Beyond the Will of the Soul

Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear. You are someone else, I am still right here.

-Nine Inch Nails, Hurt

..Tears from a Stone..

I am out of practice. This is the reality of the situation. I tell myself that I do not want to write because I have nothing left to say, but the constant nagging of thoughts suggests otherwise. Though there be atrophy, there is still will left to flex these emotions.

My father killed himself ten years ago today. Ten years seem so long that it is almost funny. How can someone just disappear for that long? Did he really exist, or was he just some elaborate fantasy? He seems like a fantasy, but perhaps only because my sole interactions with him these days take place in my mind, and in the deep places of my heart, that is, when my heart is unprepared.

I have willed my heart to be stone toward him. It isn’t an issue of malice against my father, but rather an act of survival- I simply cannot spend my days longing to see him. My heart grew a callus through continual thought and emotional stimulation. The callus thickened as the phantom persisted in agitating it. The feeling grew dull as the callus calcified to stone. Ten years of hard labor will turn hands into rock. Likewise, a decade of unrelenting, dissatisfied thoughts and desires turn emotions into brick. The itch cannot be scratched, and so I am done with feeling for him.

But I am not, not really.

Years of clutching a rock in your chest is wearisome, though I will tell you that it is less burdensome than attempting to fill the vacuum this rock entombs. I suppose writing this is an act of survival as well lest this rock in my chest grow to become my tombstone.

This is not fair. I did not ask for this. But that does not really matter. Reality often demonstrates its power over us by pushing aside those things we think unbreakable, including our own sense of justice or equity. So though I acknowledge that this situation is awful and not fair, I do not wish to harp on that. The time for lamenting these particular facts has passed and I have already reflected on them in other essays. This current work is not intended to be a repeat of previous works. There is another topic I wish to explore, though I am unsure of what it is or how to even start upon it. I merely see it from the corner of my mind.

I want to say that I will never forgive my father for killing himself, but I already have and absolutely would do again without question. Besides which I do not really want to say that- I just really want to be able to want that. I suppose that is the stone trying to crush him as it winds up crushing me instead.

I can no longer live with a heart of stone anymore. It will be impossible to love my wife as I should with a heart that can only operate to defend itself by suppressing my feelings. So I have to just deal with this:

Ten years of the lack of you…

The reality of future decades without you…

You will never meet my wife…

You will not attend my wedding…

You will not hold any grandchildren…

This is too much. I need to take a break.

..Mine Shaft..

Feeling for the edges- imaginary fingers tracing out the grooves of an imaginary hole that is sealed by an imaginary rock. Gaining a grip and sighing deeply. Lifting up the stone and peering into the hole. Empty as usual.

Empty, yet present all the same as I climb into the darkness and explore the mine shaft yet again. I explored this darkness for several years searching for answers. I didn’t really find any that satisfied my need to see my dad or to fight my dad or to hug my dad. Back then there was only wisdom to be found. Great, painful chunks of it. And here I am attempting to hoist more of it up.

..The Me in Me..

It has been weeks since I have last written anything, but this has been on my mind near constantly. Just staring into this hole, willing these words to manifest on their own or to have the burden of them go away. Neither option has availed itself so far. So here comes another attempt to manually execute this procedure, though really I am looking for any excuse to step away from the computer.

Sometimes I imagine just staring at you to see if I can remember what you looked like and how you acted. I imagine you staring back at me and I wonder what you would think of what you saw. And sometimes we will say mean things to each other, but then I realize that it’s just me saying mean things to myself in order to make a rift between us.

I cannot cope apparently. And I cannot imagine you saying kind or encouraging things to me. This is not because you were not kind or encouraging- I just cannot cope with those words or actions. I cannot cope with exploring the loss of your love and affection. To no longer have access to your love has been devastating. And I cannot imagine it because it was your unique and personal love. That is something that just cannot be synthesized in memory or imagination, no matter how long or well I knew you. It would involve encapsulating you, and you were just too big to take up permanent residence in my heart or mind.

I miss you and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Denial and silence are a delusion- you seep through any wall I build up. I want to love you, but I feel like I just collect that love in a bucket and pour it onto the ground where all it does is foster weeds.

I suppose that isn’t true, but sometimes it feels like it. I can be as dramatic as you were sometimes.

I feel like a ghost. Not in any sort of spectral or otherworldly way, but in the sense of being unnoticed. Of course, I know that people notice me, but they cannot see me wandering in my own head looking for you. That is what I mean. People see me, but they do not see the me in me. And now this is conflated because is this about my personality, or is this about you? More than likely it is both.

The me in me is at a loss for words. The me in me still misses you desperately and has not been okay just carrying on life without you. This is the me that is still sad about all the unresolved issues that will remain unresolved. This is who is encapsulated within me, not you. The conversations I have with you are really just conversations that I have with myself, or rather the person I remember you to be. In the end it is all still just me. You will never answer me and never comfort me, and that is the hard part about all of this: you did this terrible thing and now it is on me to not just deal with it, but to move past it. And that means moving past myself. Moving past the part of me that is tied up with you.

Is me in me still angry? Sure, sometimes.

Is me in me still sad? Absolutely.

Is me in me noticed? I do not allow him to be.

I do not know what to do about this but walk away for a while. This is not what I imagined.

..Glance..

I’m a keen observer, or rather, I try to be. I notice little things that typically go unseen because of their function. Droplets of water on a cobweb. The fine scales of a dragonfly’s wing. The pattern of sunlight that draws its way across my bedroom ceiling throughout the course of a day. Little things that call no attention to themselves, but just exist as a result of how the world works. And in these observations I attempt to draw greater meanings and motivations.

I apply this same principle with people. Especially with their facial expressions when they think they are unnoticed. People are wonderful when they are in a state of social ambiguity. They are their genuine selves in a system of lives and physics that makes everything seem insignificant except the greater whole of the total’s immensity. To notice a person’s small role in the greater machine is to take note of the craftsmanship of that machine and wonder at its goal. Furthermore, to see the subtleties that undergird that role reveals a person’s humanity. It lets you know that you are not alone in the immensity of this life, and that others are just as important and complex as you are.

