Beautiful Red Ruin

We left the volcanic wasteland behind, following the road down through the foothills towards the wide open plain below. The sky was the kind of blue that artists go mad trying to capture on canvas. A few wisps of white cloud floated overhead, pushed by a cool and gentle breeze. The sun touched everything in sight, leaving the darkness nowhere to hide. All the landscape needed was a cowboy on horseback being chased by Navajo warriors on painted war ponies.

Michael wasn’t smoking but I opened the windows anyway, letting the morning air rush over my skin and into my lungs.

“What a perfect day for driving to the Grand Canyon!” I thought aloud over the happy noise of our latest play list.

I saw Michael’s head nod in agreement. His dark hair was wrestling with the wind, his eyes scanning the beautiful, desolate world surrounding our little black rental car.

The road wound down through miles of curves and long straights before flattening out onto the plain. Several motorcycles passed us along the way, with riders decked out in black leathers and denim jackets. We sped up and passed a few RVs and slow moving pickups, but the road was for the most part lonely and quiet.

After several miles I slowed the car and took a right turn onto the access road for the Wukoki Pueblo. Before long we could see it standing in the distance. It reached high into the backdrop of blue, a rusty red castle complete with lookout tower. We pulled up and parked a couple of spaces away from the only other car in the lot.

I led the way up the path. Michael followed with the camera. I ran the final few yards, up the steps, and into the structure.

“Turn around, I’ll take a photo.” Michael shouted from down below on the trail.

I turned and looked his way, resting my hands on my hips as he snapped a shot. As he made his way up the steps to join me, I spun in a slow, scrutinizing circle. Ruin was hardly the right word to use when talking about the pueblo; the original owners had built their home to last. A formidable structure with straight edges, thick walls, and sharp corners, it has been standing strong against the elements for nearly a thousand years. The tower stood three stories high from the base of the rock upon which it was built. It must have afforded the occupants plenty of warning when anyone, friend or foe, approached from any direction. I doubted that anyone had ever snuck up undetected, and was sure that any attackers had suffered a nasty assault from high above.

We ducked into the tower through a tiny opening that must have been the door. I stood in the center of the uneven dirt floor and cocked my head back to look straight up at the blue patch of sky directly overhead. The red walls provided a colorful contrast to complete the picture.

“Beautiful!” I marveled. My voice bounced around inside the tower.

“There must have been a loft up there, you can see where the beams must have been.” Michael pointed up to several open pockets in the walls.

“Bedroom loft in a lookout tower. How cool is that?” I stared out through a large hole in one wall.

I peered out through an opening that must have served as a window. The wall was almost as thick as my arm was long, but I could still see far and wide into the distance.

“I wonder if anyone ever shot an arrow at someone through this window.” My imagination was hard at work placing a band of attackers out on the plain. I rained arrows down on them from my high vantage point.

After repelling the attackers, I pulled my head back from the window and my mind back into reality. I turned to see Michael staring out through an even smaller square in the wall to my right. Both his hands were planted on the wall, his head still. The camera cord hung out of his back pocket. I reached out like a reverent thief, pulling the camera free without a sound.

Michael was lost in thought. His gaze was intent, as if he were searching for something or someone far away on the horizon. I snapped a photo of him from across the little room.

Leaving my brother to his thoughts, I crawled back through the little doorway and out into the sunlight. I looked out across the large open area that made up half of the pueblo. Encircled by a waist-high parapet wall, it must have served as a work area for the people that had lived here long ago. I could picture deerskins stretched and drying in the sun, baskets full of gathered foods, a fire pit ringed with stones, and children chasing a flea-ridden puppy in happy, loud circles.

“This would have been a great place to stage battles with our Star Wars and G.I. Joe figures.” Not for the first time on our trip, Michael’s voice interrupted my thoughts in a good way.

“Definitely. Look at all the rock formations and great places for waiting in ambush.” I agreed.

We stood together, looking out at the red rock and pointing out the best places to play. As kids we had spent more of our playtime choosing our figures and vehicles, staging them on the battlefield, building their bases, and mapping out scenarios than we had in acting them all out. In fact, we took so much time to work out the details that we rarely made it past the initial setup. When friends came over to play, they often grew frustrated with all the time we required in the imagination and planning phases of our play.

Standing with Michael in the ruins of an ancient Native American pueblo, I was reliving some of the best moments of my childhood. It was an unlikely moment in an unlikely setting, one that my own imagination could not have ever conjured.

My eyes filled with tears and I wished that it could have been my imagination that brought us to the pueblo, rather than everything that had.

Rollerblades of Fire

Cold rain, persistent wind, a beautiful woman, and an ugly running jacket. It was the morning of my first (and only) marathon. An uneasy night had left me without much sleep, and a summer of slacking left me without the training that I had promised myself to follow through with. Still, I wasn't as nervous as I should have been. Not since making known to friends that this race was to be run for Jared.

Elizabeth had been out shopping the day before, and had bought me a tiny little shoe pouch with a velcro strap. In it I placed the most powerful weapon in my energy arsenal. A teaspoon of Jared's ashes. My little brother would accompany on my run from hate.

