Vol IV: #52 Mario and the Truth

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A few years ago I met a young man named Mario. He was 22 at the time, married, and searching for the truth about God and Jesus and whatever Christianity is. When I met him he told me part of his story which included betrayal and bewilderment and having his church world burned to the ground during the pandemic. He was a pastor’s sun with a heart of his city. And when he wanted to stand on integrity he was told he was idealistic and immature, that standing up for his American rights was more important than keeping promises (i.e. yes = yes, no = no.) He was broken when I met him. His wife too.

Last Sunday, Mario told me how he appreciated our friendship. He said I let him be himself, and in doing so helped heal a wound from “older men.” My gut recoiled at the phrase older men, but I know what he’s getting at. I am old enough to be his dad, and it was the old men in the church who betrayed him. They cut him down when he wanted to preserve the integrity of the church.

What drew me to Mario was his honesty and I like that our relationship is built on truth telling. And yesterday as Mario and I watched Italian soccer and discussed a variety of topics, an ache grew inside my chest. I wish all my relationships were built on trust and honesty.

Fortunately, my relationships with the majority of my close friends and family are built on truth. For that, I’m thankful. But, I still have a small but important set of friends and family that are not about truth or integrity. Those relationships are built on something else and I’m not sure what that something is. Loneliness? Common interests? Shared history? Not that common interest or history is bad, but without the truth they all suffer. We hide from each other and avoid the task of accountability. Instead of iron sharpening iron, we iron avoiding iron, contnt to hold onto our fears and misery. It’s exhausting.

And, I’m as guilty as they are. Without question. I’m 50% of the problem, maybe even 51%. Why 51%? Because I know we’re both suffering. I know that without the truth and being honest with each other, our relationship is slowly dying. For example, I know my roommate resents me for any number of my choices both recent and not so recent. But he’d rather “be nice.” Like a good southern boy, he shoves his feeling and thoughts deep in his back pocket with all the other unsaid offenses from all the other people in his life. And that back pocket is about to burst.

And so, yesterday, I prayed and wondered how to repair something so clearly broken, and not just with my roommate, but with the other as well. My aim isn’t to burn their faces off. I merely want to set our relationship on a proper foundation. And I don’t know how to do that, because…I’m scared. I know it. The one common factor with these broken relationships is the fear I have of losing the relationship by being honest. And so I perpetuate the brokenness. Didn’t I say I was 51% of the problem?

Thank God for Mario and my relationship with him. Thank God for my relationship with my mom and dad. And thank God for the courage and grace to come. I hope I find the will to do my part, to heal what’s busted and hurting.

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Abstract: Made To Suffer

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For many years, I tried to hide.

At first, from shame and then pain, and finally from suffering.

I stuffed myself into football, pornography, church, and the bottle.

Later, I found more morally acceptable, yet shadowy places labeled purpose and destiny. 

I was convinced I could work my way away from shame and heart break, from sin even, by finding the proper path.

That my life would be tranquil and easy if only I obeyed God. 

What immaturity and foolishness.

Grief and agony are like bloodhounds, and they will find me wherever I hide.

Down crooked alley ways and in pitch black closets, they will sniff me out with bailing woofs and hollers. 

And now I know, in life, there is no era or destination devoid of death, offense, or pain.

Believe what you will, but loved ones will suffer and die, joy will be stolen, and your treasured mind will not be able to mend the cracks in your reality.

All who live, will suffer. And no amount of money or Holy Ghost will change it. 

The clear message I now hear, from the Lord, has not been about my suffering, but of that which will come.

And I can run or stand- suffer the joyless days of a coward, or the noble plight of a man.

For with holy men, those He calls brothers, nothing we do is in vain. 

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Short: Unprepared, West Virginia

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(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)

Brad arrived on time early the next morning. His eyes were glassy and his little red volkswagen smelled like the inside of a bong. I’d told Brad the rules for the trip and he’d decided to blaze up one last time because- as he put it- it’ll be a while. I glared at him and simmered. “I’ll drive,” I said as I slung my duffle onto the back seat. Then I held out my hand for the key. Brad nearly closed his left eye and cocked his head as he looked at me. He almost began to speak but stopped placing the key into my extended hand instead. A few minutes later we were motoring up 77 and bopping along to Led Zepplin and whatever else he’d loaded onto his iPod.

In Virginia, we pulled off for gas at a truck stop in Wytheville. The Buzzing K is one of those truck stops with a restaurant, private showers, and a lot lizard or two. I’d stopped there many times before on family trips and thought of it as a sort of redneck tourist attraction. When I opened my car door a freezing gust of air smacked me in the face and I bristled.

