The story is written with your vision, man. How do I know? Because I know I walk from storyline to storyline depending on what I’m looking at. My old hurt and trauma tell me one story about a girl who is horrible at love, knows how to keep her distance and shut down in order to maintain safety, has little to work with (how many blog posts have I mentioned my unemployability, lack of wage-earning skill sets and general worthlessness? I shudder to think….) who is holding on to Jesus for that Kingdom come crown of glory. Ain’t nobody promised her nothing this side of heaven.
There’s another storyline I walk myself into but I can’t say it’s of my own doing, when all around is an angel choir, and the most magical shit I never could have imagined where I find myself living a fairytale with grace-filled moments fudging all around me. Case in point:
Last night I showed up to volunteer with the other Marching Band parents to help load and unload marimbas and xylophones and and amps and drums and generators from the storage pods over to the football field then schlepp them onto the field for the halftime show, then load up the truck again and put it all back. It was a gorgeous afternoon in early fall in central Jersey and there I was, talking to other band parents and lugging equipment up and down and over again like I belonged there. Like I wasn’t a stranger or a new kid and it felt amazing. What does amazing feel like? It feels like you don’t have to try or edit or curate or tip toe, you just get to be effortlessly you. To me, that is amazing. My darkest timeline (shout out, Community fans) always has me not belonging. My darkest timeline always tells me I have no business being here so when it gently exits powerless to the forces of grace and ease, I get to walk into a world where it’s OK for me to just be.
And there I was, just being. In the football stands of all places! And there I was watching my kid #64 on the sideline running in to play O-Line, running back and high fiving other guys, watching my other kid on the top row of the bleachers playing that tenor sax with the pep band then marching onto the field come halftime to the cheers of the crowd. And this, this is the part I wanted to tell you about:
After the game, after the Bulldogs got their W, we motioned to our kid on the field to come over to the fence for a picture. He ran over happy and sweaty and still hopped up from the homegame and how did I even walk into such an unforgettable Thursday night?? He’s gushing to me and his dad about the plays and about the win, about the whole thing when we start hearing his name getting called from over by the pep band. See, this is his first year of football, as a senior. Before then, he was up in the bleachers with the band playing a mean clarinet. We hear them calling his name and I tell him, “Jesse, look, the band is trying to get your attention!” And he looks up, smiles and waves to where all the uniformed marching band kids are and they erupt in cheers. I don’t know the current state of High School Band/Football diplomacy, but my guess is the crossover rates are slim. I’ll never ever forget that moment when my kid and those band kids saw each other from across the great divide between atheletic field and bleachers and cheered. And just like that, the darkest timeline is a foolish mirage of garbage.
How can I keep from singing when I see such joy and growth? How can I keep from seeing how love and grace abound?
I’m packing for a dream come true European trip crossing off Scotland from my bucket list. I’m planning a Fall Ladies Tea Party at church, I’m going to Arizona for. a writer’s retreat in January, I’m living in one of the most beautiful places on earth, in my opinion, and, my 79 year old dad is back on the basketball coaching roster and getting back to being himself after years of sitting it out. I have these three amazing, crazy talented and unique sons, I have this wonderfully loving peaceful faithful man, I have two perfect pumpkins on my deck that grew from my compost pile and I’m here with some decades left yet to live and hell, it’s looking like I might be making a record with my musical hero like I’ve dreamt of doing for years. How could anyone with such an embarassment of riches keep from singing?
The devil is a liar. He will do everything in his power to keep you from seeing what’s right there in front of you, convince you to stay frightened and fighting and push a stone up a hill until your last breath. He will convince you that he’s good and that love and grace are evil and he will delight in breaking you and everything you hold dear.
How do I know this? Because I fall for it on the daily. I let my old hurt and trauma be the most trustworthy and true version of myself without seeing them for what they are: they are parts of me, but not everything. My old wounds and trauma are in need of rest and respite as much as I am. How do I wake up from such shadows? Oh ya know, I say yes to the invitation and let the good Lord do the rest. I wake up when I read a short facebook post from a friend about her inoperable untreatable diagnosis and all of a sudden I can see that what I’m seeing is really a seductive suffering siren determined to watch me drown while I’m still breathing.
While I’m still breathing. And I am. And we are. While we’re still breathing, who do we really want to be? While still with breath, how close to love and belonging and the cheering section might we get? I assure you it’s out there. I assure you, even if you come from a place where to be worthy is to despise what is feather-like weightless, the gift of freedom blows softly on the wind. The story is written with our vision. Set your sights on something good. You’re not alone in the very human struggle between storylines. Let’s just encourage one another to be free. High five.