I glance at people as they walk by me or wait in line or sip their coffee or take a break on a bench. Where do their eyes wander? Do they connect with mine? Do their lips form a hard line or are they smiling? Are they squinting?

From these details I try to discern what I can about them, or rather, about their experience in that given moment. Are they happy or sad or somewhere between? If I know them, does their expression add a layer of depth to their personhood, given what I know of their current or past circumstances? Are they revealing that they are more than what they let on to the world around them? Yes, undoubtedly, but beyond my ability to interpret. My understanding is finite and localized by the breadth of my limited experience and learning. Besides which, subtle winks, grunts, frowns, and hasty scratches are mere shadows of an individual’s identity. How can they do more than merely hint at what is going on in their owner’s mind?

If you were to glance at me, would you know that these words were stored up in my heart? When I stare at the void in my heart, the image I have to represent the absence of my father, what intentions lay behind it? What does the me in me think and experience? When I stare at the image of the void, or my father, or just myself I perceive my redounding ache for him. More than that I feel the weight caused by his absence. I feel the distance of time that separates me from the reality of being able to interact with him. I feel my mind attempting to create him again and again out of mere memory and failing and knowing it is failing. I feel the dissatisfaction of helplessness in not knowing where these feelings are coming from or what I can do about them.

But what beyond that? Mere shadow, thick as wool yet formless as night.

..Word Anvil..

Still round the corner there may wait, A new road or a secret gate, And though I oft have passed them by, A day will come at last when I, Shall take the hidden paths that run, West of the Moon, East of the Sun. -Tolkien

The thoughts do not make any more sense than previously- they just have words now. It is a great effort to wrench from the coalmine of grief logical materials that can be shaped into somewhat cohesive ideas. And they are weak ideas. My ability to comprehend these thoughts and thereby bend them into rationality is limited, and perhaps useless. These emotions and thoughts do not bend easily on the anvil of intellect, and therefore yield a somewhat weakened and incomplete product. My words will never describe what I feel, only the shadows and refractions thereof. I will only ever understand peripherally, and so will only be able to describe abstractly. I will only ever have a sideways glance at the thing that effects me body and soul. I will only be able to experience it and never able to verbalize the experience, not fully or directly anyway.

I must settle for the periphery. I must settle for never being able to fully understand. I must accept that the full understanding of my thoughts and feelings, though they be mine and though I feel the full brunt of their sway, is not mine to have. They are too great to fully know, at least for now. They are like the winds at sea. They cannot be controlled. They exert their power despite my opinions on their method or timing. All that can be done is to move with them. To maneuver with them so as to guide me rather than let them topple or drown me. So rather than attempting to bend the wind of thought with the iron of intellect, perhaps the better approach is to focus the wind into the sail of the heart till I reach the destination of the will of my soul.

..Will of the Soul..

And this is what I will. What I desire. What I see peripherally and feel fully, but will never experience in reality.

I wish my father knew my wife and I wish he could attend our wedding.

I wish my father knew that he was integral to me becoming friends with my wife, though he had passed on several years before I had even formally met her. I want to imagine his face light up as she and I told him how it was the books he gave me to read as a young adult that became the sort of foundation upon which she and I built a dialogue and eventual friendship. He played matchmaker without even knowing it. She and I love him for that. I wish you knew the love she has for you.

I wish you could meet and know my future father-in-law. He is a wonderful man, and he reminds me so much of you (so much sometimes that it hurts). He loves the same books you did, and has the same depth of thought. He reads as voraciously as you did and can converse on any number of subjects, just like you. I am sad that you will never meet him. Your bond to one another would have surpassed the mere obligation of family ties- you would have been friends. Great friends. You wouldn’t have to be lonely anymore.This, of course, creates a paradox in my mind. You died in your loneliness, and it would have been impossible for him to be friends with you before I even knew his daughter. Herein lies a tangle of thoughts and emotions that I make a note of, acknowledging that they will never be mollified in this life.

I wish I could have seen your life turned around. I wish you could have been happy, and that we could revel in our shared happiness together. I wish I could invite you to my home and I wish I could have meals with you again and I wish I could discuss books and ideas with you again and I wish I could watch stupid movies with you again and quote dumb movie lines with you again. I wish I could look forward to possibly placing grandchild after grandchild into your arms, and say, “See?! Can you believe it?! You were right!” I wish these things could take place in reality, and not just in my imagination. I wish I did not have to suppress these thoughts. I wish they didn’t have the power to overtake me and cast a pall upon reality.

I wish I could tell you sorry, or somehow take away the consequences of your actions. Ten years later and I still feel responsible for what you did. I am so sorry. I know I shouldn’t be, but I am. I wish you could tell me it wasn’t my fault. I wish you could take back your last action and come out of hiding.

Herein reality flexes its dominance in the face of what I deem to be fully just desires. Though I will these things to be, they can never be. This is the will of my soul. This is the empty island the sail of my heart leads me to, and it hurts enough to crawl under a heart of stone.

..Isle of Stone..

Are you proud of me? Are you ashamed of me? Do you care that I still care about you? Do you feel the weight of my sorrow as I feel the weight of your absence?

I will never hear your answers with my waking ears, and the only responses I will ever have will be the ones I conjure on my own in the synthesis of memory and imagination. This is unfulfilling, and so I must cast it aside. It cannot matter what you think of me, not anymore.

I hope you would be proud of me, though.

..To be Heard..

I said earlier that I was talking to myself through all of this, but that is not entirely accurate. Obviously, there is you, the reader, who is receiving these thoughts, though you do so peripherally, and not directly. And this is to be expected and it is proper. All reading is a peripheral viewing of a writer’s thoughts. I acknowledge you from the periphery (that is, I acknowledge that you may exist and that you may be reading this), and I thank you for taking the time, whether you mention to me that you read this or not. Even if you happen to find this 100 or 200 years from now and cannot talk to me because I am long gone, I thank you. Around the invisible and unreachable corner connecting life and death I peek over with this written thought and I thank you. Though we only meet here at the juncture of my written thoughts and your reading eyes, I thank you. And that will have to be enough.