After a sweet kiss from my sexy driver, I made my way into the crowd behind the starting line. I felt surrounded by expert runners. Skinny people looking confident and collected, as if they ran marathons for a living. Unhealthy BMI's, belts loaded with energy goo and water bottles, running shorts, tight leggings, and shoes that I've only seen while watching the Olympics abounded. I wore my old Asics, a pair of Hanes underwear coated with a handful of Anti-Monkey Butt Powder, workout shorts, and a white tee shirt. My daughter Hannah (12) had painted a message on the back of my shirt. It read (in an array of colors), "Pledge Love! Run Away From Hate!" On the front pocket I had drawn four slashes to match the little tattoo on my right shoulder. My brother, Elizabeth, and I went together to get them after Jared's death. He was the fourth child in a lineup of seven. Mom had always marked our clothes with Roman numerals according to the order of our births, in order to properly disperse the clean clothes on laundry day. Since Jared wore a lot of my hand-me-downs, he didn't get the traditional IV so that she could just add a fourth slash when they became his.

The race began with a starting gun shot by a soldier on leave from Iraq, which got the crowd pumped up with pride and appreciation. I stripped the jacket after the first mile. It was keeping me dry (sort of) but it was too hot to wear and way too ugly to keep. The rain did not let up, and the roads were riddled with puddles. It was impossible to keep my shoes dry, something that would plague me later on.

My Ipod was strapped to my arm, and without it the race would have been that much more difficult. I know that a true blooded macho runner scoffs at headphones, just as they do at treadmills, but I did mention that this was my only marathon, right? Anyway, I had chosen well my playlist, shuffling songs that were not too pumped up, yet not too mellow. I knew the words to them all and mouthed them as I ran, my hands occasionally waving to the beat just to keep it real.

The spectators were incredible. Supportive, encouraging, and entertaining, they held signs, rattled bells, and offered water to the runners. There were entire families, the children holding up cups and high fives. The best sign of the run was one that said "Chuck Norris Never Ran A Marathon!"

Mile 12 was tough. I had been running along, wrapped in a cocoon of runners at a 9:35 per mile pace. A sense of camaraderie had developed. I could do this! Then came the turn. Marathon runners to the right, half-marathon runners to the left (and the finish line just a couple of miles ahead). I followed the yellow cones alone, and found myself staring up an empty street. My heart broke. I felt abandoned. In an instant doubt crept into my mind, and I felt the raw grating of a blister forming on my left foot. My pace slowed. I wondered if I had over-reached, and for a moment considered turning around and running to the finish line as a halfer. 

Then I looked down at my right shoe. I began to cry. I thought about Jared's final message to us. "I am so lonely. I have to go." I repented. I was not alone. Jared was with me, and I had to go. I had to go 26.2 miles. In a half shout I asked my little brother to help me. I told him that I missed him. And I ran.

A few miles later I saw a beautiful sight. Elizabeth and a dear friend were sitting out in the rain waiting for me. I paused for a kiss (from Elizabeth) and a water bottle (from my friend). When I started running again, my right knee burned with pain. I hobbled along for several hundred yards before my muscles heated up again and I resumed my pace, although not without some pain.

I cold sum up the next ten miles in two words; "Pain Conquered" but I won't. Blisters forming inside of wet shoes. Knees that refused to loosen up. Hallucinations. Every time I ran a hand through my wet hair, I grew light headed and felt as if I were sitting in a dentist's chair, my lungs filled with laughing gas. My pace slowed and I began to bargain with myself on walking versus running (if you could have called it running). Each time this happened, I looked down at my little brother and kept going. Elizabeth appeared at one point for a photo and a kiss. I love her.

Mile 23. Elizabeth and a final burst of love and energy before the finish. She snapped a photo, gave me some water, took my Ipod, and kissed me again. Her kisses at each stop were long and soft, and restored my strength. 

For the next two miles I spent more time looking at my right shoe than I did at the road. Skeptics be damned, but at one point I swear Jared was there in corporeal form. Handsome as ever, but bare-chested, wearing shorts, and burning down the wet road beside me on his roller blades. His smile kicked my butt and pumped adrenaline into my legs. It doesn't matter if he wasn't truly there, because even as an emotion and fatigue induced hallucination, my little brother was motivation. I was going to finish.

And I did.

Pledge Love!

Run Away From Hate!

I love you Jared. See you on the flipside.

Run Away From The Hate

I am running a marathon this weekend in memory of my little brother Jared. It has been twenty eight months since he walked out into the sunny woods behind his house and laid down to die. I have made no secret about the impact his suicide has had on my own life. Every day since has been for me a lesson in grief, guilt, fear, and despair. Through all of this darkness, however, each day has also been a blessing. My senses have been heightened to the point of total awareness, and I more fully enjoy the happiness of marriage, fatherhood, and life in general. Laughter is sweeter, my children more precious, my wife more beautiful, and life more passionate and livable. For that I thank Jared, although I would have rather learned the lesson through some other means.

Just this past month a young boy in New York killed himself. Biting comments, hateful verbal attacks, and criminal suggestions that he kill himself were hurled at him by his classmates, just because he was different from them. Just because he was gay. My little brother Jared was gay. We talked many times as adults about how he felt growing up knowing he was different. I cringe even now, as I think about how he must have felt to hear the way I spoke about faggots, homos, and queers. Jared must have felt afraid to tell me the truth. He must have felt alone. He must have felt like killing himself. I was just following the crowd, mimicking my peers at school, listening to my teachers at church, and believing the words of adults that I respected, but that is no excuse. I have my own heart, my own mind. I could have defied the tide of hatred, ignorance, and intolerance.

