Pondering the Product and the Process: "Mostly Just Hyde"

Both the product and the process of my latest ditty have gotten me thinking.

First, the process.  I have a journal where I doodle lines and phrases of poems-in-progress.  I’ve got about a dozen “solid starts,” and many more “seeds of ideas”.  The journal was given to me by a friend over five years ago.  It wasn’t until I finished this lyric a couple of days ago that I realized that the “Jekyll and Hyde” idea was something I had messed around with on the very first page of my journal.

In truth, I am already well-aware that I am a better “starter” than I am a “finisher.”  Kind of by a lot.  But still: Five years?  Wow.

What’s especially curious for me is that I finished this after deciding that I really wanted to finish one of my fragments.  It was about 3 weeks ago, and I thought, "I gotta finished something."  “Mostly Just Hyde” wasn’t even the one that I first attacked.  I worked on another fragment, hit a wall, then bounced over to this one, and finished it.

While my commitment to finish something preceded my completion of this, I still feel as though finishing “Mostly Just Hyde” was largely out of my hands.  With most of what I write, I feel like I am at the mercy of ideas.  They either come or they don’t.  It was like this when I used to write sermons, too.  I would sit down and be like, “OK, God, what have you got?”

Even now, I’m not sure what I did differently that caused me to finish this lyric instead of just add an idea or two.  I’ve got theories, and how I frame them is related to how I reconcile the Christian paradox of “free will” versus “God’s sovereignty”.  Was God waiting for me to earnestly commit to something, at which point he laid out the path of completion?  Did I initially commit to finishing something because God intended me to do so?  Am I choosing to cooperate with God?  Does he even need me to?

Surprisingly, I don’t expect to exhaustively resolve this theological mystery to everyone’s satisfaction in this blog post (resolving “free will” and “God’s sovereignty” deserves a post all to itself).  But my takeaway is this: Maybe finishing things isn’t as hard as I think it is.  Maybe God is on board with me finishing more things.  Maybe he’s ready to finish right alongside me.

So that’s the process.  About the product: I’m a little ambivalent about it.  In some ways, I don’t advocate the theology behind it.  The motif, as you’ll see, is “Jekyll and Hyde” as a metaphor for what I sometimes feel like in my attempts to follow Jesus.  I think most Christians can relate.

But maybe we can relate a little too much.  I don’t believe God intends for us to commit ourselves him and then spend the rest of our lives in a constant tug-of-war between “who we are” and “who we used to be.”  This lyric may suggest that God intends for the Christian life to be one of constant struggle, and that the goal is to struggle more diligently for “the good side.”

I think that the intended struggle is at least one step removed from this idea; I think the struggle should be between “struggling” and “realizing that it doesn’t have to be as much of a struggle as we think.”  Of course there are passages in the New Testament that talk about how difficult it is to follow Jesus.  But there are also passages that talk about how easy it is, and how the power of sin in our lives is an illusion.  Paul, especially, has a knack for making things seem pretty easy, like in Romans 6:6 when he writes, “…we know that our old self was crucified with him so that the body ruled by sin might be done away with, that we should no longer be slaves to sin.”  Oh, is it that easy?  Well, it kind of is.  Paul might suggest that if you’re pitting “Jekyll” and “Hyde” against each other and expecting the participants to be somewhat evenly matched, you’re already ascribing to a flawed view of the Spirit-filled life.  Maybe the hard part is believing that it doesn’t have to be so hard.

I believe that artists are somewhat responsible for how their work is interpreted.  So, for the record, my hope is that struggling souls may read this and take heart in realizing that they are not alone, and that relatively normal followers of Christ sometimes feel torn between these poles.  On the other hand, my hope is that struggling souls will not read this as an endorsement of the life of perpetual struggle.  At least sometimes—and I can’t say how much or in what ways—it shouldn’t be a struggle, even if this lyric may suggest otherwise.

-THP

     Mostly Just Hyde

VERSE 1:

It’s like the beast with Dr. Jekyll, but with me it is reversed.

I came to God with raging flesh, burdened by the curse.

He calmed me with his potion and subdued the beast inside.

He named me Dr. Jekyll and he banished Mr. Hyde.

Why, oh why, I can’t tell you I summoned Hyde again.

I told him where I lived and when he knocked I let him in.

He’s like that loser college bud who always calls you “bro”

Then reminds you that you owe him when you say it’s time to go

CHORUS 1:

Some days I’m Dr. Jekyll and some I’m mostly just Hyde

Some days I choose to follow you some days I can’t decide

I conveniently forget some days my flesh is crucified

Some days I’m Dr. Jekyll and some I’m mostly just Hyde

VERSE 2:

I’m Mr. Hyde’s accomplice ‘cause it’s me who let him in

Then I let myself be charmed by his warm, seductive grin.

He mentions “good old days” and he offers me a hit

And he glares inside my soul when I tell him that I’ve quit

He asks me who I’m kidding, and he claims to really know me

And he says there’s more to life and he’d really like to show me.

I see his lips are moving which is how I know he’s lying

But it’s easy to forget, some days, that Mr. Hyde dying

CHORUS 2:

Some days I’m Dr. Jekyll and some I’m mostly just Hyde

Some days I play the harlot and some I’m the faithful bride

Who I am and what I think some days don’t coincide

Some days I’m Dr. Jekyll and some I’m mostly just Hyde

BRIDGE:

So Dr. God, prescribe for me some pill to make me strong

Some tonic or elixir that will make Hyde run along

Some transformation stabilizer that will make me see

That no matter what he says, Mr. Hyde—he isn’t me

Tom Waits and Dancing Outside the 99 Cent Store: "A Song in the Key of a Fallen World"

Tom Waits wrote a song called “Hold On” (different from the Wilson Phillips song). It used to play on the college radio station at Truman State University. I’d only hear it in the background while I was meeting someone at the on-campus café. I asked around and discovered the song’s name and artist, information I filed away in my brain. A few years later, it became one of the first songs I bought through the internet.

itunes says that I’ve played it 332 times, but the only “play” I remember predates that official count, since it was on a CD that I had burned, and not through a device synched with itunes. It was around Christmas time about 6 years ago, and we were driving to Rockford, Illinois, to visit Beth’s family. It’s a pretty easy drive, but for some reason, I got turned around and ended up having to take some two-lane highways to make up lost time. It was getting late—probably around 10 or 11 at night—and everyone else had dozed off.

I popped in a CD and invited some musicians to ride along with me on that dark, isolated, two-lane highway. Tom Waits made an impression that night with the images that he painted in “Hold On.” The song is made up of a series of snapshots of (I think) different people in different lives, all of whom have experienced hardship. The connecting thread is that the storyteller (Waits, at times blending into the narrative) admonishes them each to “Hold On”.

That night, one of the snapshots particularly struck me:

Down by the Riverside motel,
It's 10 below and falling
By a 99 cent store she closed her eyes
And started swaying
But it's so hard to dance that way
When it's cold and there's no music
Well your old hometown is so far away
But, inside your head there's a record
That's playing, a song called
Hold on…

For me, being “struck” by a song like this means that I could completely grasp both the scene and the implication. I felt like I’d been there, and empathized along with Tom Waits for this girl. With him, I pleaded, “Just hold on…” If “being inspired” means “being propelled to something good,” then, yes, I was inspired that night. I wanted to help. I also wanted to create something that may inspire someone else.