God has also been present. Though much of what I have written comes out as introspection and self-talk, it is not without Him peering in. More than that, I am talking to Him in all of it: like carrying on a conversation with one person within earshot of another. This is me peripherally communicating these issues to the Lord.

Why not directly? Maybe this is as direct as I can be with this subject. Being direct merely retreads old paths, and the thoughts expressed in this reflection could not be addressed by the old hikes. I only understand this so much, and I am limited in my ability to describe it. I am unsure how to even ask for help in it. I am hoping that I am communicating loudly enough for God to perceive that I need help, though I am unsure of what kind. And I believe He understands fully, even though I can only communicate abstractly about this to Him.

Though I will my thoughts to go in a certain direction, it is He that guides me beyond the inevitability of my unfulfilled and never-to-be-met desire to see my father in this life. And while He can understand fully and therefore address the issue perfectly, I continue to only understand peripherally, though I experience fully. The thoughts and feelings I can only loosely grab and make simple sense of, He knows in full. For though I stand peripherally to Him, He dwells fully in me. So my thoughts and feelings become His, and He makes them into more than broken dreams. Though I know them as broken, He has me experience them in their restoration.

No, this does not make any sense to me, but just as the feelings and thoughts of grief are greater than my ability to grasp them, so then must their restoration be. All I know is that I am heard and that I am known. I am known not peripherally, but in full. Though I only understand it dully, I experience it fully, and ever more fully. And that will also have to be enough.

..The Years of Mending..

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain it. -Psalm 139:6

These are all broken thoughts. The product of my writing is poor compared to the reality of the experience I feel, though I wish them not to be. Herein reality shows me how much I do not and cannot understand, though I think I have a right to.

What will it be like to be fully mended? To fully know and understand. Again, I only comprehend this peripherally. Oddly enough I only feel this peripherally as well. Words fail here. The only way I can think of describing it is like gaining a new ability, but only understanding that after the fact and not by your own doing.

There are aspects of my grief that I no longer endure, but I only found out in retrospect. I did not do anything to fix them, I merely received the repairs. I walked into them as they waited for me to acknowledge and pick them up. The process felt unbearable, but it made me ready to receive the mending. I pointed out the problems, but I did not fix them because I couldn’t. And yet they got fixed. Again, words fail here. I apologize.

I want this process to be over with, but it is ongoing. Each mending seems to be preparing me for the next issue, which will lead to the next mending. It seems there is no shortage of things to be fixed about me, and each fix seems like a minor bit of necessary preparation for the next big operation (which inevitably seems smaller than the one that comes after it).

To what end am I being mended? It is not enough that I get over my father’s death, apparently. That would have been good enough for me, but I only understand peripherally what is actually good. I am changed beyond who I was ten years ago. I did not ask for that, but here we are. I only see dimly the road ahead, but I hope to one day have mended eyes that can see as clear forward as they can reflect backward.

What will there be to see further down the road? Will the vision put to rest and explain the path that grows ever longer behind me? To what end am I being mended?

I daresay that I am being formed to turn the impossible corner, and finally see fully what I now only perceive the edges of. I hope that I am being made fit to jump the wall that divides the knowledge of my father’s continued existence with my inability to be with him in that new existence. I daresay that I am being fit to receive the gift of a seemingly impossible hope. That I am being made for a greater reality.

Dad, you took the shortcut, but I must take the long road. I hope that you are there at the end of it. I hope that my body is formed to overcome corporeality and finally be able to hug you again. That my ears are made to hear you beyond the silence of these intervening years. That new eyes will be able to pierce this dim reality and see you again.

Who knows what you will be like then? And who knows what our mending will look like after that? I do not understand what it is I feel or what the substance that produces that feeling looks like- I only glace at it peripherally as it tugs on my heart to carry on down the long road.

Beloved, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he is. -1 John 3:2

A More Honorable End

My father committed suicide seven years ago today. I was tempted to just let this anniversary pass without acknowledging it, but it did not feel right to do so, given that I have not been able to think of anything else since the start of January. So I find myself placing my fingers to the keyboard once again; not for too long- just long enough.

Suffice it to say that I have written extensively about this matter for quite some time now. At this point I do not believe that I can convey any other thoughts describing my sadness or anger or frustration, or even the loneliness of carrying around the memory of a ghost. And to manufacture more thoughts using slightly differing word tenses and stylistic phrasing seems disingenuous and an attempt to grab up attention for a matter that is important to me, but perhaps not overly remembered by others. At some point during grief it must be acknowledged that your burden is your own to carry and that summoning attention to it constantly transforms you into the image of your grief in the eyes of others (and, unfortunately, in your own eyes). One cannot live life as an animated monument to the deceased and expect to really live. These thoughts are not an attempt to do so.

Wishing is a futile exercise. It is hope with a sense of loss. But I do desire to just express this one void hope so that it can be acknowledged for what it is and what it can never be: I wish my father had a more honorable end. I wish that his exit was not so anticlimactic. I wish he had an end that was as big as he was, or, I should say, as big as I imagined him to be.

I wish that more of my friends could have known him so that they could realize how big a hole his exit left behind. I wish that I could look back at his death with the satisfaction of knowing that he truly lived to his potential, sad as it would be to see that legacy go.

I wish he didn’t die before I was ready for him to.

Herein we see the futility of the wish. I was not ready for him to die, and reflecting on his death will never ever bring a sense of satisfaction. I have only want and hurt out of it. I should remember the good times. I should remember his humor. I should remember his kindness. I should remember his deep mind and wisdom. I should remember just how big and strong he was. But all of those memories lead to an inevitable end that stains the whole. My father could not manufacture an honorable end for himself, and I cannot assemble one out of select bits and pieces of his life. His end is not his to change, nor is not mine to reinterpret.

Now I desire to express a hope. True hope is backed by the satisfaction of knowing that the object desired is inevitable, though in certain circumstances it cannot be explained why. I hope to one day no longer feel the need to justify my father’s life. I hope to let his end be what it is. I hope to let my father’s life stand on its own without the need to have my life act as a buttress for it. I hope to not depend on a sense of honor that is completely transitory and self-reliant. I hope that the meaning of my father’s life, and indeed the meaning of my own life, can lay outside of whatever thoughts I can muster concerning completeness and beauty. These things are hard to accept and embrace, but I have hope that they will be.