But I didn't. Not for many years, until tensions over Jared (and another brother of mine as well) being gay brought me to a pivot point. I had a decision to make. I could change from within, or continue to tow the line and punish my little brother for something none of us can ever understand in this life yet condemn just the same, because a poorly translated black book supposedly tells us to. Odd thing is, that same black book speaks more about love than anything else, and yet so many who profess to live by it choose to hate. In the end, I decided that the decision had been made for me; I had been told to love over anything else. And so I changed. I loved my little brother.

Not well enough, of course, and far too late. He still took his life a few years later, and while I know it wasn't my "fault," it still seems to me that I could have, should have, and had I known what I know now, would have done more to help him.

But Jared is dead. I can't help him. So I am going to run, because I can't run away. And I am asking all of you for a pledge, but not a monetary pledge. Money cannot stop hate. It can't put an end to intolerance. It won't slow the bullet train of ignorance.

I am asking you all to make a pledge. 

To love. 

It sounds corny, I know. 

It even sounds kinda, well, gay.

But it isn't.

A Happy Birthday Story for Jared

We didn’t have to keep our eyes peeled for long. Within a few miles we were pulled over once again, Michael and I both running for the barbed wire fence.

“Hey, was ‘plastic eating cow’ on our list of photo ops?” I asked, pointing at a large brown beast standing in the shadow of my windmill. It was chewing on one end of a long piece of lightweight black plastic.

“Nice, get a picture of the plastic eater.” As he spoke, Michael was stretching his arms high into the air and tilting his head back, face to the sky. His words were accompanied by a loud groan of satisfaction, and he looked and sounded like a dog standing on his hind legs to stretch and yawn after a long nap.

I climbed the fence carefully, dropping down on the other side between two fresh piles of cow manure. “Watch your step,” I warned Michael as he followed me over into the minefield. I had noticed the state of his shoes when we stopped for lunch in Amarillo, and they were not fit for running carelessly through a field of moist cow crap. They were old and worn, the leather soft and pliable, like that of a beloved baseball glove. Not only were they creased with wear and shiny from age, but the heels were mashed flat. Michael no longer pulled them up over the heels of his feet, choosing instead to slide them onto his feet like leather slippers.

“I wouldn’t want you to get cow shit on your shoepers.” I shouted over my shoulder as I ran toward the windmill.

“Ha!” Michael caught the meaning of my word combination joke immediately, and laughed as he caught up with me.

“How can you run in those things?” I asked, not really looking for an answer.

Michael didn’t offer one anyway; he was focused on his stealthy approach towards the plastic-eating cow. He needn’t have bothered, because the cow was more intent on munching her synthetic snack.

“I think I’m gonna grab that out of her mouth.” Michael said, looking back at me with a grin.

“She’s gonna kick you.” I warned.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, I’m filming.” I answered, stepping in closer to capture the action.

Michael took a few quick steps alongside the cow, then reached out a hand and grabbed the plastic as he ran past. Instead of pulling free from the cow’s mouth, the plastic parted with a snap. Michael kept on running, circling the windmill while I laughed myself breathless. Through it all, the cow chewed on, impervious to my little brother’s attempt at stealing her treat.

Once the laughter faded, I turned my attention to the real reason for jumping the fence and risking a shoe full of cow manure. I stood at the base of the windmill and listened to it creak as the warm breeze turned it round and round. The metal blades sifted the afternoon sunlight, creating a dizzying pattern of shadows and light on the ground at my feet. I took a deep breath and held it in as a wave of unexpected emotion washed over me. I couldn’t suppress my sadness at the thought of passing countless windmills over so many years worth of family road trips, but never gathering enough courage to ask my father to pull over so that I could climb a barbed wire fence, run across a cow patty field, and stand this close to one. Regret and anger merged inside of me, just as it had so many times over the past several months. The good news was that I was becoming more proficient at converting the deadly cocktail of emotions into fuel for change within myself. A great part of that change had come in the realization that the happiest memories my children would carry with them into adulthood were sure to be the moments in which we shared something on their own level and terms instead of mine.

It was silly and I knew it, but standing in the shadow of that giant metal flower with tears in my eyes, I allowed myself to accept that I had chased down and conquered a windmill of my own. It felt good, and I shouted for joy before joining Michael in running back to the car, jumping over crap mines along the way.

Deposit

As I drew to a complete stop at the top of the hill, I looked across the street and saw Jared sitting on a red milk crate. He was leaning against the brick wall of an old building, wearing a red flannel shirt and a pair of well worn blue jeans. A cigarette hung casually from the left corner of his mouth, and it looked about to fall, but somehow clung to his lip and even bounced a bit as he returned my stare with a smile. He was old; his hair grey, his face marked by crow's feet, and his eyes wise with experience. In his hands he held a sketch pad and pencil. He nodded at me, just as a tear splashed down onto my hand. A rumbling truck wrested me from the moment and I hit the gas, lurching forward. As I drove past, he held my gaze, cigarette still clinging to that smile.


I pulled into the parking lot less than a block away, parked and ran into the bank, spending all of thirty seconds inside to make a deposit. I jumped in my car and was back on the road in a flash, and as I approached the old building the thought occurred to me that I could, or rather that I should, sit down next to him and talk to him.


But he was already gone, leaving me to wonder a bit longer.