Somewhat abruptly, I went from experiencing the effectiveness of this song to analyzing the effectiveness of this song. I was feeling that it “worked”. But why was I feeling that it “worked”? Of course, the music helped. How chords and melodies enhance the images of poetry is something that is beyond my understanding, but certainly intriguing to me.

Lyrically, the images were specific enough to be evocative, but general enough to be relatable. They were also sparse: 57 words, by my count. I knew that would be a challenge to replicate. But I considered how many other songs I knew that sparsely yet vividly developed powerful images, songs like “Pink Houses” by John Mellencamp and “Reason to Believe” by Springsteen. We’re taking snapshots, not writing novels.

Over the next few days in Rockford, when I would get the chance to slip away from family socializing, I would swing open my notebook and “lyrically doodle” ideas inspired by Tom Waits and his girl outside the 99 cent store.

Turns out, I couldn’t do it in 57 words. I decided to go with just one character, and give her two verses and a bridge. She ended up getting about 291 words, including the chorus.

I call these “lyrics” but I’m sure they would be difficult to put to music, given the drawn out verses and generally verbose nature of the lines. Plus, I would insist that any music accompanying these words would match the girl’s song in terms of beauty and sweet-sorrow. It’s a tall order, I know.

All in all, this came out pretty quickly, and I’ve only made a few tweaks over the years. I’ve gone back and forth on the Santa Fe reference; Beth loves this piece, but has said the Santa Fe reference isn’t her favorite and seems a little out of place. I don’t necessarily disagree, but I included it for a couple of reasons:

1. It rhymes (obviously)
2. It attaches a more specific locale to the scene, one which I had in mind when writing it. I pictured this little girl living some place like a desert plateau. That said, there’s no reason this girl couldn’t live somewhere like Nebraska or even Illinois. Maybe I’m not leaving enough to the readers’ imagination.
3. It was actually an intentional reference to the metaphorical use of “Santa Fe” in the musical “Rent,” as a place to escape to and start over in. I like to pretend that there is a subliminal enhancement of the effectiveness of using “Santa Fe” in this manner that is experienced by anyone who has seen “Rent”; that there are people who will read this and think, “Wow, that really works for me, and I don’t know why.”
4. There’s a sad irony that someone’s big dream of escaping would land them in Santa Fe, of all places. Of course, there are a lot of cities that a healthy, informed person wouldn’t dream of escaping to, even in places like Nebraska and especially Illinois. But Santa Fe works as well as any other in capturing this irony.
5. I haven’t come up with anything better.  Maybe I will someday.

Nuts and bolts aside, the girl in this song is both imaginary and real. She’s imaginary in that I’ve never met this particular girl. But she’s real because there is a little girl like this, somewhere. There are many, in fact: little girls who have been forced to grow up but are still children. Girls who are sad and hopeful, in the desert, in the city, in the suburbs. You probably know one. She may just need to be told she’s not alone and that her prayers are not wasted. She may need to have her song heard. She may even need someone to spin around with her, then to tell her that it is OK to cry, but that it is also OK to hope.

-THP


     A Song in the Key of a Fallen World

In the trailer park behind the liquor mart
the weeds grow high from fallen tears.
A lonely girl in a fallen world
Closely counts her daddy’s beers.
She’s learned to run by the seventh one
to the place she goes to disappear.
It’s way out back by the railroad tracks
that haven’t held a train in years.
It’s there she goes ‘cause it’s there she knows
she can tie to the tracks her saddest fears
while she joyfully spins and softly sings
the prettiest song you’ll ever hear.

CHORUS:
It’s a song of hope filled deep with pain, of dreams not dead but not set free
Its peaceful notes judge hard and fast all the things not meant to be
She makes the words up as she goes, this happy, lonely, dancing girl
It’s a song of wanting something more; it’s a song in the key of a fallen world

Though the sun beats down on this desert town
this girl just spins and sings and sways.
She kicks the sand up while she goes and
dreams that there will come a day
she’ll catch some train and find the rain
that washes all the dust away.
It’ll take her to the ocean blue
or maybe north to Santa Fe.
She doesn’t care ‘cause anywhere
will offer more than if she stays.
So she sings this song and deeply longs
for her soul, with the notes, to float away

CHORUS

BRIDGE:
Some people when they see this girl shake their heads or roll their eyes
Some people wonder why she sings and spins without a care
What they don’t know is that she sings ‘cause if she stops she cries
And that she hopes that someone, somewhere knows her song’s a prayer
CHORUS

-THP

Inside Jokes and Other People's Emails: "A Hypothetical Eulogy for My Friend, Rod"

Beth and I have an inside joke from an episode of “Mystery Science Theater 3000.”  The movie that gets ridiculed in this episode is called “Squirm.”  In it, a pack (herd?) of killer worms picks off, one-by-one, a group of common-sense-challenged adults wandering in and around an isolated house in the woods.  At one point, the hero and his girlfriend decide that their best chance for survival is for the hero to retrieve boards from a known-stash of plywood.  The couple would then board themselves in the house until, uh…  OK, I don’t remember the details of the plan so much.

Anyway, the hero goes to fetch the plywood, and instead trips and sprains his ankle.  He limps back to the house, where his girlfriend calls out to him, “Did you get the plywood?”  At this point, the peanut gallery who is watching the movie for the purpose of ridiculing it yells out on behalf of the hero, “No, but I sprained my ankle!”

For Beth and I, “No, but I sprained my ankle!” has become a code phrase for, “I didn’t accomplish what I was supposed to, but in attempting to achieve the desired goal, I actually made things worse (or discovered that things are worse than we realized).”

For example:

BETH:  Did you fix the leaky drain?

ROB:  No, but I sprained my ankle.

BETH:  Oh no.  What happened?

ROB:  When I was trying to detach the plunger from the drain so I could snake it, I snapped the mechanism holding the plunger in place and scraped my hand on the faucet.

So that’s our joke.  Hold that thought while I shift to about a year and a half ago, around Christmas time.  At that time, I exchanged a flurry of emails with a friend of mine (Rod, married to Niccole) who had recently moved to Kansas City and was looking for a new job and a new church, all while trying to deal with his own “demons,” as he put it.

I had sent him an email, talking about some of my own struggles with adjusting to homemaking and church finding and depression.  This is a portion of the email he wrote back (that I share with his blessing):

…We have had a pretty eventful past few days.  Christmas went well, other than waking up at 3:30 in the morning with a horrible toothache.  We went to Springfield on Sunday and Monday to see family.  Unfortunately my toothache never subsided and by Monday morning, was forcing my body into a pretty uncomfortable position.  I woke up Monday with my hands and feet swollen, my head just wasn't working right (which I thought was the pain) and frankly I was having a hard time coping with life at that point.  Niccole rushed me to urgent care where they determined that I was dangerously close to sepsis which is basically blood poisoning from your body's inability to fight a bad infection.  Apparently your body starts shutting down and limiting blood flow to extremities and you can eventually die.  From a stupid TOOTHACHE!  Sheesh.  I need to listen to my wife more often, clearly. She had been pushing me to go to the doctor since Christmas morning.  ANYWAY, I received a shot in the bum with antibiotics, some serious pain and antibiotic pills and a stern warning from the doctor about not letting things like that go too long.  Yep, I'm a mess.  No surprises there though.  We are now home and this morning I woke up with MUCH LESS pain than the past few days which was NICE!  It's still sore and achy but at least it's better.