As of now, I only know a shadow of what should be. I only understand the immediate ugliness of wrong. I do not understand fully the true nature of restoration. I only know the shade of it and the closed bud if its being simply because I know that it should be there, though in truth I do not fully comprehend its form. I do not understand why it waits or why the story carries on the way it does. I only know that its existence points to what is wrong while simultaneously promising to what will be right.

Really beyond this topic is beyond my scope, and so here is where I will end this reflection. I miss my father, I wish for better things, and more than that I hope for something greater than I can completely understand: a meaning that supersedes my own understanding of meaning. A hope devoid of wishing. Restoration and beauty and completeness beyond their shadows.

It Happens Still

(Sung with a voice like a bell)

It happens still, though years have gone by,

I wind up thinking of you

I hear you pass, though I know it’s not true,

My mind stumbles in thoughts about you

Your presence vague, just a shadow of pain,

As your memories coming shining through

And I close my eyes, tis my only disguise,

As I try to remember you true

And I feel it still, though against my will,

Your absence comes into view

True I can’t see your face, that memory is all but erased,

It’s still hard to think about you

I grasp the air, you’re nowhere near here,

Just a thought as I sit in my room

And I wish it not true, though try as I might,

There’s no escaping how much I miss you

So I’ll stay right here, and ponder anew,

And think more thoughts about you

It’s Just a Date

I was out grocery shopping a couple of weeks ago trying to round out my meals for the week.  I was in search for a bag of broccoli that would stay fresh for the next few days.  One bag of broccoli I pulled down from the shelf had the following expiration date:

January 24, 2019

“It’s just a date” I told myself as I tossed the bag of broccoli into my basket.

I find myself saying this a lot.  I say it coolly and causally so that no one suspects that something else is lingering on my mind.  “It’s just another day on the calendar” I say as I accept a meeting request.  It’s just like any other day.  People get married on it.  People have birthdays on it.  People go on vacation on it.  People eat, people sleep, people live on that day.  My father just so happened to have died on it, but that was years ago now.  It’s just another day, really.

But I guess it’s not just another day (not to me, anyway).  I’ve often wondered to myself over the past few years how long normal people take to get over a loved one’s death.  I wonder if the experts are lying when they give their estimates that range from a few months to a few years, or if I’m just not normal for failing to fall within their timeframes.  Maybe there is something wrong with me if I can’t just let this day go by without feeling sad.  Why should I keep feeling sad?  The event is long since passed and feeling sad doesn’t change anything (I say this as if I am able to convince myself).  Why do anniversaries carry with them any sort of special meaning or significance?  They’re just another day!  Eat, sleep, and move on!

Move on…now what does that even mean?  Does it mean to forget the past?  Does it mean to toss aside your emotions?  What does it mean to move on?  I have to get by this date, so how do I move on if I don’t move through it?  I can’t just skip this date.  If only I were able to skip this month then maybe I would be normal (except for the fact that I would only be around 11 months out of the year).

Maybe it means just putting on a brave face.  To face the challenges and responsibilities of the day while also dealing with the significance of the anniversary.  To live in the hole without dragging others into it.  To not let grief repulse others or get in the way of life.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” “I’m good.” “I’m well.” Etc.  Physically, financially, professionally, maybe, but in my head I’m thinking behind me and still trying to make sense of all of this.  Trying to play catchup with the rest of me.  With the rest of the world.

I present a fine husk to everyone while the rest of me is elsewhere.  Is it honest to do that?  How do you casually say that you miss your dad?  How do you just remain calm as you explain that your dad killed himself on this day?  There is no casual explanation.  And, likewise, there is no casual response from others.  People have certainly tried to carry on casually after I have laid this bomb on them, but I can always tell the tempo of the conversation changes in the aftermath (which is kind of natural and perfectly understandable.  How are people supposed to act when you lay something heavy like that on them?)  How do you remain calm and reassuring unless you leave out the details?  How are you supposed to function in the world if you bring up what is truly on your mind?

It’s been five years now since dad died.  I don’t know what the significance of that is, but it seems important for some reason.  It’s just another year.  Much like the ones that came before it and, more than likely, much like the ones that have yet to be.  But he’s not here.  Is that important?  He’s just another person and this world is filled with people.  The difference here, however, is that this was my father.  This is the anniversary of his suicide.  So, yes, it is just a date, but this date means that my dad is no longer here.  I understand that not many others feel the weight of that, so I understand how other people see this as just another date, and my dad as just another person.  But that is a rather lonely reality to face.

It’s just another day, but then again it is also THE day.  I know it, but not everyone else does.  Is that important?  It is to me, but maybe it doesn’t have to be for everyone else.  In fact, I know it doesn’t.  It doesn’t mean it’s not significant- just that it falls on a normal day.

What is important?  What needs to be done on this day?  What constitutes normal?  I wish I knew.  More accurately, I wish I knew how to make my mind align with whatever ideal normal is purported to be.  But then again, maybe that’s not really what is important.

Living- that is important.  Living even on hard days.  Swallowing whatever pain comes along so that you can live.  The only other option would be to let the pain swallow you, and life is too short and too important to do that.  That is important.  That is what needs to be done today, and tomorrow, and in all the years to come.

To live.

Beyond the Red Door

I sit in my study early this morning making last-second revisions to this post before publishing it later today. I’m wracking my mind trying to find the right words to say, and everything is coming up short. I want to say things that words really can’t express. I am frustrated that this isn’t “good enough,” but I am glad that I at least wrote something. This has been on my mind for the past few years now, but up to this point I’ve yet to deal with it. I wish I could make this clearer. I wish I could make this more beautiful. I know those desires come somewhat from pride, however, so I will settle for what words I am able to find.