Bladder Control Is So Overrated

My bladder is about as deep as a stripper's whisper; it makes so many promises and holds not a one. The other night, however, she made good for me by filling up quickly. I am sitting in the second row, dead center. To my left are several young men wearing wife beaters and sporting less intelligence than a pile of blankets. To their left, at the end of the row, sits a baby momma, with the baby of head wife beater in tow. The kid isn't a day over twelve months, and spends his movie time sucking away at something that I not about to verify as being just a bottle. To my right, good friends, the ones that invited me out to endure the plotless ninety minutes that some poor fool has been conned into funding as a film project. To be fair, it isn't all bad, and there have been some rather hilarious moments, but not enough to sustain my interest to the point of bladder rupture. If a movie can compete with my tiny bladder for screen time, it is a movie worth recommending to others. This movie shall forever remain nameless.

The real reason for our outing to the theater is not the movie, but rather the BUC. We had not seen the Black Urban Cowboy (see earlier posting) for some time, and were hankering for a glimpse of the legend. We predicted a 9:40 showing of "Predators" to be his selection for the night, since it was opening weekend and he would be counting on fewer people that time of night on a Sunday. No luck; as we entered the building we saw no cowboy hat, and heard no jingle of spurs.

So here I am, eighty minutes into this theatrical marvel, and my bladder is sweating. I imagine the toxins from my pee seeping into my chest cavity, infecting my body and setting up a major case of sepsis and death. I am trapped, however, by the long stretch of beaters to my left, and polite movie goers to my right. At last I make a choice, and stand as the plot heaves its final breath. I manage to exit the row without kicking anyone in the legs, or bumping their face with my butt.

I turn the corner to head up the ramp and down the hall to the restroom, and come to a full stop. There he is; the BUC. He stands alone in the large corridor, backlit by the bright lights of the movie poster boxes hanging on the wall. His hat is white and crumpled atop his head, his suit is dark and loose, and his boots are adorned with the spurs that make him who he is. I am in the presence of a ghost, I can feel it, and were he to levitate past me down the ramp, I would not give it a second thought. With the speed of a gunfighter I slide my hand into my front pocket and back out again, phone in hand. As I walk silently behind him, I shoot, digitally capturing the moment. I am tempted to speak, but my bladder, the very thing that brought me to this moment, is now demanding repayment of the favor.

When I exit the bathroom, he is gone. The hall is empty, as is the massive courtyard and ticket area. He has vanished, perhaps passing through the walls, a fine western mist that now mixes with the light rain outside.

Tell Jared I said hello, would you please, Mr. BUC?

In My Veins

As a child I would lay in bed on Saturday mornings and pretend to die. I would sit up against the headboard to take a sip of water from a cup I had placed nearby the night before, and swallow it down with great effort, allowing a few drops to dribble down my cheek and onto the pillow. With labored breath, I would give a great soliloquy, imparting my wisdom to those who were gathered around my deathbed. I would start to cry, once again wetting my pillow as my children, their children, and sometimes, when my imagination was strong enough, my great grandchildren came to me one by one and whispered their tearful goodbyes to their sweet old patriarch. I would then lay back into the pillow and utter some final, great words of love to my family, gathered around me in my imagination as they were. My wife would take my hand in hers, her warm skin pressed against my own, as my breath grew more and more shallow, my heart beat weaker and weaker, and my life light dimmer and dimmer. I would close my eyes, and the last thing I would ever see in this life would be the face of the one I loved most, a sweet smile on her lips and warm tears of love in her eyes. I never imagined anything beyond that, my understanding of life after death being very minimal in those days.

Thirty years later, I am well into the wretched hollow now, waiting for time. Over 525,600 minutes have passed since he took his last breath, and every one of them has been overshadowed by my little brother's suicide. Nothing is, nor will it ever be again, the same as before; everything about my life has changed. When Jared took his life last year, I could not imagine experiencing a pain, a loneliness, a sadness, a betrayal, or a suffering so deep that it would drive me to do what he did. I could not fathom the depths of the sorrow that he floundered in every day. Over the past twelve months, I have pondered his final minutes here on earth, and how he must have felt as he wrote his goodbye, telling us that he loved us, but that he was lonely, so lonely, and that he had to go. It has broken me to know that he suffered so terribly, and that I was so ignorant of his despair, so blind to his grief, and so deaf to his cries for either death or help, whichever would come first and end his torment. I have been wracked by just a sliver of those same thoughts and feelings this year, and while it has brought me to my emotional, spiritual, and physical knees, I still cannot grasp the measure of his hopelessness. I hope that I never do. With so much crumbling around me, one would think that I should worry and fear. Not so; the crumbling clears my view and allows me to see farther into the distance, granting me a more perfect line of sight to what can, what should, and what will be. I miss Jared, and I will mourn his death for the rest of my days, until I see him again, fall upon his neck, and hold him close like a brother should.

As always, darkness allows us to discern the light. I thought I might list some of the beams of light that pierce the darkness that surrounds and abounds these days.