I'm sorry to hear that you and I are battling the same demons.  I try and make myself believe that nobody else could possibly be going through this same kind of crap but reality tells me that I'm not alone with this. I wish there were a better way of removing these feelings of not being worth anything to my wife and children other than counseling but as Niccole likes to point out, that's why it's there.  I'm not all that comfortable in telling people about my inner-most secrets and fears either. As a matter of fact, I sent a prayer request to what I believed was my pastor’s personal email for him to disperse appropriately.  In the prayer request, I put that I'd like it to be kept in confidence because I really poured out my heart and soul in this thing.  I even mentioned my feelings about how I think Niccole and my oldest daughter would be better off financially and such without me.  Imagine how surprised I was to receive a copy of this email a few minutes later.  As did Niccole.  And anyone else on the prayer request email list.  It got sent out because of a logistical error, but I started receiving all sorts of emails from people I don't know about my prayer request.  These emails I received were amazing.  People I don't know and who don't know me were reaching out and letting me know that I'm loved and that while they don't know me, they were willing to listen if I wanted to talk.  What an amazing feeling that was too.  And still is.  The pastor and I emailed back and forth a little bit about how it's quite possible that God not only wanted people to get that email but wanted to use that as a tool to teach me about the gift of receiving help when we ask for it.  Good stuff.

So I'm rambling quite a bit here which means I should go.  Thank you for your friendship and for allowing me to ramble on. Have a blessed and happy New Year!

Rod

About a week later, I wrote a poem for Rod.  I sent it to him, with an explanatory preface.  I then sent THAT email to Beth, also with an explanatory preface.

Around this time, I was getting ready to launch my blog.  I was pretty terrified.  It seemed like something God wanted me to do, but I was gun shy about committing any time whatsoever to writing.  My most recent attempts at changing the world through the written word had, by my estimates, succeeded in communicating mostly the opposite of what I had intended and had spawned far more pain and misunderstanding than they had clarity and vision (vague, I know).

Right now, as I’m typing these words, I don’t know if this post will communicate anything other than my penchant for prolonged and non-linear communication.  This may be one of those “It’s my blog and I’ll blab if I want to” posts.  My HOPE is that the hodgepodge of inside jokes and other people’s emails will exemplify the idea of writing (and reading) as a metaphor for leaning into the unseen work of God, even when the results are uncertain and the efforts seem futile.  Additionally, if God uses any part of this post to bring insight, joy, or conviction to anyone who reads it, then a theme of this writing may be that God can use even our most disjointed efforts and logistical mistakes to work for his good (a truth that I wrestle with almost every day).

Here, then, is the email I sent to Beth, which includes my response to Rod:

Hey, Beth,

This is what I was writing yesterday.  It’s a response to Rod’s update.  A couple of things:  First, I just wanted to share this with you, because I actually like it pretty well.  It was fun and it amuses me.  Second, I made a conscious choice to stick it out and finish it.  I was in the living room and had written about half of it, and started to get very antsy.  I kept thinking, "The house is a mess.  Clothes need to be put away.  Etc., etc., etc.."  I have told you before that, if I'm going to write, there will be some days where my "productivity" for the day will be "a paragraph", and maybe not even one that anybody will ever read.  And, if I'm lucky, the house will not be any worse than it was in the morning.  Having spent most of the last 3 years hating who I am for not being more productive and/or on top of things, choosing to ignore the "voice of the unfolded clothes" to do something like finish a poem is kind of a big deal.  It felt like a big deal at the time, even though I'm still pretty nervous about being able to tell when to listen to the "V.o.t.U.C." and when to finish the poem.  ("Did you get the clothes folded?"--"No, but I wrote a poem that maybe one person will read" sounds an awful lot like "Did you get the plywood?"--"No, but I sprained my ankle").  Anyway, all of this is to say what I did yesterday felt important and scary, and kind of like a dry run for what many of my days may be like if I'm going to write.  And I'm actually pretty pleased with the finished product.  So because of all that, I wanted to share it with you.  I'm also very, very glad that Rod liked it.  His short response--both the content of it and the urgency with which he shared it--felt like a divine affirmation.  That's all for now.  See you tonight.

Love,

Rob

Hey, Rod--

Not sure what this says about me, but after I read your last email, I started thinking about what if you had died, and then (more bizarrely) started writing a limerick of sorts that could have been read at your hypothetical funeral.  I had a window today to email you back, and ended up using that time (and then some) to actually finish and write out this little ode.  I realize this is, well, a bit odd.  ("Hey, I almost died the other day."  "Really?  Let me write a limerick about it!")  But it is what it is.  As darkly comical as it might be, I hoped it was poignant and affectionate as well, and that it goes without saying that I'm very glad that this is only hypothetical.  Do with it what you will, share it with whom you will.  I trust that we are enough on the same slightly-twisted wavelength that you won't find this offensive--or at least not in a long-term sort of way--so without any further disclaimers, here you go.  I'll copy 2 versions, the 2nd with the stressed syllables highlighted in case you want to read it out loud to people at dinner parties or something. 

Here lies Rod, a true servant of God, and a friend ‘til the end to Niccole

And though sleepless with sepsis poor Rod fought and kept his deep need not to cede his control

“I’ll be fine, it’s just pain,” to his wife Rod explained, puffy hands not withstanding this claim

“And if God wants control he will faintly cajole—not imbed in my head this great pain.”

Now he’s gone and we see that the pain in Rod’s teeth he ignored, from our Lord, was a call

With us still would he be if instead of his teeth had our God grabbed dear Rod by his balls?

Here lies Rod, a true servant of God, and a friend ‘til the end to Niccole

And though sleepless with sepsis poor Rod fought and kept his deep need not to cede his control

“I’ll be fine, it’s just pain,” to his wife Rod explained, puffy hands not withstanding this claim

“And if God wants control he will faintly cajole—not imbed in my head this great pain.”

Now he’s gone and we see that the pain in Rod’s teeth he ignored, from our Lord, was a call

With us still would he be if instead of his teeth had our God grabbed dear Rod by his balls?

Rob-

I am waiting for my daughter to get home so I can load her up to take her back to her mom's BUT I wanted to let you know I think this is AWESOME lol!! I am near tears from laughing so hard. I will try to email more later but thanks for this, it's just great!!!!!!

-Rod

Thanks, Rod.

And, reader, if you made it this far, I tip my cap.

-THP

Post Script: Rod’s response to my seeking his approval for this post:

Rob,

As a committed and diligent reader of your blog, I'm excited to get an insight on your blog before it's posted.  Even more so that you have included the limerick and some of our correspondence in it.  I wouldn't want you to change a word of it. I feel like God used those experiences and those difficult months to prepare me and to prepare Niccole for the ups and downs that were a mere six months down the road...foster parenting. I use the tooth issue as a reminder to see the doctor when my body starts telling me something is amiss.  My experience with thoughts of depression, loss and hopelessness helps me to both relate to our kiddos and get them the help they need. I see the hand of God when I get the chance to look back on emails and letters from days gone by. I see how He guided me, protected me and allowed me to learn so that I could be a stronger "me" now.  I pray you, Beth and the girls are all doing well. Hopefully we will see you soon!!

-Rod

Not What I Was Going For: "Thinking Like a Rat"

It's been a while since I cracked open the vault for a poetic effort from the past.  (As an aside: the vault thing TOTALLY works.  No one has EVER stolen one of my old poems.  I highly recommend getting one.)  This one is from my college days and is an example of what can happen when a procrastinator takes a creative writing class and is given actual deadlines for turning in a minimum number of poems.