I had a dream I was in the house with dad the day he died.  It was about a month or two after his death and I was living alone at the time in a small house in Midtown, Tallahassee.  It was a cold winter that year, and this house never warmed up too well (God bless this house, though, because its thick walls absorbed my screaming and my rages that year).  It was a bitter time, and I was thinking about home a lot.  I was trying to escape the reality of my father’s death and it’s associated consequences, but I could not escape the dreams.  These dreams have all varied through the years, and I do not remember all of them, but this one I remember as if it were a real memory. This one haunts me:

I find myself standing on the driveway outside of my dad’s house.  It’s a bright, sunny day and the house glows in its obnoxious Caribbean Blue paint.  It’s hot in this dream (it’s always hot in Miami).  I’m staring at the door when I hear my dad’s voice.

“Zack” he calls out to me, “Zaaaack.”  His voice is low and slightly desperate.  I open the front door and walk into the house.  He keeps calling my name, each time drawing out his cry a little longer.

“Zaaaaaaaaaaaaack.”  I reach his bedroom door.  There is an odd, red light shining from the edges of the doorframe.  It’s as if the sun is setting in his room.  I make to grab for the doorknob, but I can’t bring my arms forward.  I’m being held back!  I press my face and shoulder against the door in a desperate attempt to knock the door down (Damn my arms they’re being pinned back!). The red light is growing brighter.  Dad is still calling my name.  I’m gritting my teeth against the strain of the door and whatever force is pinning my arms behind my back. 

“Zaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack.”  The Who song, I Can’t Reach You, starts playing as I feebly press my whole body against the door.  I am enveloped by the red light.

I wake up to my cold, dark room.  My arms are wrapped around my chest and I am giving myself a bear hug.  I was holding myself back from opening the door and stopping him.  

It’s hard to know what to make of this dream or the circumstances surrounding it.  I think of it often.  I wonder at its implications.  I wonder what the red light beyond the door was and I wonder why I was holding myself back.  What is my mind trying to tell me?  What is it trying to make sense of?  Why of all my dreams do I remember this one so clearly?

In one moment, I will think that the red light beyond the door is Hell, and then I’ll think that maybe it merely represents my dad’s life fading away like a sunset.  In one moment, I’ll think I was a coward because I held myself back, and in another I’ll think I couldn’t have been a coward because I was trying to get into the room.  My mind undulates between vast trains of thoughts and emotions as I conjure up different meanings for the red door. It’s as if my fear and my guilt are trying to meet halfway on an interpretation, and I’m caught in the middle of the negotiation. I wish I had a say in what the dream really means, but I have no idea. I only know what I am afraid of and what I feel guilty for.

I suppose it is just a dream, but I feel so burdened by it.  Perhaps it is merely a reflection of my desire to have been there that day.  I do wish I could have been there.  I wish I could have stopped him.  I wish he would have called out to me.  I wish I could have broken the door down.  But I was hundreds of miles away when he took his life.  A good excuse for inaction, perhaps, but not a very satisfying one.

I failed.  I failed to stop him. To convince him. Even in my dream I failed.  In my own dream I got in my way. Does that mean I think I got in the way in real life too? That I placed obstacles in front of myself that prevented me from helping him? Yeah, I do think that…

Or maybe, instinctively, my unconscious knew something that I have been unwilling to accept: that I was powerless to stop him from taking his life, and I continue to be powerless to that end.  No matter how often I think of this, no matter how much I pray about it, no matter how much I write about it I cannot change a thing.  Not a single thing. My guilt and my fear cannot fuel me to change anything.

I do not know what went on in my dad’s room that day (aside from the obvious).  That is the red light.  Mystery that is beyond knowledge or investigation.   Knowledge forbidden to mortals on this side of eternity.  Something too blinding to see, and too overwhelming to change or redirect.  And deep down I know and respect that, and that is why I held myself back.  I war in my mind about this though.  I am still in denial about what happened while simultaneously being fully accepting of it.

At the end of this I still find myself in an unsatisfying spot: wanting to know more or wanting to be able to do more, but the only option I am given is to wait.  To distract myself with other things.  To busy myself with the matters of life even though I don’t necessarily want to.

What is beyond the red door is forbidden to me.   I was not given permission to access it despite my own contention that it was my right to be there that day.  What happened in that room that day is between my father and the Almighty.  It was not my place to be there and it was not my duty to stop what happened. My guilt and my fear are lying to me.

O Lord, forgive the rage that bleeds from my grief.  Forgive my tired mind.  Forgive the thoughts that keep returning to this scene to fix what my mind perceives as being broken.  Forgive me for my doubts and my weakness.  I am ashamed that I am still dealing with this and that I have not found a solution for addressing it.  But Lord, I know this is an impossible task for me to do.  I can no more heal my mind than I can go back in time to stop dad from killing himself.  I am powerless and need Your help.  I know that You were there beyond the red door.  I know that it was You that kept me from entering in- even in my own dream.  I cannot see why, but help me to trust You in that. Forgive me for fighting against You.  I just miss my father (of course, you know that).  I hadn’t planned on him not being here.  I hadn’t planned on never seeing him again.  I hadn’t planned on any of this.  Life is not the way I imagined it would have been, and sometimes I try to take it back or to change things.  But I can’t.  This is the life I have been given.  This is the life I am called to.  Help me to live now, and to stop trying to break through the red door.

My Goodbye is Impossible

I wish I could have said goodbye. Just goodbye. Not to stop you. Not to make you feel bad. Just one last hug. One last look. One last audible sound. But I can’t find you.

When the house got cleared out and we were getting ready to sell it, I wandered around it as if searching for you in familiar places. I sat in the library. I sat in the living room. I sat in your bedroom. But I could not find you. I could bid my farewell to the home of my childhood, but I could not say bye to you.

I watch movies we enjoyed together, but you’re not watching them with me. I turn my head in hopes of seeing you there, but you don’t show up. An empty seat now occupies your spot.

I go to the places where I put your ashes, but you are not there either. I hope to spark some moment with you, but all I’m left with is an empty scene. An incomplete moment. You aren’t even in the periphery, and your ashes have long since washed away.

I walk hoping to find you walking by my side, like the old times, but I end up walking alone. The only footsteps I hear are my own as I reason to myself what to make of all this.