-I was told right away by "experts" that I would soon feel anger towards Jared. I have not.
-Friends that have stood strong, silent, and fearless beside me as my storms have raged.
-The scales have been peeled away; I am clear-eyed now, even through the tears.
-Words; powerful, heartfelt, flowing words, both from others and within.
-The road trip of a lifetime.
-Three young pillars that have held up against immense pressure, keeping the foundation of this home intact. Caleb, Hannah, and Solomon serve as constant suppliers of unconditional HOPE, LOVE, and JOY.
-Elizabeth; With me from the beginning, she knows my heart. She has shared every single emotion, shed every single tear, and held my hand at every single moment. Not only does she love Jared as much as I do, but she is the one that taught me how to love him as much as I do. The last interaction she had with Jared says it all; he came to her for a hug when he needed one most.

Coming full circle: I no longer play deathbed on Saturday mornings, but I still imagine my last moments on earth, although now with a greater understanding of life after death and the Eternities. Of course I now know what my children look like, and whose face it will be in that final moment before closing my eyes, but in addition to those changes, I have added a couple of elements since Jared's death; there is a smile on my own lips as I close my eyes, and as I straddle the gap between life and death I whisper softly so that only Elizabeth can hear...

Jared!

These Dreams Go On... #4

Last night, Jared shot off the beach and into the atmosphere without a sound. He looked like a true superhero, with one arm tucked to his chest while the other arm led the way, and both hands balled into fists. I laughed out loud and then he was gone. With both hands shielding my eyes from the sun, I scanned the clear blue sky for his shape. He was too fast, too far away, too high up, and I couldn't find him. I stood on the beach with the surf washing over my ankles, waiting for him to return. A chuckle in my ear and a tap on my shoulder told me he was standing behind me in the water. I hadn't heard a splash, felt a whoosh, or sensed a thud. My little brother was graceful, quick, and strong, a real veteran at flying. 


"Want me to show you how?" He asked.


"Duh!"


"Ok, it's easy. Strike a pose to look cool, then jump into the air and imagine the ground falling away from you." Jared stood beside me and struck a pose, gesturing for me to mimic him. I did my best, arms crossed over my puffed-out chest, chin jutted with a frown on my face, but it wasn't very convincing. I felt like a kid learning to box from his hero-big-brother.


I closed my eyes, jumped into the air, and fell back to earth. He laughed, and the sound of it made me laugh. We lay on the beach in hysterics for several minutes, and I clung to the happiness like the sand to my wet skin.


Soon he had me back on my feet, striking poses.


"You have to find the one that fits you, that's important."


"Seriously? You can't fly without a pose?" I asked like an idiot.


"Sure, but why would you? To fly without a pose is just flying."


"Well then what is flying with a pose?"


"Living!" And with that he shot off the beach and into the air once again.


I watched him for just a moment, then struck my pose; fists poised for combat, feet planted firmly, head tilted back, face to the sky. A knowing smile on my lips, I imagined the beach falling away from me as I shot into the air.


This time the beach did fall away, and I was flying. Jared circled back and flew beside me. We sped through the sky, diving, looping, tricking, and laughing for what felt like hours until my alarm went off and I woke up.


Why is this happening to me? The fantasy of my dreams is bleeding over into my reality, confusing the hell out of my waking hours. It was fun to fly, and words cannot do justice to what it was to spend time with Jared, but I am a husband and father, with many years of loving responsibility ahead. Can I spend those years with one foot in dreams, the other in reality? Were sleep not so elusive for me, I might fear of the day coming when that is all I want to do.


Of course, these questions may well be moot; my dream-self (with a little help from Jared) could just be trying to tell me that it is time for me to strike a pose and live.

Stripping Away The Pain

Running. Outside. On the battered roads of New Hampshire. Sand, trash, cigarette butts, mud, and exhaust. Dedicated? No, I love running inside on my treadmill, and I always will. Strap on the ankle weights, set the incline to the max, and fire up the Netflix. Pick a movie, something ninety minutes long, maybe an independent comedy, no subtitles (too hard to read while running), and hit the start button. Running inside on a treadmill is to train in relative comfort, unlike running outside. Running inside is like being tortured by the French instead of the Soviets; it hurts, but most of your body will continue to function when they are done with you.

So, I am running outside today, for no particular reason other than convenience, and the pain is with me from the start. These days pain is like breathing, it comes naturally to my soul. If it isn't physical, it's emotional, and if I am not in pain than I begin to doubt my own existence. I never understood cutters before; I thought them to be attention seeking teens in angst. Now I know, so my apologies to the cutter community. The pain starts in my lungs, following my breath up and into my nose. It isn't cold today, but it isn't quite hot either, making the moist, pollen-laden air that much harder to suck in. But I suck away at it, because my body is demanding it. It is angry with me; running is a different type of workout, it is not like the weight training and core work to which running has taken a back seat for the past several weeks.

I think I can hear my arms laughing at my lungs and legs, but it might be me. Music is great to run to, but these days music can bring about a paralyzing mood, and in order to make it through this run I have spun the Ipod wheel to a British radio comedy show. Keeping the drivers that pass by guessing, I am smiling and laughing out loud as I run. It is rare to see a runner cracking up as he self torments, and the thought of someone sitting at their dinner table tonight, shaking their head as they tell of the happy runner they witnessed on their drive home makes me laugh and smile even more.

I stop at some railroad tracks, dropping into a runner's stretch across a couple of ties. I bring my head up and look down the long straightaway. In an instant I am taken back to searching for Jared's body last summer. Elizabeth and I had walked the tracks near his home for a few hours. They were long, straight, and lined with trees all the way out to the bay. I shake my head at the emotions rushing through me like blood. My eyes are stinging from sweat, tears, and pollen. I collapse, surrender to the memory, and utter a few words of what might be considered a prayer. After a few moments, I remember that the kids will be waiting for me at the end of their music lessons; I must run.