Late one night, I started thinking about futility.  It seemed like a poetic enough topic.  Playing on the idea of the societal "rat race", I realized that actual, literal rats probably struggle with feeling like they're getting anywhere in life, especially while they're running on one of those wheel things.  I decided to get inside the head of a rat, and write from that perspective.

So I was actually going for something dark, disturbing, and profound.  After I finished, I realized it probably  wasn't quite at the level of disturbing as, say, "Seven" or "Lord of the Flies," but I still figured the tone would be clear enough.  I was curious to see if it would read like a dark comedy, or just dark, or even something else.

Turns out, it was "something else."  This was confirmed for me after the in-class, peer editing phase of the creative process.  Of the half-a-dozen or so comments on my paper, the one I best remember read, "I like it.  Rats are cool."

It didn't take long for me to come to the conclusion that if literally everyone who reads or hears my poem "misses the tone", then maybe, just maybe, it's actually ME who missed the tone.

So, I just kind of went with it.  I ended up reading this at multiple poetry slams back in the day, and it was quite the crowd pleaser.  I played up the comedic effect and really tried to "be the rat" every time I read it.  For a dark and disturbing social commentary, it turned out to be rather amusing.

Let this be a lesson.  Uh, I'm not exactly sure WHAT lesson.  But if you can somehow shape this reflection into a lesson of some sort, I'd say grab hold of that lesson and, for the love of all that's good, live it to its fullest.

-THP


     Thinking Like a Rat

Step, step, step
Hey, when I step, this wheel spins
Step, step, step, step
Oh my goodness, this is the greatest invention ever!
Step, step, step, step, step
The faster I step, the faster in spins!
This is so cool—I gotta sing
“We gotta get out while we’re young,
‘Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run!”
Step-step-step, step-step-step, step-step-step
Step-step-step, step-step-step, step-step-step
OK, my legs are getting sore, weary even
But I can’t stop
I can’t stop running
I’m addicted to this stupid machine!
I can’t believe it!
All right, I’m stopping
Here I go
Right now
1 – 2 – 3
Whooo!
Ahh!
Geez, I didn’t think I’d flip over
Well at least it’s over now—that was scary
Hmm… What’s this?
It spins in the other direction, too
Step, step, step
Fascinating!
Step, step, step, step, step, step…

Inspired by Grant: "Amazing, Beautiful"

It was a Tuesday in February and I was in Kentucky, driving through blinding rain to a funeral for a boy I had never met.  I had read stories about him and his battle with a genetic metabolic disorder.  They were at once heartwarming and heartbreaking, and so detailed and revealing that it wasn't until after the funeral that I remembered that I had, in fact, never met Grant in person.

I knew his parents, though.  Shawn and I were pretty good friends in college, although I hadn’t seen or talked with him for years.  He was involved in the college ministry through which I became a Christian.  He and two other guys formed a drama ministry, and invited me to join; we were the four musketeers for my sophomore year.

Shawn was a guy who said what he thought, expressed what he felt, and was who he was.  He was big—tall and large, but not overweight-looking—with brushed-back blondish brown hair and a loud, deep voice.  He was larger-than-life in many ways, with the mannerisms and disposition of a guy who had done some musical theater (which he had). His laugh would fill up a room, booming and bellowing, and sometimes even giggling.  I loved making him laugh.

Despite his presence and his history of performance, I never felt like I was talking to a character when I talked with Shawn.  He listened intently and actively, and he shared personal struggles in appropriate and empathetic ways.  He could carry a crowd, yes.  But he could also carry a conversation—even when that just meant listening with compassion.

Shawn could sing, act, speak in public, and play a handful of instruments; he was socially aware and communicated well in a variety of settings; he was book smart and culturally literate.  He was even decent looking and reasonably athletic.

(If he ever reads this, my guess is he will laugh at that last sentence and—with a big smile on his face—either mock-protest, “He’s got me all wrong—I am INCREDIBLE looking and AMAZINGLY athletic!”; or self-effacingly brush aside my description as “way too kind.”  Either way, I stand by it.)

Oh, by the way: Shawn is also one of the most intellectually brilliant people I have ever met.  He breezed through undergrad and went on to med school to become an anesthesiologist.

On his way, he married Emily.  Though I only knew her a little bit, she made a good impression.  She was intelligent, supportive, pretty, God-loving, and had enough spark to remind Shawn of whatever it was in his busy life that needed some of his attention.  It wasn’t too long before they started a family, bringing into the world a son, then a daughter, and then another son.

For all of Shawn’s gifts and abilities, he knew that depending on himself instead of God was as foolish for him as it was for anybody.  When he even sensed pride in his heart, he would confess his concerns at leaders’ meetings or during drama team practices.  He would ask for prayer, that he may learn to grow more dependent on God.

When people who seem to have it all together share their struggles, it can seem disingenuous. Not with Shawn, not to me.  He knew he was just a guy trying to follow his God.  If asking for the prayer support of others would help him do it, then of course that’s what he would do.

After Shawn and Emily moved away, I saw them sparingly.  I met their oldest son when he was a baby, but I had never met their daughter or younger son, Grant.

When I got word that Grant’s body could no longer keep up with his spirit, it was sad but expected.  For months I had planned, when the time came, to do my best to make it to the service.  But when the time came, “my best” didn’t seem like it was going to get me there.  “There” was the eastern edge of Kentucky, on a Tuesday in February.  It turns out when you’re looking ahead a few months, cutting away from family and responsibilities for a couple of days seems pretty simple.  When those “couple of days” were suddenly “tomorrow” and “the next day”?  Well, I sincerely began to wonder if offering meaningful support to my friends necessarily meant showing up to the service in person.

I spent much of the day on Sunday waffling with great earnestness.  I finally came up with a perfect compromise.  Green and pink were the suggested colors for the service—they were Grant’s favorites.  I decided I would take a photo of me and my family dressed in those colors.  Then I’d send the picture to Shawn and Emily, along with a card and a charitable donation, and I would communicate everything I wanted to share without me actually being there.  They would see that I was making a sincere effort (which I was) and perhaps they would even view it as an above-and-beyond effort.  And, God willing, they would be at least a little bit comforted in their loss.

I honestly regarded my idea as a genuine, win-win plan.  I even decided that I would take those next couple of days in St. Louis and make sure not to fritter them away.  I would be extra diligent around the house and spend good, quality time with my family.  For a few seconds, I was very pleased with my plan.

God, it turns out, was NOT very pleased with my plan.  It’s hard to explain, but almost immediately after I decided I was not going, He kind of started twisting my guts around inside of me.  Any stress I felt about going—packing, driving, planning, etc.—was quickly feeling like a walk in the park compared to the agony of NOT going.  It was part spiritual and part physical, this agony, and it wasn’t just a twinge of guilt, either.  It wasn’t really any kind of guilt at all—it was an intense unsettledness.

Almost as a way of teasing out the source of this unsettled feeling, I decided that I WAS going after all.  When I re-committed to making the trip, it was like when a loose bike chain clicks back into place.  It was right.  I was going.

During the most-of-the-night drive, I did a lot of thinking, crying, and praying.  I was glad that God wanted me to go, but I wasn’t sure why, since I figured Shawn and Emily had a deep support system in their church.  I imagined I’d get just a moment to express my sympathies while friends crowded around them.  I hoped that seeing me would be a pleasant enough surprise.  As far as I was concerned, if sharing a kind word for (literally) a minute or two might bring any measure of comfort, the inconvenience of a 2-day drive was a drop in the bucket.

