Floor buffers stalk the terminal, hell bent on their mission to spit and polish the aging tile. Meanwhile, cafe workers stand at the ready to dole out food if only the lines would form. It’s the graveyard shift at DFW. The lone open restaurant in the entire airport is Panera Bread. And calling it open is a bit of an aggrandizement of understaffed, microwaved fare.
It’s not that the food is terrible. I’ve had much worse. But even the cheese seems pre-fab. Less cheese and more cheese product. The sausage and eggs seem less cooked and more heated. Granted, heated to the appropriate temperature- the perfect temp to be both uniform and servable.
And all the while, passenger carts zoom by. The true enigma of every airport. How does one board such a terminal trolly? Where can a person go? Perhaps it stops at the end of the terminal. Perhaps at the end of the earth. No one really knows.
The Southwest News across the corridor has turned its lights back on. A new shift crew ready to greet the DFW denizens, and those of us Zombies who have neither come nor gone. We are as much a part of the background as the faux wood chairs and tables. And barely more sentient.
It matters little.
The wheels of DFW airport will spin on. It doesn’t matter who is or who isn’t here. Even the TSA Agents change their shift and eagerly hit the doors hidden in the walls. Eager for home, or whatever will serve as home on this early morning. I wonder where they are going. Home to sleep until the grind starts all over again? Home to a lover nestled in bed? Or maybe they’ll go home to an empty apartment to drink and will themselves to wake in the early evening, and repeat the march of the dead. Dead inside. Dead outside. Dead to the world.
So, where am I? Hard to say. I’m somewhere in between the awakened beast of DFW, and the myriad of lemmings that keep it running. My old religion prof would say that I’m “betwixt and between.” A place of “liminality.” And probably a bunch of other fancy words that I can’t remember at, now, 4:21AM. But it’s true. I’m far from home, yet eager for rest. Awake, yet asleep. Ready to travel, yet stuck in place.
I suppose, I’m in a space not unlike life. Except that it’s far less comfy. And though I can see Gate A33 from my table, it feels so very far away.
This past week marked the seventh anniversary of my divorce. It’s a topic that I’ve alluded to on these pages before, but I’m not sure that I’ve ever directly addressed it.
I don’t think the details are very interesting, although they are, admittedly, what most folks fixate on. In some ways I get this. We humans are a curious lot. As a culture, we tend to gravitate towards the details of other peoples lives in a way that almost seems baked into our DNA. Consider the prevalence of reality TV. Our society revels in the details of other peoples lives – from how they date, to the homes they buy, and even to how obese they are. Why we care, I’m not sure. But we damn sure love the details.
For my life, I think the details of a relationship matter less than one or two critical moments along the way. While it’s true that the little things tend to add up and drive the vicissitudes of life forward, I think that at the end of every relationship there’s a bit of a time wound that leads to the relationship’s end. This wound boils down to a single, decisive moment. A personal rubicon. Where going forward, the relationship is no more. And looking back, it is all that the relationship ever was. A wound in time for the aggrieved, and perhaps a moment of celebration for those making a break. Or some combination of the two.
For me, this moment is forever etched in my mind. I recall the hurt. It wasn’t my choice. It sent me spiraling into frenzy of depression and drinking (something I’ve only recently addressed). I also recall the loneliness and the fear. It was paralyzing. Would I see my son? Would I be a part of his life? Would he grow up calling my ex’s new husband Dad? (The very thought of this made me wretch.) At my age, would I ever find love again? How would I recover from the financial damage done after seven years of life lived together?
I have answers to some of these questions now. Some I don’t. I still haven’t found love and I just hit 40, so the odds aren’t necessarily in my favor to borrow from the Hunger Games. But if I could go back and chat with the me of seven years ago, I would sit down and tell him, “Dude. Calm the eff down. It gets better.” Not necessarily right away. But it does.
As a part of my own reflection, and mindfulness, I have lately opted to read a chapter of the Bible each day. I made it up to the book of Joshua before I gave up on reading the Bible in a year. But I figure I can at least read a chapter of the Bible a day. For some, I know that religion is anachronistic and passé. I’ve never felt that way. I find great comfort in faith but I get that your mileage may vary.
Anyway, I read Joshua chapter one the other day. There, God reaffirms the promise to guide Moses, and strikes it afresh with Joshua. As Israel stands poised on the banks of the Jordan to enter the “promised land,” God once again states his intent to remain a bulwark to Joshua and Israel.
Therefore shall not any man be able to stand before thee all the days of thy life: As I was with Moses, so I will be with thee: I will not fail thee nor forsake thee.”
– Joshua 1.5
God further exhorts Joshua to be strong and have courage. An important bit of advice, seeing as Joshua was essentially taking the helm of leadership over the entire Nation of Israel.
Be not dismayed: for the Lord they God is with thee withersoever thou goest.
– Joshua 1.9
The link I make between the words of God to Joshua and my own experience with my divorce is that the message could easily have been given by God to me – but for the fact that, at the time, I had no truck for hearing anything from God – let alone actually believing the sentiment of the message itself.