I start back the way I came, and come to a hill. Halfway up, I am holding my own, my emotions running the show. Something bright catches my eye, and I turn my head as I pass a dirt driveway. There is a shed, set back from the road about forty feet or so. It is sheltered above by trees, and dark shadows have swallowed it's mossy walls. The door is open, and a light shines through. Inside stands a man fidgeting at a work bench.

He is naked.

Thanks Jared, I needed to laugh. And laugh I do, all the way back to my kids.

These Dreams Go On... #3

My personal gulag, Siberian wilderness surrounding me. The darkness of a coal mine my days, the darkness of a moonless sky my nights. There are few guards, no towers, and little else to stop me from running away. And why should there be? What little I have seen above ground does not instill much hope for a successful flight from this misery. Sanctuary lies so far beyond reach that the distance cannot be measured in miles or time.

Of course, I am duty bound to escape, and so I occasionally make a go of it, getting as far as what I cannot tell; there is no fence, no boundary of any kind, the landscape is a cold and desolate plain. Before long my captors find me, wandering through snow drifts and leaning against the furious winds that blow as if commanded by something greater to push me back to my prison.

Back in the mine, I am led to the gauntlet; my emotions have missed me, and are due their pound of flesh. They exact their vengeance without mercy, striking me down with painful blows that send me to my knees. I crawl along the ground like an animal, unable to defend myself against their brutal onslaught. They stomp, grind, twist, hit, and pull at me until I call out for a relief that doesn't come. Once they have had their fill, their baleful thirst sated only by my wild, endless cries for help, they trudge off to a hidden corner of the mine to wait in the shadows for the next time.

I lay still, the cold stone beneath me chilling my bruises. This time, I wonder, was it worse than the last? Will my wounds close over with thick, wretched scar tissue, making me tougher, stronger, harder to break next time? The thought of being covered in a rough, callous, healed skin; that scares me more than the alternative. To develop an immunity to these stinging barbs and slashing attacks would be for me a fate worse than the suffering that wracks me now. It might mean freedom, to have the strength to walk out of here and into the bleak wilderness beyond the horizon. I could leave behind the fury of my captors, with their attacks and the pain they inflict, but to no longer feel this pain is to cease being who I am, and to end my suffering is to end me.

What then, my sentence? I will serve my time, and meanwhile dig for more Hope.

Deal with it? Why don't you just bugger off?

Many people expect grief to have run her course and been on her way by now.

She hasn't.

She has taken up residence. She is like an inconsiderate roommate that wakes me in the middle of the night with slamming doors. She eats my food, uses the last squares of toilet paper, and watches television with the volume up too loud. She doesn't pay rent, yet she roams freely throughout the house.

She washes her underwear in the sink, breaks the tip off every sharpened pencil in the house, and hides the fingernail clippers. Her wet towels lay about, her dishes grow moldy on the stairs, and her breath smells like a dumpster. She grinds her teeth, picks her nose, and belches during my favorite shows, books, and music.

Grief can really bother me at times, but I have been patient, and she has grown on me. She will sit with me when it's quiet and I am alone. She listens when I vent, takes it on the chin when I scream, and doesn't try to stop me from crying, because she knows that I need to. When I am scared, confused, and don't feel like going out, she shuts my bedroom door and guards it against intruders. I don't want her to leave just yet, because I am afraid that if she does I will begin to forget; I need her to remind me of what I have lost, and why it hurts so much.


She's kinda like Love, I think.

Again, many people expect grief to have run her course and been on her way by now.

She hasn't; deal with it.

My First Cigarette

When all is said and done for the night, I close my eyes and listen to the dialogue of a British television show entitled "The Smoking Room" playing through an earbud jammed into one ear. The premise is this; several employees of some nameless company pass time in a designated smoking room. While most enter to "have a fag," others are merely there to socialize and idle away their break time. The camera never leaves the room, so all of the action and dialogue take place amid the grey haze of cigarette smoke. I don't smoke, but I do love this show because it is well written and the characters are flesh and bone. They have flaws and fears and dreams, and while not one of them is always likable, they are all empathetic and tangible.

During the week that Jared was missing. I would lay awake with worry each night, unable to sleep as my mind raced with dread, regret, pain, and hope. Of course, the day came that we found Jared dead in the woods, and in that moment dread, regret, and pain ganged up and beat the shit out of hope, giving him a bloody nose and broken teeth. I couldn't sleep, and each night experienced the panic of rapid pacing inside my own head. A couple of sleepless nights later I found myself on the couch, wide awake and out of my mind with grief. I turned on the PS3 and streamed "The Smoking Room," which I had downloaded before so much of my life turned to hell. For the first time in days, a quiet fell about me. I closed my eyes and listened to the dialogue, and it seemed as though a small crowd of new friends had formed in my living room, chatting away as I took a nap on the couch. I fell asleep just a few minutes into the first episode, but when it ended my eyes popped open as if set to a timer. I reached for the remote and started the next episode, and the same thing happened. I made my way through most of that night in this manner; grabbing twenty minutes of sleep at a time while my new pals from across the pond discussed the minutia of life, huffing and puffing away as they did.