I crept into the service a few moments before it started, sat in the back, and took it all in.  I learned that Grant kept an amazing spirit throughout his sickness, always keeping a sense of humor and a godly outlook. While bedridden, Grant would play the “A to Z” game, reciting characteristics of God, one per letter.  I learned that Grant was a fan of Elvis, and loved dancing and singing to his hits.  Grant’s sister shared some fond memories and stories.  And Shawn himself spoke, sharing the most profound Gospel presentation I have ever heard.  The church was packed with adults from all sorts of spiritual backgrounds, and almost as many children.  Shawn spoke with force and empathy.  Miraculously, his words were compassionate, uncompromising, and clear to everyone.  Non-churchgoers had nothing “go over their heads”; conversely, lifelong Christians did NOT feel that the message “lacked meat.”  Then we sang songs to God.

During the reception, I made my move, drifting into Shawn and Emily’s line of sight.  Emily saw me first and did a double take—I saw her mentally filing through her worlds, removing me from an old one, and placing me in this one.  I hugged her, and then I saw Shawn.  He was also surprised.  I offered my condolences and assured them that, in more ways than they could imagine, their efforts had honored Grant and glorified God.

They were appreciative, but seemed to sense that I was only stopping by.  “Are you going somewhere?” Shawn asked.  I explained that I had come to offer some encouragement, that I didn’t want to impose on them, and that I CERTAINLY didn’t want them to worry about entertaining a random old friend from the past.

Shawn took me aside.  He and his family had moved to this small Kentucky town when Grant was getting sick, and Shawn and Emily spent most of their waking hours at the hospital or caring for Grant at home.  He explained that their church had been incredibly supportive and had opened their hearts, arms, and homes to his family.  Their friendships were new and growing.  But what Shawn and Emily did NOT have with their new friends were long-term shared experiences.  Right then, at that moment, it was meaningful for Shawn and Emily to have someone they “went way back with.”  I remember thinking something like, “Oh.”  Pause.  “I see.”

An hour or so later, I was at Shawn and Emily’s house with a small gathering of friends and family members, including a couple of other long-term friends who had made the drive from St. Louis.  It was dark outside, and the mood in the house was surprisingly mellow.  We laughed and reminisced.  We ate vast amounts of food selected from the meals that had been delivered by Shawn and Emily’s church family—and we barely made a dent in the provisions.  I hung out a little bit with Grant’s brother and sister.  For Shawn and Emily, the celebration service might have marked something of a transition between types of grief—and this weird, surreal span of a couple of hours felt like a mellow lull.

There were, of course, moments of tears and sudden waves of sorrow, even within moments of lighter exchange.  Conversations and people flowed around the house; one moment Grant’s older brother was showing me a toy whip; a moment later, I was sitting with just Shawn and Emily, the three of us trying to untangle some of the sadness and confusion they were feeling.

During my drive, I had expected to offer an encouraging sentence or two to Shawn and Emily.  I had NOT expected to—an hour after the service—be sitting in a room of their house with just the two of them, as a friend and a de facto pastor.  Not that I minded.  In fact, though I felt sad and helpless, I also felt strangely blessed to be sharing this time with my friends on this evening.  They didn’t expect me to have any answers that would “make it all go away” and, of course, I didn’t.

Instead of offering answers, I asked questions—questions about Grant, the grieving process, the impact of everything on the kids, and how Shawn and Emily had related to God and to each other since Grant got sick.  As they talked, I listened, and let my mind distill some of what I had been observing.

Eventually, I tried to articulate some of those observations, if for no other reason than to give my friends one more view of the reality they were trying to digest.  Maybe I was like the guy in the upper deck at a baseball game, while Shawn and Emily were deep in the third base dugout.  They were completely engrossed in all that was transpiring on the field before them—indeed, fully involved and invested in every action.  But maybe my spot in the stadium allowed me to see a small corner of the field down the left field line, a spot just out of sight from the third base dugout.  Or, maybe they could just use a different angle to confirm what they had seen.

I observed, for example, that a sanctuary full of people had been given the opportunity to experience the power of God firsthand and to hear a completely Spirit-led rendition of the Gospel.  Because Grant lived his life so full of faith and joy, his earthly death provided an occasion to genuinely and boldly proclaim the truth of the One for whom he lived.  Grant—quite directly—ministered to more people in his 8 years than many Christians do in their whole lives.

I observed that the depth of Grant’s faith far superseded the age of his body.  Like a sauce prepared by a skilled chef, Grant’s faith seemed “reduced”—a lot of flavor (depth of faith) had been packed into a little space (8 years).

I observed that Grant, even after his death, would be an effective missionary for God.  His life—and his family’s reaction to his death—would impact scores, then hundreds of people, many whom he had never met.  I pointed out that I was one of those people.

And I pointed out a truth that may have been both the most difficult to grasp and the most liberating: that the pain we were feeling was no longer on behalf of Grant.   Rather, it was because we missed him.  That was fine, of course.  That’s what mourning is, and God expects and even commands us to mourn.  But Grant himself was all done with pain.  As the apostle Paul wrote from prison, “For to me, living means living for Christ, and dying is even better.  But if I live, I can do more fruitful work for Christ.  So I really don’t know which is better.  I’m torn between two desires: I long to go and be with Christ, which would be far better for me.  But for your sakes, it is better that I continue to live” (Philippians 1:21-24, NLT).  The knowledge that Grant has been suddenly liberated may itself gradually liberate us.

We prayed, cried, and hugged.  It had been a full night, and I finally said good-bye.

On the drive home, and then in the months that followed, I reprocessed so many of the details from the evening.  I wanted to extend the sentiment of the evening into the future with some creative impression of what transpired.  I shaped some memories into lines and verses.  I would be driving somewhere or lying in bed or mowing the lawn, and an image would pop into my head.  I’d make a note of it.

But my impressions lacked continuity.  Whatever it was that I was writing was halfway done—maybe more, maybe less—but I’d get distracted and stuck.  When you spend an hour to hammer out a single phrase in a line of a poem that may not ever even be read by another human being—well, it’s sometimes hard to make the effort.

Fortunately, someone else made the effort.  A few months ago, I noticed on Facebook that Shawn made a note about going to a book signing.  I got the impression that he was the signer, and I was curious.  A couple of online searches later, I discovered that Elena, Grant’s sister, was actually the signer.  Apparently, she had written a book about her brother, called “Grant and His Great God.”

I bought it.  You can, too.  It’s good.  It was inspiring and challenging.  Challenging not just in its content, but because while I couldn’t quite finish a short commemorative lyric regarding Grant and his faith, Grant’s sister started, finished, and published an entire book.

So I had a long talk with myself.  I said to myself, “Look, we’ve had our ups and downs, and I know you don’t always like what I have to say.  But don’t you think that MAYBE you could block off some time to shape some of those images and such into something like a finished product?  You know, like soon?”

I had a good point.  I became more diligent.  It still took me another couple of months, but at least the progress was steady.  Who can know if the delay in finishing this lyric was providential or a product of my flawed human condition?  Maybe it was both.  Regardless, God seems to have provided Grant’s family with a lot of support and encouragement since Grant’s passing, even apart from my efforts.  Go figure.  It’s my prayer that these words may serve as an additional conduit for God’s grace and glory.

In the meantime, I sit here grateful for Grant’s life.  I am grateful that God had me attend the service on the far side of Kentucky.  I am grateful for Grant’s family, and for his sister’s book.  So if nothing else, these words are a thank-you note to Shawn, Emily, Jackson, Elena, and Grant.  And, of course, to God.