“Ha!” Brad laughed and pointed to my flip flops and khakis cargo shorts. They were red Tommy Bowham flip flops, the kind that look cool in the store but hurt your feet after a few hours of walking. And I can’t remember why I decided to wear shorts.

“You’re a real boy scout,” he snorted before jogging inside for snacks.

As I pumped gas, I began to shiver. And then I turned away from the gas station and the lights to noticed large white dots on the Appalachian Mountains to the west. And though the day was clear and sunny, dark purple and gray clouds loomed beyond the ridge. I closed my eyes and pulled the bitter cold deep into my lungs. I hope Brad buys me a hotdog or hot slice of pizza, I thought. And just as I finished pumping gas, Brad hurried back with arm loads of snacks and drinks.

“Whadda ya get?”

“Oh man. Dude. Lemme tell ya. They have these nuts, pecans, and they have all kinds of flavors- caramel, hot and salty, and vanilla. I got all three. Here try one. Do want water water or gatorade or Red Bull?”

I took what looked to be a caramel pecan and ate it. It was delicious and warm, and soon I ate most of the bag, stopping only to be polite. Brad hardly noticed. He munched his way through several small bags of corn chips and polished off an energy drink as we crossed from Virginia into West Virginia via the East River Mountain Tunnel. We held our breath as long as possible and I won. Brad coughed and wheezed like an old man. And on the other side of the mountain, in West Virginia, the white dots I saw earlier were now at ground level and the tops of the mountains were purple and blue against the low November sun.

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By the time we turned off 77 and found Route 52 from Bluefield to Welch, Brad was sober. And our discussion was now more focused and thoughtful. He asked me more questions about our project and responsibilities and I did my best to answer them. And as we passed through the small town of Bluewell, the electronic sign outside Bluewell Community Bank read 23º. Brad noticed too and began to belly laugh.

“I hope you’ve got more than short and flips flops.”

I did not. Not much more, for warmth a pair of running shoes, a pair of sweat pants and my faded red hoodie. No gloves or winter coat. No blue jeans. And the weather would not improve.

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Vol IV: #51 Kids With Cancer

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On the topic of suffering, I think I’ve lived my entire life thinking I could avoid it. And I tried to, yep. I did. At first, I through myself into pleasurable pursuits. Who doesn’t love a good numbing out? Then I thought other people had the answers. And most recently, I thought I could hack life in such away to avoid suffering and grief. But, and write this will all mirth and and seriousness, that’s bullshit too. Not even God keeps us from suffering and He never promises too. Matter fact, our Lord and savior gives us instruction on how to handle pain and persecution when it comes. And, I believe the early church embraced it.

Yet, somewhere between then and now, we started to believe we could avoid the worst of the worst. Perhaps it’s living in the West, owning cars and video phones and being able to press a small screen to find the right fix for any of our endless needs. And aren’t we entitled? Don’t we deserve better than slow internet and idiots on the road? I mean come on. How dare my dad get cancer or my best friend’s brother die young? What kind of a world is this? Eh? Don’t ruin my of utopia with your reality.

It’s so bad that people stop believing in God when they encounter real adversity. As CS Lewis put it, their “faith [is] revealed to be nothing more than a house of cards.” Of course, some people choose to become resentful of God as if he promised them nothing but sugar fairy farts and days of endless spring sun. How dare we suffer? I mean really. That whole book of Job, enslavement in Egypt, the Exodus, David’s time in the caves, the second enslavement in Babylon, the Cross, the stoning of Stephen, the death of the Apostles, the persecution the of the early church, all that crap, that’s not for me. Right? I’m better than all that.

And yet we know better. I know better. And it’s time I accept it. I’ve suffered in my life. Some of it because of me and some because of others. And the choice we all have to be a bitter, joyless coward- shivering the corner hoping not to been seen, or… we can shine. Through the mist and the darkness, in the face of whatever may come. Burn and shine and fight until the candle is melted and all over the floor. And then when it’s our time, I hope our smoke lingers longer than most.

Regardless, don’t ask me about kids with cancer. What can I say about it that will make it better? Answer: not a damn thing. It sucks. Shitty shit is real and the only legit question is how are we gonna respond?

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Vol IV: #50 FOUR MONTHS!!

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I can’t believe I went exactly four months between installments of West Virginia. HOLY CRAP. That’s insanely too long between installments. And all I can do now is laugh. Seriously. No point in beating myself up, but also…wtf, Nik. LOLOLOL.

In fairness to myself, I needed time to decided the direction of West Virginia. While I’m using my very real experience to shape and move the story, I needed to add fictional plot lines and people. And some details will be a blend of moments or people. For example, instead of having two roommates, I’ll only have the one, named Malik. And Malik will be two parts roommate, one part fiction. And for me, this is the hard part of realistic fiction, deciding which people and details to preserve, what to cut, and what to make up. (Gary and Mary was almost complete fiction, which was fun. My memory didn’t box me in.)