As I said earlier, I am not a smoker. Jared was, and I can remember a conversation we had about "cigs," as he called them. He was trying to cut back, because he said that the first puff on a cigarette after not having smoked one in a while was like an orgasm, a rushing sensation through the body and blood. I pointed out that with few exceptions, having repeated orgasms would not kill you, and would certainly not cause lung cancer or emphysema. I did, however, admit to a certain degree of curiosity regarding smoking, but acceptance of my addictive personality and the fact that I was too much of a coward kept me at bay.

I miss Jared, and part of missing him is missing the way he smelled, which for me was a blend of cigarettes, cologne, and warm skin. One night last summer, Elizabeth and I stood together in our closet and buried our faces in one of his favorite tee-shirts. We cried because we missed him, but then laughed because he would get such a kick out of our foolishness as we sniffed so frantically at his memory. It is hard to describe the emotions dredged up when I catch a hint of his scent on a passing stranger, it is like a mix of anxiety, grief, and happiness.

So, returning to my nightly lullaby; I am not sure how long this will go on, but for now it works. I can fall asleep at night, albeit it very late, with my mind free from racing against itself, and let the dreams about Jared wash over me, as they do every night.

Hey, it beats the hell out of drifting off to sleep with a lit cigarette dangling from my lips or fingers.

Tribute to a Llama Rancher

I met Randy in October of last year while passing through Holbrook, Arizona. There is an A&W restaurant and gas station on Navajo Blvd, and my brother Michael and I stopped there for food and fuel on our road trip to the Grand Canyon. We had just spent a few hours driving and hiking through the Petrified Forest National Park. The journey had been ethereal; while taking in the Martian landscapes, stone trees, colorful vistas, and cobalt sky, I imagined that we had passed through a wormhole to a time when this corner of Earth had served as God’s personal art studio. We entered Holbrook just minutes after exiting the park, and I pulled the little black rental car up to the pump and shut the engine off. As I sat there in a moment of silence outside that A&W, a desire to turn the car around and disappear into the desert fell upon me; I needed a beautiful escape from the ugly reality that had become my life over the previous five months.

         Michael and I were on a quest; our brother Jared took his life last summer, on June 3^rd. He had been missing for several desperate days before my wife Elizabeth and I found him lifeless in the woods behind his house. This was not his first attempt at suicide; only two months prior to his death, Jared had quit his job of more than 12 years, jumped into his car, and headed west to see the Grand Canyon. His plan was to gaze upon its beauty before ending his life surrounded by it. He ran out of money in Kansas City, and so in a quiet and lonely roadside motel he had taken a bottle of sleeping pills chased by a bottle of liquor. The maid service found him unconscious on the floor, and he was rushed to the hospital in time to pump out his stomach. We were blessed to have him with us for a couple more months, and while his struggle was day to day, we thought he might make it. Little did we know that he would make anther attempt so soon, and little did we know of the agony and suffering that we have dealing with since his passing. In an effort to find some peace, and in a desire to share something special with my little brother and fulfill one of Jared’s last wishes, Michael and I were driving from Kansas City to the Grand Canyon to finish Jared’s journey. We carried with us some of his ashes to sprinkle into the canyon on his birthday, October 25^th. The time with Michael in the painted desert had been a bittersweet and beautiful escape; to return to civilization, even a one-horse town like Holbrook, Arizona did not appeal to me in the least.

         So, with the back-story now in place, let us return to that A&W service station and my desire to escape into the desert. When I snapped out of my desert trance, I hopped out of the car and pulled my credit card out of my wallet to swipe it and pump some gas. It took me a moment of slow confusion to realize that there was no credit card slot.  Slow to modernize, this gas station was old school, the pump an older model with the numbers that spun vertically, counting the gallons and their cost with a whirring and clicking sound.

“Michael, check this out, the pumps here are so old!” Michael walked over and snapped a few photos of me smiling like a mouth breathing simpleton, my eyes wide in awe at the numbers as they rolled past. The whirring and clicking of the pump, the spinning numbers, the smell of gasoline, all these things combined to re-construct the memory of Jared and I scrounging for change to gas up my ’72 Chevy Nova every morning after seminary. It would only take a buck or two to get us around until the next day, when we would do it all over again.

         “They don’t make ‘em like that anymore, do they?” The words came from a throat that had sucked in the smoke of more than a few cigarettes over the years. I turned to face a pot-bellied, scruffy faced man wearing grey sweats and a maroon tee shirt dribbled with stains. On his head he wore a dark baseball cap with “Marines” in bold script across the front, the anchor and globe emblem to one side.

         “Hi guys, you look like you’ve been on the road a piece. My name is Randy, and that’s my van over there at pump number two.” He extended his hand, and I took it. His fingers were pudgy, but strong and calloused.

         What followed was an hour-long conversation over delicious A&W hamburgers and root beer floats. Michael and I sat in a booth across from Randy, his wife, and his mother, who was confined to her wheelchair, which had an oxygen tank strapped to one side. Randy was a llama and emu rancher from Denver, and he had some very interesting stories to tell about emus killing coyotes and stomping their carcasses into the prairie. He loved his ranch hands like family, and they were welcome to any of the food in the freezer. He moved on to the purpose of their road trip; he had purchased the van because it had wheelchair access for his mother, who had been given very little time to live. Her last desire was to take a road trip from Denver to California, taking a ride through the beauty of the Southwest and visiting family along the way. He was hoping she would last the week to see her sister.