-THP

     Amazing, Beautiful

VERSE 1:

I’m driving down this hill but I can’t see the road; the rain is falling faster, falling faster than these blades can sweep

The sky, like life, is gray, a blend of hope and fear and other things I’d see if I had more than 3-plus hours sleep

PRE-CHORUS 1:

Then a scene on the horizon like a magnet draws my eyes in,
it’s a beacon breaking through the clouds like water through a dam

And by faith my soul is certain that there peeking through the curtain
is the one who died a boy whose faith was worthy of a man

CHORUS:

Amazing, beautiful, compassionate, delightful, everlasting,

Finally Grant sees the A to Z’s of his Father face to face

Dancing like the King of Rock led joyf’ly by the King of Kings

Then laughing and collapsing in the Spirit’s calm embrace

VERSE 2:

The building glows--just like a lamp beneath a cloak--through mist and fog to guide the ev’ning mourners clad in pink and green.

Inside we sing out praises to our God with heavy souls and finite minds that wonder “Why?” and “What does it all mean?”

PRE-CHORUS 2:

Then a father weak and grieving rises, arms outstretched, believing

that the question most worth asking isn’t “What?” or “Why?” but “Who?”

And the answer that he clings to is the Savior that he sings to

who assures that faithful hearts, when broken, He will make like new

CHORUS

BRIDGE:

All these stories, songs, and scriptures, conversations, prayers, and pictures—

instead of sharing time with Grant it’s these things that we share.

But then, through them, God’s bestowing all the things that where Grant’s going

he won’t need—like faith and hope—but that we will until we're there.

CHORUS

27 Years in the Making: "Highway 1"

In late grade school, when I would finish an assignment early, I frequently asked the teacher if I could go to the resource area and get a World Book encyclopedia to look at.  Specifically, I would look at political maps of states (and providences).

I was enthralled with state geography.  Volume N-O was an absolute goldmine, and either C volume (I think "Ci" was the splitting point) was useful as well.  I’d examine where oceans, lakes, and rivers were located within each state, and speculate how these bodies of water led to population settlement within the states.  I wondered why the population of some metropolitan areas were combined (e.g., Dallas/Fort Worth) while others were distinct (e.g., Baltimore and Washington D.C.).  Sometimes, I designed from scratch new countries: I’d draw a blob on a piece of paper, then add rivers and lakes, political divisions, and population centers—often creating in my head historical explanations for some of the more arbitrary seeming boundaries and population centers.

But what separated me from other children was that I honed in on one particular geographical area of the U.S.: the west coast.  I was especially fascinated by the apparently sparsely populated stretches of coastline between Los Angeles and San Francisco, and between San Francisco and Portland, Oregon.  Why were THESE stretches so devoid of large cities?  What were these thin gray roads like?  Could you actually SEE the ocean from these roads, or were they inland just far enough to tease?

I imagined that someday I would find out the answers to these questions firsthand.  That “day” happened during two separate road trips: from LA to San Fran in 2003, and from Seattle to San Fran in 2009.  These drives—on the Pacific Coast Highway 1, as I discovered it was called—were literally the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, a strange childhood infatuation that never faded even after I became a grown up.

Since first making the drive, poetic images related to the drive have been bouncing around in my head, every now and then making their way onto paper.

Perhaps one day I’ll write about the drive in prose form.  Right now, I sorted through some of the ideas and shaped them into some lyrics.  As per my M.O., I’ve got a melody attached to most of the words, and maybe someday this will become an actual song.  Who knows?

As something of a companion piece to this wannabe song, I have more lines and ideas that, when added to this, transform it into full-out poem instead of a lyric.  Whether or not I ever finalize THAT version remains to be seen.  Even this version may find itself revised soon enough.  We’ll see.

But for now, enjoy.


-THP


     Highway 1

VERSE 1:
Highway 1 is for the young and for the ones who might still be
But who can’t believe they might receive the chance
To stand and kiss on a precipice the vast and hopeful sea

Breaking free like waves from chains of circumstance.

It’s for dreamers and for lovers
And those who by life are smothered
Who believe but with their own eyes want to see.
It’s for the hardened and forgiven
For the passive and the driven
It’s for you and, baby, Highway 1’s for me.

CHORUS:
So come on, come on, come on let’s go again
And maybe we’ll make it to
That place where we can finally know again
How to dance to all that’s good and true
Finding grace on Highway 1

VERSE 2:
Against the shore the ocean roars then beckons like a maiden
Whispering to those who sing to music in their heads.
And those who hear can wander near and maybe even wade in
To wash away their guilt and learn to live with hope instead.
It’s for friends and maybe lovers
Hopeful, searching for each other
On roads where neither one has ever been.
It’s for the damaged and forsaken
And those choosing roads less-taken
So let’s drive on down Highway 1 again

CHORUS

BRIDGE:
You can see a million miles and a million shades of blue
From mountain roads wrapped high above the sea.
Highway 1 is longer than our lists of things to do
It’s for you and, baby, Highway 1’s for me.

CHORUS

Eye Heart Ewe

If I were an ESL student taking a spoken English class, an early lesson would surely be pronouns.

For example, I would learn that the 1st person singular and 2nd person singular pronouns were (pronounced) "i" and "u".

Later, if I stumbled across the written words "eye" and "ewe" and heard that these words were pronounced "i" and "u", I would think (in my native language, of course), "Well that makes good sense.  Apparently English pronouns follow the 'e-e' pattern.  The 3rd person singular pronoun is probably spelled 'ehe' or something like that.  What a wonderfully predictable language English is!"

Of course, if you're reading this, you see where this is going.  "i" (the pronoun) is actually spelled "I".  "u" (the pronoun) is actually spelled "you".  "Eye" and "ewe"?  Those are completely different words with no relation to "I" and "you"--or to each other, except for their similar spelling.

There are weird things in English all the time.  Like this: The first names of our OBGYN and pediatrician were, respectively, "Elan" and "Leland."  What are the odds that the first name of your OBGYN would be laid smack in the middle of the first name of your pediatrician?  How many names does that work with?  Can't be very many.  It doesn't exactly rock my world--it's just a weird thing, that's all.

So it is with "eye" and "ewe".  Why are these two words--the meanings' of which have nothing in common--so similarly (and oddly!) spelled, when their homophones "I" and "you" are spelled nothing alike but have closely related meanings?  Just weird.

These are things I sometimes think about in traffic, bed, or less intense moments of church.  After sharing with Beth my discovery of the "eye/ewe" linguistic oddity, I would occasionally write to her the encoded message: "eye heart ewe".  Sometimes the word "eye" would become a drawn eyeball, "heart" would become a drawn heart, and "ewe" would become a girly little sheep.  Something like this:

or "eye <3 ewe" when texting

For me, this became a special way of saying those three magic words.  One of "our little things."  Beth is very special, and I don't tell her enough.  In the grand scheme of things, this doodle doesn't communicate but a fraction of a percent of how special she is and how special she is to me in particular.  But a fraction of a percent is more than nothing.  So I try to say "I love you" frequently enough that it is persuasive.  And when she sees "eye heart ewe", I hope that this special way of communicating those 3 words adds just an extra little dash of "...and you're super special to me."

So I had the image printed up on coffee mugs.

"Where's the ewe?"

"There she is!"

