Whatever gets writ, I pray it’s writ by us. The ones who lived it, the ones who know the hidden tale beneath the story, the sleepless nights, the quiet kitchens, the silent weeping, the fearful doubt. One can let the story float off up up up into the air and watch as cottonwood seeds float up up up above the water as far as five miles out before lighting upon their destination and, when asked, from where they came, have nothing but dreams in reply.
Whatever gets writ, may it be writ by us. Details can always be added by the cast at a later date.
The human skeleton becomes all new again in seven years. But. Because of the fall of man, cell regeneration never stops, but cell regeneration gets tired and worn, tired and worn and regenerates something less than in our younger years and on and on from dust to dust and ash to ash. In seven years skeletal frames are made anew and upon these frames hang portraits and wardrobes, protections and softness for holding newborn babies close, kittens, and laundry fresh from the dryer.
We were here twelve years so that’s just about one and three quarter skeletons longs on the corner of two streets with a house facing northwest, a blue spruce in the back and one pine tree slowly dying. The boys were in preschool, Sammy started 2nd grade, Jon went to work and in the quiet I wrote songs. Paycheck to paycheck with extra cash from waiting tables, and gig after gig going further afield. Leading songs on Sunday morning, helping at school as we were able, walking over to the office, up to the grocery and back home. The sound of the train, the waiting at the crossing, the potluck in the school gym and the driving for band.
Remember the garage sale? Remember how I helped at Utica Days? Remember the Ukulele band, the teaching guitar lessons, the one year Spanish classroom? Remember Colorado and the Song School full of magic? Remember how I found something far off and close at home? Remember Catalyst and Coaching? Remembering my many failed kitchen gardens and resigning to flowers, perennials and a prayer? Remember Hastings and The Listening Room? Remember cub scouts and campouts and taking 3rd graders on a five mile walk to fulfill the goal? Remember all those VBSs? The New York trips with the youth group? Remember when Mom could still visit and helped us so much with the kids?
She won’t know where we are once we leave come next Monday. This is the last place where her memory still lives in each room. She’s reading a book to Joey, she’s in the living room folding laundry, she’s sorting out legos and Lincoln logs and cleaning Jesse’s room. She’s washing the dishes, she sits down for dinner, she smiles in the picture at Christmas with the boys. She won’t know that we left here and she won’t know where we’re going and when I tell her all about it she won’t understand the words.
But whatever gets writ should be writ by me and I would hate to overlook that heartache no one can plot on a map. We bought all new appliances, we got three roofs after hailstorms, we’ve replaced the siding, the everything and the carpet’s still not in. We fell in love with this kitchen and the bay window facing south and the light it lets in when the blinds are pulled up. There’s a heart here that’s hidden beneath the unfinished projects and the rooms unimpressive when the realtor walked through. It’s not showy or good on paper, but it was a good place for a pastor and his family who never in a million years thought a house within reach.
And I’m different than I once was and I don’t fear the narthex and I don’t fear the same things I used to fear long ago. And I’m different than I once was starting from bone working outward and I’m older as confirmed by my cells regenerating to decline. I fought demons, I shed burdens, I kept at the hardest most invisible climb where one must lay out their guts on the table and sift through whatever bullshit residue’s gotta go. I came up with a thought and I repeated it daily and I cried at my own weakness and started turning the light on my shame. I stopped worrying so godamn much about outward appearances and I’m proud of myself for all the work I have done.
I wrote songs and kept writing. I played shows and kept trying, I calmed the hell down in the right ways and gave a damn more in others. I went through a desire to break everything but I never picked up the hammer, I just sat with the pull to pulverize until one day I found some peace. Appointments and pills and more appointments and sessions, six sessions free with good insurance, then repeat.
I’m not always sure about why we’re all here and what exactly are we doing besides breaking our own hearts then breaking others? Sometimes I think our marching orders are mercy and forgiveness and mercy and forgiveness for as many skeletons as it takes. I mean that’s the model from our maker: mercy and forgiveness and mercy and forgiveness from now til kingdom come. I wonder about families, lovers and friendships, I wonder about closeness because it’s not a gift I have. I wonder about persons and wholeness and being and how in the end I won’t be that proud of the list of stuff that I’ve done.
I’ll be proud of the being. I’ll be proud that I stayed standing, that I faced demons and dragons, examined my guts for all to see. I’ll be proud of reconciliation, making peace with the paradox and doing my best in all circumstance as if that were enough. One and three quarters skeletons worth of learning and growing and shedding and strengthening for the journey ahead. For friendship and belonging and commitment, perseverance, mourning, renewal and the promises of what’s to come.
Whatever gets writ, may it be writ by us alone who have lived it and know it’s workings and still the mystery remains. I’ll miss you, Utica. I’ll miss you, dear friends. I’ll miss this life and this place and waving to whoever drives by. I’ll miss this kitchen table positioned by the bay window and what it gave me and how it started every morning anew with writing and words. My words. My story. Whatever got writ, I wrote it myself.