But it was true. What came to pass, ultimately “did not stand.” These many years later, I have not reconciled with my ex-wife. Yet, I live in her house and we co-parent in a way that most people do not understand. All of this is borne out of necessity. Our son has ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder) and requires intense guidance and direction. From the time he gets up, to the time he gets on the bus for school, to the time he gets home, and throughout the evening, our lives are all about a routine that revolves around him. Given his disability, this is what he needs. We will never be a couple again. There’s no desire for this on either of our parts. But in the love we both have for our son, there is no daylight between us.
So, despite the spirals and darkness that followed my marriage’s end, I find that God was steadfast. I felt his presence even when I chose to ignore it. The Lord was with me throughout.
He was there as I sat on the bridge in Laramie, WY drinking whiskey. He knew my thoughts as I considered ending my life with a quick leap to the train tracks below me. He guided me to a new job in another state. He led me here to Indiana, in the midst of the pandemic, to care for my son. He allowed my work position to become permanently remote. And he facilitated this entire transition.
So, the end result is that what God promised to Joshua (and Moses before him), he promises to us today. I was foolish and afraid seven years ago. I was “dismayed.” But God’s grace exceeds my own failings. He is steadfast. I can look back on the past years and see grace made manifest in my life at every turn. I can look ahead, now, and see the opportunity to live a life without fear. After all, there isn’t much more to fear in life that exceeds what I have already endured.
The thought is a liberating one.
I’ve already gone through the fire. I’ve traveled to the dark places. I’ve stared down my demons. What was intended for harm, did not stand – all thanks to the steadfastness of God. Like the above rock in the desert, the oceans can fall away. The land can erode around me. The trees and vegetation can wither and die, just like the life I once knew. Yet, my own experience leads me to conclude that in the end, God will remain at my side even if the landscape around me is charred and barren.
This is all good.
But it presents an entirely different and exciting question as a result: How would you live your life, if you knew that there was nothing to be afraid of?
And once you have your answer, go do it. I’m still working on mine.
The backyard is awash in purple. Sometime within the past week or so, heaps of tiny little purple buds have poked their heads through blades of grass, heedless of the nighttime temps and the chilly mornings that we still have here in the Midwest.
I’m far from a gardener. It’s safe to say that my green thumb is probably black. I’ve managed to kill succulents, which thrive on neglect, and even the odd cactus a time or two. But there’s something about plants that leaves me intrigued. The thing about plants is that they grow without care to the world around them. They grow where no one planted. They can thrive even in the most inauspicious of places. And their growth persists unimpeded by the “improvements” that we humans try to make to the landscape around us.
Naturally, I was curious to know which tiny purple denizens had opted to call the backyard home. So with a helpful search of my iPhone (14 Pro Max, no less), I discovered that these tiny bulbs are called vinca minor or Periwinkle. When I dug a little deeper – not literally – I read that these small bulbs are considered invasive by several state governments, including the State of Indiana:
Once established, Vinca minor forms a dense carpet to the exclusion of other plants. This creates a problem where it is competing with native flora.
According to the state, the solution to dealing with invasive species such as these is to simply rake them up – an inelegant solution that may allow them to resprout. Or, for best practices, just spray them with herbicide to make sure that they are thoroughly irradicated. Regardless of the poison one picks, the message is the same: the plants are “undesirable” and the best option is to simply get rid of them so that more desirable and native plants can reproduce in their stead.
What to do with the Undesirable?
On Easter morning, I can’t help but find myself grateful that God didn’t take the same approach to humanity that the State of Indiana recommends for Periwinkle.
And that’s where Easter comes in. I don’t think that God is delusional. In response to Taylor, God’s reply is almost certainly the same as the State of Indiana, “yes, the problem is you.” But the there’s more to the Easter song than this.
The rest of the song is that for all of the deception, death, contradiction, paranoia, selfishness, and misguided priorities that we evince in our everyday lives, the God of the universe does not reach the conclusion that we are undesirable. But why?
Because of Jesus.
The Easter message is that Jesus endured the suffering of death for all of the evil that we undertake on a daily basis. He endured suffering for the small misgivings that people experience between one another; and he endured suffering for the large, nation-state evils that we inflict upon one another for large-scale political purposes. To mitigate these, the Easter message is that the God of the Universe destroyed a part of himself to right the ledger of the “undesirable.” And our debt was paid. Undesirable no more, we are loved.
I’ve always thought that the Easter message was one fundamentally of hope. Hope that the end of our physical existence is not the end of existence itself. Hope that the mistakes of the past need not be the mistakes of tomorrow. And hope that when life on Earth finally winds up, that good will prevail over evil.
I didn’t rake up the periwinkle. I didn’t spray them with herbicide. I smiled because I loved them. I loved their color. I loved their persistence. And I loved their company.
One of my favorite things to do during the holidays is to discover new Christmas music. Each year, I build a massive Christmas playlist that I begin listening to on approximately Nov. 1st at roughly 12am, give or take. This year’s playlist topped out at 519 songs with a total play time of 28 hours and 5 minutes.