I finally presented Beth the gift a couple of days ago.  It went from being a birthday present, to a Mother's Day present, to an anniversary present, to a "just because" present.  Why all the delays?  (Quick heads up: I'm about to say something that you might think is just me being funny, but is actually true.)  Because I couldn't get the artwork right.  Yes, I know it's a 2-dimensional, black & white, stick figure drawing.  But I actually tried 5 different photo editing programs before I was able to figure out how to make one do what I wanted it to do: 1) make sure the blacks were black; 2) make sure the whites were white; 3) make sure the edges were smooth.  Rocket science, I know.

So, congratulations to anyone in the office pool who picked "He's probably designing a coffee mug" as their answer to "What's do you think Rob's been up to lately?"  And kudos to cafepress.com and the Sharpie marker company for helping make this happen.  And, of course, extra special tip of the cap to Beth for being so special.

Later.

-THP

My "You Give Love a Bad Name": "I Drifted Once"

I once heard Jon Bon Jovi say that he was fortunate to have written his signature title early in his career.  He was talking about "You Give Love a Bad Name," and he referred to it as his "Born to Run."  Now, he is a Springsteen fan.  I, it so happens, am a Bon Jovi fan.  So we're all friends here.  But I remember thinking a couple of things about his comment:

1)  Most artists who have a "Born to Run" in large measure NECESSARILY released it early in their career.  The literal "Born to Run" was on Springsteen's 3rd album.  Bon Jovi's figurative "Born to Run" was on their 3rd album.

This phenomenon of "early 'Born to Run' or no 'Born to Run' at all" (commonly referred to as "the EBTRONBTRAA principle" by music historians) makes sense: for an artist to have a "signature tune", they usually need to have a lengthy career; in order to have lengthy career, they usually need to make a splash early with a big hit.  If they don't have a lengthy career, they're just a flash-in-the-pan or a one-hit wonder; if they don't make a splash early with a big hit, they're probably not going to be around long enough to have a career worth defining.

Sometimes, a band might release a tune worthy of being their "Born to Run" later in their careers, but purists (snobs?) may gawk at the idea of considering the recent tune on par with the de facto "Born to Run" of said band.  For example, if Bon Jovi had written and released "Keep the Faith" on their 2nd or 3rd album, that may have been their "Born to Run".  In my humble opinion, that would actually make a better "Born to Run" for Bon Jovi than "You Give Love a Bad Name" does, but that might just be because I value musical distinctiveness and lyrical depth in a signature tune.

2)  Even taking into account the EBTRONBTRAA principle, I wasn't so sure that "You Give Love a Bad Name" WAS his "Born to Run."  I probably would have given that distinction to "Livin' on a Prayer."

3)  I wasn't so sure that Bon Jovi HAD a "Born to Run".  Which is OK.  KJax, you reading?  Don't be mad.  It's OK not to have a "Born to Run."  Not everyone does.

It also might be that there are tiers of signature songs.  Maybe only a handful of artists have a true signature tune that is recognized and agreed upon by fans and critics alike.

Since songs and poems are only kind of the same, an aspiring, unpublished poet-blogger can't rightly claim to have a "Born to Run" at all, especially since deciding something like that really isn't up to him anyway, but his legions of fans.  So, not having a "Born to Run", we'll call this selection "my 'You Give Love a Bad Name'", which I do fully soaking in the irony of even making THAT comparison.  I really am a fan of Bon Jovi, and he seems like a down-to-earth, sincere sort of dude.  And he likes Springsteen.  The title of this post is pretty much me being silly--if anyone knows Bon Jovi, please pass on my propensity for dry wit and self-deprecating humor.

Anyway, according to me, "I Drifted Once" is my signature poem.  Technically, it was my first real attempt at using rhythm and rhyme in the same poem.  Thematically, it was one of my first true post-conversion poems.  Taking intangibles into account, it felt truly inspired: I wrote the first 4 lines, then got stuck for about a year.  Then I suddenly revisited it, and wrote the rest in an evening, which is pretty unheard of for me.  And though it was very special to me, upon completing it, I immediately felt like I had not written it at all, except that it was my fingers typing the words.  I emphasize "immediately" because the strange separation I feel from it is not due to the passing of time.  Rather, I believed then as I do now that God had this poem and spun it through my spirit and experiences so that I may enjoy it as an affirmation from him, and steward it as a testimony TO him.



          I Drifted Once

I drifted towards the ethereal light, praying to be blinded
Or maybe catch some surreal sight, so I’d always be reminded
Of what it’s like to live and love, and feel that fire inside me
And only cry to the skies above for a caring hand to guide me
Through this rusted, haunted wasteland that tortures those who think.
I’d been gagging in this quicksand, choking, hoping that I’d sink
And slowly, surely, rot and die in this gutter’s cobblestone
That scraped and laughed and burned like lye on my soul that ached alone.
But the light, that night, firmly pulled me, with its fingers laced with fire
Passed this pyrite, to a gold sea, where waves reached to lift me higher
To an ever-present promised land, draped by this dying nation’s veil.
I rubbed my eyes with shaking hands and watched the focused truth prevail
Like a beacon, from a cloud of dust—its clear, bold light scorched my shell.
The freedom it flashed commanded trust, but my cynical brain couldn’t tell
If it was real—that silhouette—I crumbled beneath the choices.
No half-ways and no regrets, but I couldn’t sort the voices.
Which one was life, and which one death, and which one would erase my sins?
Then by grace I felt an angel’s breath, and then I died, and lived again.
Finally, the truth would suffice to burn out society’s lies.
It took a cross to smash my vice and a spike to open my eyes.
Now the days and months fade into years—and my broken chains dangle free.
And I still long to taste the tears I cried that night I chose to see

Best Seminary Assignment Ever: "Home"

I took a class at seminary on the parables, and for our final project, the teacher gave us the choice of either taking a test or creating something artistic based on one of the parables.  The only thing I had to think about was which parable to write about.

I landed on the parable of the prodigal son (as it's come to be called) in Luke 15.  This is what I wrote.  Enjoy.

-THP


     Home

One more day of zombie living, barely caring and barely giving
A second thought to a single thing I’ve done this wasted day.
In the mirror stares these hollow eyes in a face I barely recognize
And I lean and strain to study close the indifferent disarray.
“Who are you and where am I?” I ask but he just won’t reply;
It’s almost like this face is me and no longer a façade.
It seems like only yesterday I did the things like laugh and pray
That people do when people say they’re following after their God.
I don’t know how it came to this; I can’t pinpoint a Judas kiss,
But somehow, sometime, somewhere down this narrow road I’ve veered off track.
There’s no one thing that I can pick that if I do would do the trick
To take this shadow life and take the hands of time and turn them back.
And as this blank reflection fades in the evening’s fast increasing shade
The streetlights stream in just enough to show me I’m alone.
My face becomes a silhouette; my heart is cold and hard and yet
Somewhere deep inside I long to find my way back home

Moonlight mixes with the light from the city’s too-alluring night
And in these eyes I see the void left from those blurry nights of mine.
Too much vodka and too much gin, no self-control, and too much skin,
And a few too many times of saying, “Just this one more time.”
I know full well I should have known this fruit would grow from the seeds I’d sown
But the reaping seemed so far away and the planting seemed so fun.
So now the sickle’s blade has cut straight through my soul and left a rut
Too wide to stitch, too deep to fill with women, whiskey, wine, or rum.
O God, O God, what have I done? Who is this ghost-man I’ve become?
Why is he staring at me like I cut those wrinkles in his face?
He looks like me but he’s just a shell who smells like death raised up from hell.
Oh, go away! Just let me rot and crumble in my foul disgrace!
Let me wither, weep and ponder why I ever dared to wander
From the one who gave me love like none I’ve ever known.
I’m buried in this sad regret, choking on “what if’s,” and yet
Somewhere deep inside I hope some day I’ll make it home.