Anyway. Hope you had a good Monday.

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Short: Prepared, West Virginia

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(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)

After coffee with Brad, I felt better about West Virginia. And, with a little more than a month before the event, I began to plan a menu for the volunteers. It’s at this point in the story where I need to admit, I’d never been given such a responsibility before, though I was strangely confident I could pull it off. For starters, my roommate Malik, had managed several restaurant kitchens and I picked his brain on the subject of feeding large groups of hungry college kids.

Breakfast was simple- scrambled eggs, bacon cooked on sheet trays in the oven, same for the breakfast sausage and biscuits. And to provide a few more options, we’d also set out apples and bananas, a selection instant oatmeals, and bagels with cream cheese and jams. For lunch, each student would make a sandwich from the provided stacks of ham, turkey, and cheese, then select a snack or two- chocolate chip cookies, potato chips, and more apples and bananas.

The only real challenge was dinner each night. The group would arrive late (after dinner) on Friday evening, then head home after breakfast the nextthe Wednesday. The schedule meant I had to come up with four meals. And on Malik’s advice, I opted to meals with big carbs and plenty of protein. In world of professional cooking, that means potatoes smashed, pasta, ground beef, and chicken thighs. Happy with my menu of spaghetti with meat sauce, chicken noodle soup with grilled cheese sandwiches, lasagna, and roasted chicken with smashed potatoes and peas, I picked Malik’s brain again.

“Hey man, uh, how much chicken do I need for the soup? And the roast?” I asked a week before.

From his seat on the coach he turned to me and took a moment to let the question settle in his mind. Then he chuckled to himself. “Boy, you don’t know shit, do you?”

“Nope. I do not.” I laughed back.

Then Malik explained to me the concepts of yield. I soaked up as much as possible. After lecture on meat which sheds water and fat while cooking, Malik went on about pasta, which gains weight. After the conversation and some quick calculations, I was set.

* * *

The day before Brad and I were set to ride up to West Virginia, I was hit by a waves of doubt and anxiety. Why did Jonathan call me? Who else did he call? And why did they say no? Am I a sucker? And I was most worried I’d munk up dinner every night. That evening, I spent on the back porch with Malik. We sipped beers and talked football. Then he asked for more details about the adventure to come, but I had little to offer. And then I asked him about his girlfriend, which required the rest of the evening to unpack. It was fine conversation, which when combined with a few beers, eased my mind about the days ahead. And while I was thankful for the calm moment, I completely forgot to check the weather forecast for Welch.

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Vol IV: #49 What We Allow

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In what I’ll label an intense conversation, someone recently told me his girlfriend would rather accept the creepy advances of a jerk on Instagram than rebuke the bastard or block him. Apparently, she’s afraid of “what he might do if she hurts his feelings.” My heart broke for the stupid girl. At a young age she’s already learned to lay down and take the misery.

And look, I get it. Most women learn to be weak and accept the bullshit lobbed their way by society- mostly by men. The physical difference is real. But for all the rah-rah women empowerment of the last fifty years, the lay down and take it mentality is completely unacceptable. By God and Heaven above, I will never teach that fearful way to live to any little girl proceeding from my loins. (Nor any son.) I teach them to use guns and fight and whatever is necessary to be strong and powerful.

And to clearly state my position, I’m not talking about picking a fight with every jackass. Wisdom is a our best friend and will steer us away from fights better left unfought. But, in general, I’m talking about refusing to take shit- abuse, unwanted advances, and tyrannical treatment- from other people. The acceptance of abuse leads to all sorts of brokenness in our lives: poor physical health, internalized resentment, and mental problems. (And yes, we can and do abuse ourselves.) In the end, when we accept abuse, we are saying we don’t deserve better. We agree with the abuser’s judgement and wickedness directed at our being. This can’t be.

That poor girl is making a dangerous choice by accepting the creepy messages from an idiot. And that’s what I told her partner.

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Abstract: Vice

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What is a vice?

Anything that squeezes an object into an unnatural position or state.

It’s something that holds us down, or rather, we allow to hold us in place.

Slowly pushing our insides out until we die from the crush of its weight.

And a vice can take many forms, easily available at your local store.

There’s plastic or heavy metal, drugs and porn, voyeurism and gossip.

Anything to keep us distracted from the task of moving forward,

from fighting our fears and shame,

whatever says look at me and not today.

A vice is the thing we do instead of choosing Him.

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Abstract: Winter in Northern California

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In the winter, all over the South where I grew up, the grass is dead and the trees are bare and gray.