“Nothing matters more than family, you can’t take nothin’ more than family when you go.” Randy told us this more than once during that conversation.

Michael and I shared our story about Jared, his death, and our quest to finish the trip he had started. Randy sat and listened to every word, empathetic to our loss and pain. He spoke then of his own attempt at suicide, and how his own brother had succeeded at taking his own life, adding to the pain and misery that was Randy’s life. Randy confessed to having spent some time in a wheel chair. He had only truly needed it for a few months due to an accident, but depression kept his sitting in it for seven years. His self esteem and will to live were all but non-existent for nearly a decade, until one day he woke up and decided his pity party had lasted long enough. Since that day he had done what he could do make amends for those dark days and the pain he had caused. He had started loving himself and his family, trying to be a better husband to his wife and son to his mother.

         As we wrapped up our conversation, we wished each other well, and Randy invited us to spend time on his ranch outside of Denver anytime we were in the area. We said goodbye and thanked him for crossing our path, leaving us better off than when he had found us. Michael and I drove to Flagstaff uplifted by having met a fellow traveler on a mission who at first glance had appeared to be so unlike anyone spinning around within our normal social circles, but had proved to be the kind of person that each of us should welcome in. It made our journey, already an unforgettable experience due to its purpose, that much more memorable and life changing.

         Had you been sitting in that A&W that afternoon, you could have reached out and squeezed the tribulation out of the air; full of sadness, regret, loss, pain, suffering, worry, agony…my little brother Michael and I felt as if we had been set adrift in a sea of strife aboard a rubber dinghy. The hope for a calm, safe harbor and blue skies had all but faded amidst the dark clouds above and the grey of angry waves that threatened to crash down upon us and swallow us whole without mercy. At times we could not see past the next sorrowful wave, and would just lay in the bottom of our little craft, the cold waters of Jared’s death soaking our skin and draining us of our will to go on. In a moment of extreme conditions, Randy and his little band of experienced sailors pulled their large and seaworthy ship up along side our little boat, creating a temporary shelter from the storm.  His life story, coupled with the selfless, loving act of driving his mother across the desert in her waning days demonstrated to Michael and I that we could weather this storm, and that a safe, warm, blue-skied harbor lay in wait. Randy stocked us with provisions, patched a few of the holes in our hull, and reminded us of the map that we had been given long before this ordeal began. The journey would be long, the dangers many, the urge to despair overwhelming, but we would make it.

Thanks, Randy

Darkest Hour

“Matty, come here!” There is alarm in her voice. I sprint across the few hundred feet that separate us, jumping logs, dodging branches, stumbling over rocks.

“What , what do you see?” I ask as I approach.

“I don’t know, it looks like clothes, but I am not looking again.” Elizabeth has turned to face me, and is pointing over her shoulder.

“Ok, ok, I’ll look.” I say as I pass her in a hesitant rush.

I look out over the forest floor, but my eyes will not cooperate. I can see something large and blue, but the whole of its shape does not make any sense. I am looking at something just fifty feet away, but I cannot tell what it is, there is a disconnect between my eyes and my mind. I take a few steps forward.

“Is it him?” Her tone is soft and pleading.

“I don’t know, my eyes won’t focus.” I take a few steps closer, rubbing my eyes.

“Don’t go any closer.” Elizabeth warns.

“I won’t, I just can’t…” My eyes suddenly snap into focus, and I know that I am looking at a blue blanket. One corner is folded up over something. Shoes. They are shoes, sticking out from under the corner. My mind moves cautiously, the puzzle’s picture taking shape with each new piece that snaps into place. The legs are crossed at the ankles, the corner of the blanket laying over the feet, creating the odd form that made no visual sense. Jeans. I stop and focus at the waist. I see a black belt, with two rows of silver grommets running around its length. I know that belt.

“It’s him, it’s him, it’s him.” I am stuck in slow motion.

“Oh, no,” Elizabeth begins to whimper. She reaches for me as I take a step closer. 

“Matty, don’t go over there.” She pleads.

I look at her for answers as I begin to cry.

“Oh Jared, why, why, why?!” I am now shouting, sobbing, gasping, and I fall down. No strength, no control. I stare across the forest floor at the blanket.

A great shift has befallen me, sending me to my knees. There is a tightness in my chest with each anxious, life-giving breath. Strange, feral, sorrowful sounds are coming from my throat. Through blurry eyes I see long strands of spit dripping from my lips, and as I watch them coat the dirt beneath me, I marvel that I don’t care. 

My mind leaps across time. From one memory to another, a rapid, fitful slide-show of the past thirty-six years flashes before me. I am trembling, weak, defeated. Something touches my shoulder, a reminder that I am not alone. Elizabeth is with me, standing close, her hand on my back. It is there to comfort me, but also to hold me in place. I thank God she is here, with me, in this moment. She knows me, that I will want to run over there. To scoop him into my arms. To hold him. To fix him. I lift my head up, and my knees press into soil. My arms are limp and useless, my chest heaving. I look over at him once more, and another growl escapes my throat. I fall forward, and my forehead touches the earth. A deep breath, and I begin to wail. I am surrounded by darkness as the whine of a distant siren blends with mine.

My brother Jared lies dead on a blanket in the woods.