Despite the library of Christmas music that I have accumulated over the years, I try to add new music each time Christmas rolls around. This year, I happened upon a song that I had never heard before, which is a very odd thing for yours truly.
Happily, my mind got a bit ahead of my fingers and I mistakenly typed an iteration of Mariah Carey’s perennial hit, “All I Want for Christmas is You.” Rather than typing the song title as it is, I searched instead for “You’re All I Want for Christmas.” Syntax aside (I do believe the latter reads better), I came across Bing Crosby’s 1949 release by the same name.
It’s hubris in the highest form, but I fancy myself to be a bit of a Bing Crosby connoisseur. There aren’t many songs of his that I haven’t heard, whether they be full of Yuletide cheer, or his pop releases dating back to 1939. I would even say that for any music lover, there’s really an obligation to listen to the greatest singer of all-time. And true to form, I thought that I had heard all of Bing’s music, at least his Christmas pieces, but apparently I was mistaken.
Bing’s music has always harkened back to better era by my estimation. There’s something about the style, and sound of music from the 40s, 50s, and early 60s, that just indicates a classier era to me. But a review of 1949 from the Washington Post casts some doubt upon this assumption as it pertains to life more broadly:
During Christmas of 1949, our flights of fancy didn’t run much beyond riding the streetcar, taking a school trip to the local dairy or visiting a government building. Oh, yes, and avoiding the scourge of the day–tuberculosis.
As complicated as life is today, at least visiting government buildings isn’t the thrill it once was. We’ve also got tuberculosis more or less contained, which is probably more than we can say for COVID. We’ve also made tremendous progress on a number of other fronts that would have been unthinkable back in 1949.
And that’s all fine.
But “You’re All I want for Christmas”is fundamentally a love song with a simple story: one lover, missing another at Christmas. It reminds the listener that Christmas is not about the stuff we give or get. Rather, it is the relationships in our lives that bring magic to the Christmas season. That Bing Crosby conveys this message with more meaning, and more emotion than any song Mariah Carey has ever written, only underscores that the best of Christmas traditions stand the test of time.
I do hope you enjoy the song above. And here’s wishing you and yours a very, merry Christmas.
I’ve been on a trip the past couple of weeks visiting friends in Virginia. We opted to take a roadtrip to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee to catch a dinner theater performance, and visit Dollywood. It was a fun slice of Americana, complete with over the top Christmas lights and outlet mall shopping. I did manage to snag a pretty cool pocket knife – so no complaints.
But what was the most meaningful part of the trip to me, aside from the time spent with my friends, was a day drive we took to visit The Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
I wasn’t unfamiliar with the Great Smoky Mountains. My Grandfather’s people, the Cherokees, called the area home from time immemorial through the Indian Removal Act and the Trail of Tears in 1830. Even after, some bands of Cherokees remained, taking to the Appalachian hills and making a life among the thousands of acres forests, creeks, and valleys in the southeastern United States. Having visited, it was very easy to understand why some chose to remain. The place is nothing if not peaceful. A refuge lost to time.
The park takes its name from the natural fog that results from the park’s trees and vegetation. The fog hovers over the mountains, making them look bathed in smoke from afar and even from within the park itself.
Far from it though.
The air was fresh and crisp with a hint of November chill. It smelled of pine and growth, and of the soil that has eroded from the craggy terrain for millennia.
In all, it was a place mostly undisturbed by mankind spare the roads and few visitors taking in its wonder on a cold day. The quiet streams and rivulets ran throughout the park, paying no heed to the passing cars. The rustle of branches in the wind gave greeting as we drove, accented by the occasional warble of mischievous bird overhead.
The mountains themselves are said to be the oldest in the world. I suspect the Cherokees would agree with this sentiment. The fog and the air give the mountains a certain natural stateliness that is coupled with mystery and grace. They seem to look out over the vast Tennessee landscape toward the resort towns of Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge with a kind of bemused wonderment at the bustle of the world going on around them. And yet, within the park reserve, life goes on as it always has. Nature’s cycle continues apace. The streams continue to bubble over the rocks that have been there since the foundations of time were set.
I think if I had my druthers and could shuck off the fetters of responsibility that anchor me to my lived reality, I would transport myself back to 1830. I would build myself a little cabin along side one of the babbling brooks and make my home from the land.
Of course, armed with no knowledge of how to do this, I probably wouldn’t last very long. As Will Ferrell said in a recent movie, January was the leading cause of death in the 1800s. But there’s something about the ancientness of the place that conjures the romantic latent even in my calloused soul. I am mindful, though, of my own, human tendency to romanticize the past. It’s easy to think that prior eras and generations were really the golden age in which to live. I suspect that sometime in many years hence, future generations will look back at this current era and yearn for it in the way that I do the pre-1830s Smoky Mountains.
So, rather than wish for a bygone era, I resolved to be grateful for the existence of such a place, and thought about how fortunate I was to set foot on the lands of my ancestors. I hope that in 2123 the waters will still meander through the park, and that the fog of the mountains will still entice visitors with mystery.
Pax Plena 