And the remnants of autumn is all brown and fully dead.

But out here, though cold and rainy, a strange beauty blooms through the frost and occasional snow.

The yellow of summer is now replaced with brilliant green grass,

and mosses have erupted from their slumber and cling to the dormant branches and limbs of the oaks and firs.

And under the oaks are rings of yellow and orange chanterelles pushing through the damp earth.

And then out on the horizons to the east and west and north, glorious mountains.

All bundled in snow and gleaming under the low sun.

It’s not the winter wonderland of song, but it is a wonderful land all the same.

I enjoy the rhythm of winter up here, away from a big city and all that distracts us from creation.

This is California too, may it never change.

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Vol IV: #48 Writing and Writing, Update

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Hi everyone. Just a quick note. I’ve begun to focus more on my novel, which means less blog. But, rather than make excuses, I want to get back to blogging and crafting short stories. It’s a good outlet and I enjoy having short term goals. Accordingly, I will finish each of the three short stories I have in progress by the mid-March. Those being West Virginia, The Mountain, and O Charlie. Trying to write three at a time was not smart, so I’ll focus on finishing West Virginia, then O Charlie, and finish with The Mountain.

That’s it. Short and sweet today. (As for the novel, I’ve backed up a bit and focused on outline- completed- and have now begun character sketches. I needed to determine the order of events and build out my character to determine how they’d interact as the story unfolds. All good stuff.)

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Vol IV: #48 Vices Aren’t Good For Us

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As I watched the run up to the Super Bowl, I sat amazed at the attention given to online betting. And then a thought walked through my mind last week, didn’t we use to believe all this stuff was bad for us? And by stuff I include drugs and porn with gambling. Not to mention fast food, chips and candy, what we called junk food. Literally. And then junk food became ubiquitous at every highway exit and shopping mall. Of course now, Taco Bell and McDonald’s are on demand via your favorite delivery app.

At the risk of sounding like an old man, WTF? Why is the worst of what we are the easiest to access? And it’s more than that. The ability to gossip, slander, or creepily watch other people live their lives is also greater than ever. And as I wrote above, didn’t we believe all this was sin? Was bad for us? Isn’t it still?

Admittedly, I get it. We’re all avoiding pain- of loss, but also of failure. It’s easier to watch someone live their life or drink away grief than it is to chase a dream. I know this because I’m no better than anyone at having my vices. Only when I actively try to stop entertaining them do I become keenly aware of their draw and hold over me. And yet, I know every time I watch a YouTube video about zit popping or life in Korea, I’m avoiding my life, my calling, and my destiny. Apparently, most of us are. Lord, help us.

(If it needs to be said: Eating Taco Bell isn’t a sin, in itself, but over-eating, binge eating, and generally neglecting your body is. Using social media isn’t a sin, but voyeurism- the social act of watching other people as a form of pleasure- is. Drugs are bad. Porn is worse. And gambling is how people become poor.)

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Vol IV: #47 A Death and a Baby

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On Saturday, mere moments apart, I existed at each end of the life cycle. Both in the extreme. In the first, I learned of a dream made reality, when I happened upon posted pictures of a newborn baby girl and her smiling adoptive parents. What a joyful surprise. My friends tried for nearly a decade to produce a child, managed several failed adoptions, and now they have their blessing. I thanked the Lord and messaged several friends to spread the good news. And then as life does, a few minutes later I received a call, the kind you know isn’t good and you brace for the worst. In this case, a step-cousin only a few years younger than me gave into to his hopelessness. His father found his body that morning.

Ever since, I’ve felt ripped open, my thoughts and emotions spilling out randomly. I didn’t know my step-cousin very well, but I know his father, my uncle, and his step-mom, my aunt. And I hate what they’re going through. But, more than that, I hate that my step-cousin gave up. To be clear, I’m not mad at him. And if you- my reader- can hear this, suicide is last act of a once compassionate person. Someone who listened to the sirens for far too long. They falsely assume they are worthless and empty and unloveable, and that their death will no bare effect on the world. The hole labeled suicide is a nasty dark pit of lies and pain. Once inside it, the logic of suicide becomes clear: there is no way out, if I die, I will not feel any more pain. Psychopaths take their pain out on the world. My step-cousin took his pain out on himself. And even though I can rationalize all of this shit, I’m still angry. Feels like the enemy got one.

To counter my grief, I’ve tried to kept the miracle baby near the front of my mind. It helps soothe my spirit, to remember the goodness of God, and to anticipate more updates from my friends. I can’t wait to hear their stories and anecdotes related to parenting, a future joy in waiting. What a wonderfully shitty place to be in life.

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