I stare at the rain, trying to get lost in its noise like you used to. I just wind up being reminded of you, and how you are no longer here. It does not wash away my sorrow, but rather makes puddles of it in my mind. They splash up on me as I wander through old memories of you. I remember the things I wanted to do with you, and their impossibility now. I am covered in the mud of unfulfilled hopes and dreams.

I look at and touch your old things. I imagine you touching them and pretend that somehow that means that I have touched you. But your glasses do not see me. Your books do not speak to me. Your music does not embrace me. The objects were before the man, but behind them you are no longer there. They are mere shadows and fragments of the man who held them.

In a thousand different ways I try to find you to gain some sort of closure, but you are not here. My goodbye is impossible. You are gone, but constantly with me. Close to my heart, but impossible to interact with. There, but separated by a gulf of time and space. Living in my mind, yet gone all the same. Perpetually around the next corner.

Just to say goodbye. I ache for it. To hear your voice one last time! One more hug! One more laugh! It is an emptiness that I am left with, dad. I can’t fill this longing no matter the distractions I occupy my mind with. I wish you were here, and I can’t un-wish it no matter how much I try, and no matter how much you may have wanted me to. Even in my angriest moments when I pretend to hate you, I can’t help but realize that all I really want is for you to be here. I utilize the full gamut of emotion to summon you, but not even my emotions can bring you back. I clench my fists at invisible bars to try to tear away the reality that separates us, but they are beyond my abilities or rights to move.

And so this is the way it is. I will have this wandering goodbye with me until the day it is time for me to go. And in that day I will not need it, because it will become a hello. An embrace. Tearless sobbing and quaking laughter. My impossible goodbye yielding a never-ceasing hello.

But until then…

Rage, Sorrow, Love

Did your circumstances warrant picking the lock of Mortality’s cage, and flinging open Eternity’s door?

That’s as much poetry as I have for what’s inside of me. Fools talk in veiled terms, hoping to be credited for their wit. The broken talk directly, and appear to be foolish. I will talk with some foolishness in the hopes of navigating to wisdom and truth beyond my emotions.

Over the past four years I’ve done a lot of processing. I’ve had it out with myself. I’ve had it out with God. But I’ve yet to have it out with you, dad. I have questions I know you can never answer, but I will ask anyway.

Was your last feeling regret? Or was it merely the sudden and overwhelming experience of the physical pain you inflicted upon yourself?

Regret, I suppose, is an expression of pain, so I guess I’m asking which pain was the lingering one in your last moments?

You told me repeatedly in my youth that suicide was an act of cowardice. You burdened me with that. Did you realize that your final act of life made it appear as though you were running away from your problems (at least, according to what you taught me)? Do you realize how much you crushed me? The lion I made you out to be was revealed to be a fabrication. A shadow of an image. The voice of the gun cried out, “I AM A COWARD! A HYPOCRITE! A LIAR!”

DID YOU REGRET IT?!

Or were you too focused on the sheer agony of the bullet’s hole?

Time heals all wounds, but leaves an awful scar.

You said that I would always have a home in your house. That house was sold years ago now. It belongs to strangers who will never know your name. I drive by it whenever I’m in Miami just to spark some old memory or tickle some sort of lost fondness. I merely see a shell. Something that once was, and cannot be again. I drive away from it disappointed, but not really all that surprised by the disappointment. More and more it becomes a stranger. I wonder if the neighbors care that we’re gone, or if they even remember us.

I have a hard time remembering you existed. You are more than just some imaginary person that I made up, you’re real, but I only know you in my head now. The real pain comes in transcending the gap between the image in my memories and the articles that are still in this world. When I come upon something that reminds me of you, I remember that you used to be here…You used to be here. That hits me like a cement wall. Did you realize what kind of furious sorrow would be implanted in my heart because of what you did?

Sometimes I imagine your last moments. Did you cry? Did you bite your tongue at the shock of the pain, or the loudness of your guns? Did you cry out, or did you even have the capacity for that? What were the lingering thoughts as you felt your life slip away? Did you look at the sparse light coming in through your bedroom window as your eyes dimmed, or did you press your eyelids shut so tightly that darkness was your last sight?

I RAGE AT THIS. I IMAGINE BEING IN THE ROOM TO STOP YOU. I IMAGINE BEING HELD BACK. I CRY OUT, BUT YOU DO IT ANYWAY.

Sometimes I imagine this situation as a cage, and I’m trying to shake my way out of it. I’m rattling the bars and trying to pull them apart, but of course I can’t because it’s not a real cage, and your death is irreversible. My knuckles are white against invisible bars, teeth clenched against an impossible effort. My eyes glare in your direction, but there’s nothing to stare at. I press my eyelids shut to simultaneously imagine the cage around me, and to hide me from its presence.

Sometimes I get so angry at you that I have to stop what I’m doing because the rage takes the attention of all my focus. I tremble in the wake of it, bottling it up as if meaning to indulge in its full intoxication some other time. And then I take a sip and cry because I miss you and I don’t want to be angry at you. Did you know that I would feel this way? Did you consider how this would tear me up even years after you died? It is like a cage. I did not ask for this.

Did you think I wouldn’t care? You were my father. You were my hero. One of few people I could have a long conversation with. One of few people I was comfortable being myself around. A lifeline. A sense of stability. An anchor. And now you’re gone. More than that: you left me! You went to a place that I cannot go, and where I cannot contact you!

Did you love me? You didn’t even say goodbye! Did you realize how cruel that was? Did you care?

It is like iron bars that I try to clasp. I pretend that if I can rip them apart, I can see you again. But of course I can’t. You’re beyond my strength or knowledge to reach. And I’m here left guessing and asking questions. I’m so tired of holding it together, dad. I’m so tired of having to avoid talking about you for fear of creating awkward moments. Tired of these conversations in this cage where you don’t answer me. Tired of reliving memories of you only to find them suddenly ended, the hope of making more of them dashed against the harsh reality of your suicide. I’m tired of pretending to have it together. What you did will have me baffled for the rest of my life. I’ll never think less of it, but I may, in time, think more of it. It’s like a wound that I can’t help but pick at.

You wounded more than yourself when you decided to pull that trigger. Those bullets went right through your heart and into my soul, and I’ve carried them ever since. There is no place I go that this does not come with me.

