shelter of my fantasies. However, on this day, the light seemed too pure to ignore. And as I gazed upon it, I became aware of a sweet aroma leaking through the walls. In combination with the light, they were too much to spurn. 

My courage rising, I reviewed what I knew about the bright light, sweet scent, and all Mystery beyond this broken place. In my youth I dared touch it. I dared to believe I could move beyond my need for dreams and comfort. I dared to join my place in Creation. 

I gave my dreams one more consideration, how perfect they seemed. Then the reality of the tiny room began to speak. “Those dreams are not where you live, they are where you escape. How long will you hide in this room? Dreaming dreams, but never living life?”

“But Lord, what if I fail at being me?” 

“Come with Me, and I will carry you into the future.”

After years of dreaming, the decision made itself. Slowly I swung my feet to the floor, and staggered through the door. My weary legs, acting on their own accord, led me down the hallway. On either side I saw tiny room after tiny room. Like my tiny room, no doors. Like mine, each one filled with a single person. 

In some were people dreaming like me, forever focused on the future. Their smiling faces disconnected from their wretched decaying bodies.

On I went until I passed a respectable looking young woman, alone in her chair, facing the door. As I shuffled past, she yelled, “The fuck do you think you’re doing? There’s nothing out there. GO BACK TO YOUR ROOM!”

I didn’t stop to contemplate her words. I couldn’t. My mind was set to give my heart the breath it needed. 

Near the end of the hall I heard the cries of those terrorized by the night. They begged for relief, yet when help came they rolled over to start again. Back to the horrors. Among the voices I heard her, the voice of my sister. I raced to her room. From the doorway I screamed, “Wake up!! JOIN ME!” Tears fell from my face, as I wailed in vain. She didn’t hear me. She couldn’t. 

Sadly, I found the staircase leading away from this hall of pain. I stopped for a moment, a thousand miserable voices behind me. On cue the One small voice whispered, “Trust Me.” 

Without delay, down the steps and onto the front porch I ran. The light was bright on my face, the scent of the outside air sweeter than ever. I shielded my eyes until they adjusted to the new. As they focused I stood in shock by what I saw. 

From the thin window in my tiny room I never quite knew what lay beyond, but now I stood face to face with a thick, misty fog. And though I felt it beckon me onward, panic wrapped my heart. 

“Lord, what is this? This isn’t a plan. Where do I go? What do I do?”

“Come into the mist. Grab my hand. Let Me lead.”

“Trust Me.” 

“Lord, I’m afraid. I don’t know what to do.” 

“Trust Me.”

And not wanting to go back, not to the tiny room, to the unfilled dreams, and hopeless hopes. I tripped forward. The sloppy fear at my back no longer dreaming, I marched into the unknown. Off the porch into the great Mystery I slipped, my hand in His. 

A: Death, A Sweet Friend

We fight rage and battle, ultimately to fail. Run, hide, punch, scream, none of it matters.

He arrives on time, taking what He came for. Death. The thief of life. 

But what if Death is our friend, not our sacred enemy?

Death leaves gifts we need but open. In the space where life was He always leaves what will be. What could be. But being flawed, being beings in need of order and shelter, we try to hide from His blessings. 

We build towering monuments to our pain. Swear by our lives to never visit Death’s gate again. As if we have the ability to control Him. 

No, Death is not the enemy. When a bright hour is gone, a loved one in decay, and a hope smashed into shards of grief, Death’s purpose is to carry it away. The remains of what was, to clear our ground for new life. For new hopes and dreams, and stages for joy and peace. 

A: He Remained

Every blow I absorbed, each crash to the ground, and all the hoards...did not take me down. I thought they would. But looking for reasons why, I agonized over each calamity and judged myself (a creation of the King) to be unworthy. Why else would life punch, push, and fight me? Try to murder me? 

Answer, life did not value me. This world and all of its cruel routines did not want me. My heart slunk back into a deep musty hole. We settled for a half life. In fear we longed to be loved, to be needed. In fear we stayed in its depression. I was worthless.

Yet always and without relent, He remained. Dark day and endless night, He kept watch. Through stinging rain and ripping wind, He stood unmoved. Through depression and suicide, addiction and late night porn binges, He waited. Through self-sabotaging pride and aimless dreaming, He lingered still. Through profane curses, annoying grumbles, cynical rants, and disbelief, He patiently sat outside my prison for me.

Despite my attempts to block Him out, to believe I was not worth His effort- nothing I did, nothing I said, no thought I beheld- sent Him away. And in the waiting He proved Himself true. What the world thinks, whatever it believes about me, however it decides to treat me, I AM WORTHY OF THE KING.   

A: Two Paths in the Desert

Two paths diverged in the California high desert,
And tired of trying to travel both
And be one traveler, far too long I stood
And looked down the way I knew
To where my efforts faded to ash, and my soul broke;

Then I took the other, without pause,
And fearing what lie ahead, but undeterred,
Because it was steep and want for wear;
Though as for that the passing there
I knew I’d never be the same,

And both lay as ever that Sunday morning,
Ready to be worn to black.
Oh, I left the first, never to return.
And knowing now how Way leads on to Way,
I know I will never turn back.

I shall be yelling this with boldness
Everywhere for ages and ages hence:
My roads diverged in the desert and I—
I took the Way less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Yes, this is a redux the famous Robert Frost poem “The Road Not Taken.” 

A: Three Years, Old

I was three years-old. I did what three year-olds do on a quiet Thursday afternoon, sat on my bedroom floor and pushed matchbox cars through the beige carpet. I enjoyed the mostly empty house and the unsupervised alone time. 

The peace was shattered when the phone rang. It rang just once, and I heard the muffled voice of my father answer. Unaware of the life changing moment about to unravel, I continued to be a three years-old. 

I’ll never forget the light through my bedroom window that day. It was early evening soft. The kind when the sun hangs low in the sky and shadows are long. I’ll never forget my room. It was clean, or as clean as a room will be when shared by two brothers. Beds made. Clothes hung neatly in the closest. Life seemed to be in order. 

Two ticks later, my father exploded into my room. Tears flowed down his red face, snot dribbled from his nose, and streaks of saliva connected his lips as he weeped. Forever frozen in time is my father, my broken, grieving father, and the words he whispered as he scooped me up from the floor, “Uncle Todd is dead.” 

Instantly, matchbox cars were unimportant. Being three years-old was irrelevant. My immediate mission, my new calling, was to console my father. More than that, to heal him. But how? 

It was the first time I felt old and hopeless. I was done being a three years-old. 

I desperately long to go back to April 19th, 1984. I want warn that boy, to tell him awful shit is going to happen in life. He’s not called to be a super hero. Be a kid Nik! Be content to play on the floor, to take pleasure in simple moments! Your dad never intended to transfer his grief to you. He never asked you to carry his sorrow. 

Thirty-six years later, I still want to fix it. I want my uncle to live and my father to have his brother. What a creative miracle it would be. 

Today, I closed my eyes, and I saw him. That three year-old. I smiled at him, and he waved me closer. I walked closer and he held up his arms. As I picked him up he whispered, “awful shit is going to happen. Your calling is not to fix humanity. Be childlike. Be content to make messes on the floor. Find joy where ever you are. Our Father never intended any grief to transfer to you. He never asked you to carry anyone’s sorrow.

It’s time. Let go.”