I love you, dad. Despite my seemingly endless rage and sorrow, my love cannot be quenched or stifled. After the rage burns and the streams of sorrow pass, the monument of your love still stands strong in my heart. You are still my lion. You are still the giant in my memories. You are still the strong hands and unwavering resolve. The endless wit. The unlimited library. The better man of who you were seems all the clearer as my rage and sorrow burns away the weak man your final action insisted you to be. I imagine this will go on the remainder of my days. I only wonder what kind of man I will recall you as in my last moments.

I miss you, dad. I think of you often. An embarrassing amount, maybe. I have people I want to introduce you to. Things I want to talk to you about. Movies and books I want you to enjoy with me. But I can’t, and life has seemed all the more tasteless in your absence. I look forward to things less now, not because I lack in good opportunities, but because I cannot share the joy of them with you. Your pride in me was what I lived for. I have many keepsakes of yours, but they are wordless. I’m wordless sometimes when I think of you. I only have emotions that can’t be put into words, no matter how hard I try.

Did you think of me in your last moments? I don’t blame you if you didn’t. Of course, I hope that you did. I hope I was on your mind and I hope you regretted your decision, but it isn’t my place to hold you accountable for these things. I’ve thought enough about you these past four years to make up for any lack of thought you may have had in your last few moments. I have regretted enough for the both of us.

I hope you didn’t have any bad thoughts toward me. I tell myself that this isn’t my fault, but I guess I can’t help but try to shoulder a portion of the blame. I know I can’t. I know I shouldn’t. But it’s too easy to ask myself what I could have done better. How could I have stopped you? How can I stop you now? I can’t, but that doesn’t prevent me from thinking about it. How could I have done better? I know it’s a sort of arrogance to believe that I could have stopped you, that I was the lone factor that could have made a difference…but I was your son, wasn’t I? Your only son. And you were my father. I just wish I could have done better. Now I’ll never know if I could have. I hate that. It feels so incomplete and permanent.

Dad, I’m angry, I’m sad, but I forgive you. I forgive you…

FROM THE PIT OF MY SOUL I FORGIVE YOU! FROM THE PLACE THAT YOU WOUNDED ME I FORGIVE YOU! FROM THE PLACE WHERE I HAVE THE MOST REASON TO HATE YOU, I LOVE YOU AND FORGIVE YOU!

Your acknowledgement of that would be like a cold stream in the desert. Like a key to this cage. Wind through the bars, and sunlight upon the cold steel.

Instead, what I have is this strange forgiveness. A respite- that is what forgiveness is in this cage. Unclenched fists and loosened jaw. Opened eyes with tears. Acknowledging where I am, and the limits of what I can do. Seeing that you were just a man, though a lion too. Forgiveness soothing sorrow and rage. Love reigning over all.

Caught up in the Whirlwind

Job, did you ever mourn after your crucible, or were the things that were given to you afterward to replace what you lost enough to remove it from your mind? I can hardly see how you could ever forget it.

Did you ever look at the faces of the beautiful children you had afterward, and weep from remembering the children of your youth?

Did you ever walk around your property, rebuilt and well-manicured, and cry from remembering how it looked when it was burned and crushed?

Did you ever look at your skin, now clear and healthy, and remember the ache of the boils? Were there scars from where you scraped at it with the shards of pottery?

Did you ever wander over to the place where the ash pit was, and sit in it again? Did you ever stare into the distance from there, hoping your friends would come back to comfort you?

Did your friends ever come back, or did they say their apologies and avoid you the rest of their lives?

Did you ever relive the days of your crucible? Would you relive it in a yearly basis? Would you rehearse the anniversary of the things that happened (one year ago my children died, ten years ago my cattle were stolen, thirty years ago the first boil appeared…)?

Did you ever try to conjure the Whirlwind again?

What was it like to walk with God after that? I wish I knew your experience. How did it change the way you lived, and the way you approached and experienced Him?

Did He tolerate your continued tears after years? Did the might of the Whirlwind return to humble you again? What was the residual impression left over from encountering His presence? Though you were made whole again, were you broken nonetheless?

What were your years like afterward, Job? Though you were given everything again, was there still a hole left in your life from what had previously been taken? What did hope look like to you after those days? Did the trial embolden you, or leave you overly-cautious the rest of your life?

You must have been emboldened. The Lord blessed you, but that doesn’t mean you just came back into your wealth and family. You had to work the soil again with fingers that still remembered the sting of inflammation. You had to rebuild storehouses and acquire new life stalk. You had to rekindle and restore the relationship with your wife, and then persist in raising children with her again, though the memory of the old ones still lingered. You chose to live, and the Lord blessed you in that endeavor. You became a good business man and a good father once again. From ashes you reaped twice what you had before your ills.

So did you mourn? Maybe so. What Scripture seems to say of your later days though is that this event enriched who you were as a person. You were more righteous and generous than you had been. I imagine you were greatly loved because you loved people so well, and that love was born through the trial. And, yes, maybe you relived it, but you continued to live, and to live better.

You lived better in your mourning. Not stuck in the pain of loss, but convinced of the goodness of God, and emboldened to live by it, investing your life once again to projects and children and people, not because of any sureness of their permanence, but because you knew their lives were in God’s hands, and that your life was too. Cradled in the hands of the Almighty, caught up in the Whirlwind, you were free to live.

A Wednesday Evening

I seem to recall this scene. Sitting on my mom’s back patio, staring at the pool, listening to the sounds of evening. I remember the man who did this very thing last year. And the year before then. And the years before then. And the boy who occupied this space in the years before then. In the past, this man would think about the possibilities the future would bring, and look forward to seeing them in the years to come. Now, each iteration of this man that comes back to this spot looks backward at the dreams of then, and contemplates the misses. Sobriety keeps him from dreaming forward, or perhaps it’s the dreams he’s waiting for to catch up so that he can.

I miss the dreams. I miss the possibilities. I miss the expectations that accompanied youthful thinking. I know there are others, and many at that, but perhaps the dreams of youth seem so much larger than what I can think up of now. More than that, these dreams involved people and places that just will not come to pass. I miss the open-ended possibilities that seemed to coincide with being young.

And so I sit in this spot, not thinking forward, and doing what I can to just think of this very moment. To dwell here, and not to cast my mind to then or to why. There is plenty here at present to occupy the mind, in the grasshopper song and breezes of a Wednesday evening.

The Sage in Memory

My son, remember now the words of your father, advice spoken and demonstrated in years now long past. May my good words live on in your heart, and may my careless words be forgiven and forgotten. May all the good I️ have been live on in your strength, and may all the bad I️ have been reside with the dust of my forsaken body. These are my words to my only son, my precious boy.

Don’t keep your head down. Keep your eyes up that you may see the world around you.

Do not be fooled into believing that all life is hard. There are many joys in it that you have yet to experience.

Stop saying horrible things about yourself. I️ urge you to stop believing these things.

The things that worry you do not matter in the wider scope of your life, much less than in the grand scheme of things.

Don’t try to be funny. Being yourself is funny enough.

Most people lie about how confident they are, so don’t judge yourself by your perception of them.

Let a little light in.

I️ only care that you do your best. That is success.

Do not love war, but respect those who have endured it.

Please sleep.

Never eat slimy salad.

Help the weak. Love the unfortunate.

I️ have loved north Florida more than south Florida, and California more than them both. Do with that information what you will.

Do not show off. Do not be infatuated with the idea of popularity. It is better to have the attention of those who notice your quieter traits and faithfulness.

I️ want you to be better than me.

Do not glorify violence, but be twice as strong as any opponent. Knock someone down if you have to.

It’s ok to cry, but genuine tears keep to themselves and don’t seek out attention.

I hate hurricane season, but more than that I️ hate those who take advantage of our fears to get ratings.

Do not believe the propaganda, but pay attention to it.

Do what is right because it is good, not because you feel like it or not.

Even if you sang during first service, sing also in second service if you happen to still be at church. It is good to sing to the Lord.

Every page of my Bible is highlighted because it is all important, even if I️ had a hard time agreeing with it.

Do not be taken in by clever ploys. Remember times in the past where you were tricked and learn from them.

You are not ugly.

You are not stupid.

Please love your mother and me. We had several issues that we tried to shield you from, but wound up exposing you to. Please do not hold a grudge against us. It accomplishes nothing.

Pride will kill a man.

There are not a hundred minutes in an hour. You have less time than you think.

I️ prayed for your wife every day.

Don’t use people.

Don’t play politics.

Use every insult as an opportunity to be funny. Self-deprecating humor is our heritage.

Enjoy good movies. Enjoy clever movies. Enjoy bad movies with heart. Enjoy stupid movies that are clever.

My hero was Kurt Vonnegut. I️ met him once. I️ shook his hand and did not ask for an autograph. “So it goes.”

I️ always enjoyed having a cat in the house. I️ know you’re allergic, but if you ever get over that I️ commend it to you.

Always prepare for hurricane season. I️ preferred doing that with cans of Chunky Soup and gallon-sized bottles of apple juice.

I️ know I️ cursed more than I️ should have, but at least I️ said what was on my damn mind.

Don’t lose the emotional game. Use logic to calm down those feelings of being overwhelmed.

My childhood was hard, but there were things about it that I️ cherished that I️ actively practiced enjoying in my adulthood. I️ commend this practice to you.

Reading a wide variety of books makes you wise because it opens you up to new perspectives, not because they contain answers. Do not rely on an author to give you an answer that you can only gain from living out your questions.

Don’t be lazy.

Pay attention to what people like and enjoy.

I️ hurt quite a few people in my life (you will to). I️ tried to make amends through giving thoughtful gifts. Sometimes the point came across and sometimes it was lost to the individual.

I️ loved rainy days. I️ never told you why. Nevertheless, love rainy days for what they are.

I️ always wanted to be a lighthouse keeper. This is not a piece of advice, I️ know, but I️ always wanted you to know this about me. Do with this what you will.

Do your best to focus on memories of me that make you laugh rather than the ones that make you angry. I’m not giving myself an out, but rather am looking out for your emotional well-being.

You know how much of a workaholic I️ was, yet I️ still took time to explore with you to the best of my limited ability. Do not neglect this and do not neglect this with your kids.

Be kind to children. Make them laugh. Give them a good memory to look back on. Be someone they can look up to.

Go to used bookstores and libraries. Appreciate the wonder of being surrounded by wisdom. Appreciate the smell of well-worn books.

Take pictures of your friends enjoying themselves.

I️ was obnoxious and arbitrary and sometimes mean, and yet many people loved me all the same. Let that be a lesson to you to rely on the grace of God rather than your own personality.

I️ often thought that the only reason I️ was alive was to raise you. I️ know you don’t agree with that, but I️ want you to consider that one of the joys of my life was raising you. You were the most important person to me.

Use my life as a negative example. I️ know you never liked hearing that from me. Just remember that strong men eventually break.

I️ progressively allowed myself to become more and more isolated as I️ got older. Do not do this.

Continue eating well and exercising. You have seen how bad habits will eventually overcome a man.

Being dramatic is in your blood. Take advantage of it, but beware of excesses.

Read to your children.

May whatever good I️ have done live on in your heart for the remainder of your days, until we see one another again. When you were a boy, I️ would walk in strides and you would struggle to keep up with me. When you became a man, you bounded up hills and I️ could not keep up. Now when you walk, you walk alone, for I cannot walk with you at all. It is a sense of pride for a father to watch his son surpass him. Keep striding forward, my son! In your youth, I️ would place my hand upon your head and pray a blessing over you. When you went away to school, I️ would pray over you from the prison I️ made of my house. Now in your manhood, I️ am unable to place my hand upon your head, but my blessing I️ still give to you. May my memory be sweet and encouraging. May my memory no longer haunt you, but may my words act as a sage in your memory. May you be refreshed when you encounter me in the halls of your mind. Think well of me, that in doing so you may think well of our God, Who controls all things and will lead our paths together in time to come. We will stride together upon the roads of glory. I️ know I️ am memory, but I️ speak the truth. Bless you, my son, in the name of Jesus. God the Father watches over you, and His presence is greater than mine ever could be.