These blank, dark eyes serve to remind of better days I’ve left behind
Days of gazing at the clouds and days of long forgotten dreams.
Yeah, the eyes, they still remember gentle, understated splendor
Of drinking from the river full of water that redeems.
These vivid, distant memories are a sharp contrast to the face I see
And to the echoes of the voices haunting, bounding in my head.
I guess I thought there was so much more than the things I’d always settled for;
My needs were met but I wished for wants; now I’m wishing I was dead.
Why did I think my fantasies of no responsibilities
Could be a destined, guided glimpse into the promised land?
This grass looked green from the other side, but the rotted roots have long since died
And I’m sick of looking at this face and I’m sick of drinking sand.
I want to cry but would anyone count the tears of a wayward son
Who’s burned his bridges, cut his ties, and declared his life his own?
I’ve lost it all and gained a debt I could never hope to pay, and yet
Somewhere deep inside I know it’s time to go back home.

So damn this life of death and sorrow; it’s time to find a new tomorrow;
I don’t know what awaits me then but I know what’s waiting now.
So you there in the mirror let’s head out into the clear where
We can find the outbound tracks and jump the first train out of town.
The morning sun is breaking and there’s nothing here worth taking
So let’s hurry and we’ll make it to the wayward son express.
Rolling free, now I can dangle my feet while I dare untangle
All the things I’ve done and all the things I still need to confess.
This taxing, tattered list is long, but as these big wheels rumble on
By the crystal streams, I sense a hope that’s growing from a kernel.
All I can do is hope for grace, and hope to feel the cool embrace
Of the one whose touch is cooler than the river’s springs eternal.
These hopeful dreams invoke a smile and I roll by rolling valleys while
I breathe a wind more filled with hope than any that has ever blown
The sky’s aglow, the sun is set; it’s a hundred miles more, and yet
Tonight’s the night I’ve dreamt about; tonight I’m going home.

Something I Thought I'd Never Write: "If I Could"

I'm one of those people who was never really excited about having kids.  I wanted to get married.  And once I discovered that my wife-to-be wanted to have kids, I figured I'd go along with it.  It seemed like the courteous thing to do.

But babies, especially, unsettled me.  They were unreasonable and non-communicative, which was a terrible combination.  I mean, both of those things?  If it were one or the other, I figured I could make them at least stop crying--but both?  Sheesh.

And the pooping.  I tend to gag when I see a dog poop from a distance.  It took me about a year of picking up after my dog nearly every day before I could do it without gagging every time.  But actually cleaning poop off of another person?

Unlike most people, I looked forward to my kids' teenage years.  At least then I could communicate with them.  They probably wouldn't like me, but at least they would know what I was saying.  I asked my wife if she could raise our future kids until they were about 10, then I could take it from there.  She told me it didn't work like that.

There was one time I was awkwardly interacting with one of my wife's sister's kids (i.e., my niece).  I found out later that Beth and her sister were off to the side assessing my skills at relating to children, and Beth's sister offered, "Well, maybe when you have your own kids, he'll be more like he is with Poozle [our dog]."  Poozle I could connect with.  He liked to wrestle and snuggle.  He would sit or go lay down when I told him to.  He pooped in the yard.  I could leave him alone for hours at a time.

Everyone says it's different with your own kids.  Yes, it is.  I truly can't explain why I loved my daughters so much when they were born.  The love that was born in my heart when my children were born into this world is one of the strongest evidences for God that I have in my life.

Turns out, kids like to wrestle and snuggle, too.  And they can be trained to poop in the toilet.  They don't ALWAYS do what I say but, unlike Poozle, they are capable of following directions with multiple steps.  And I would do anything I could possibly do to help them grow and show them love.  That's the seed of this lyric: that I WOULD do anything that I COULD.  The harder thing, I have found, is realizing that there are some things that I simply can't do.  Some things are out of my hands, and some things--like being hyperprotective--actually do more harm than good.  So I never dreamed I'd write something like this--a love song to my daughters--but now it seems completely natural, especially since my kids like music so much.

My older daughter, in particular, liked music from when she was a little baby.  I would regularly play and/or sing "Bright Lights" by Matchbox Twenty and "Ultraviolet (Light My Way)" by U2, each of which has a chorus that begins with "Baby, baby, baby."  Hearing the chorus often calmed her down when she was upset about something.  Sometimes I would sing it as quietly as a whisper, just in her ear.

Once, Beth and I were hanging up window treatments in the nursery.  My older daughter was plopped on the floor next to us, too small to move, and big enough to express her displeasure.  With me on the stepstool, and Beth handing me curtain rods and screws and the like, our daughter was lying there, screaming, waiting for us to be done so she could go to bed.  Hanging curtains is annoying enough.  Add the soundtrack of a screaming baby?  Shivers.

We were both trying to soothe our daughter to no avail when Beth, near the end of her rope, said to me, "Sing to her."

Flustered, I stuttered, "I feel pretty self-conscious....  we'll be done in a second-"

"Sing!"

So I sang my best Bono: "Baby, baby, baby...  baby, baby, baby...  baby, baby, baby light my way."  Immediately, our daughter quieted and looked up at me, hypnotized no doubt by her daddy's angelic voice.  I repeated the line about a dozen times until we were done with the curtain.

It was right around that time that I had been jotting down some of the ideas in this lyric, but it was that moment that I decided that the lyrics needed to have a "baby, baby, baby" chorus, harkening for all time back to my daughter's favorite songs from her youth.

I rounded out the rest of the words and came up with a distinct (from U2 and Matchbox Twenty) melody for the chorus.  And this is the finished product.  Enjoy.

-THP

     If I Could

If I could I would take it all away from you
If I could I would never let you cry
If I could I would take on all your pain and sadness
And give you wings to help you sail the sky

If I could I would hold you far away from
All the dangers that I know you’ll face
If I could I would take fragile heart of yours
And fill it full with peace and hope and grace

And baby, baby, baby, maybe
By the time you understand
The words I’m writing to you as you sleep
I’ll figure out all the things I can’t do
And give you to the one who can
The one we pray each night your soul to keep

If I could I would make this world your playground
Where you’re picked first and never skin your knees
I would give you courage to stand up to the bullies
And reveal their insecurities

If I could I would always kneel and laugh with you
To watch the waves disintegrate our castles in the sand
If I could I would affirm that heart that makes you you
And be there when you cross the street to always hold your hand

And baby, baby, baby, maybe
By the time you understand
The words I’m writing to you as you sleep
I’ll figure out all the things I can’t do
And give you to the one who can
The one we pray each night your soul to keep

If I could I’d distill that glowing smile
And figure out the thoughts that make it be
Then take those thoughts and let you always think them
So your smiles will reflect an inner peace

If I could I would pass on all the lessons
That I know can only come through wounded dreams
If I could I would lead you through the valley
To the living, healing, hope-restoring streams

And baby, baby, baby, maybe
By the time you understand
The words I’m writing to you as you sleep
I’ll figure out all the things I can’t do
And give you to the one who can
The one we pray each night your soul to keep

Searching for My Elton John: "Heaven"

This is my third post of lyrics, but the first one that is actually making its world premiere on WPFF. That is, these words have not been made available for human eyes other than my own until this moment. If you need me to drive over to your house and fan you like people sometimes do to themselves when they feel like they're going to faint from excitement, please let me know ASAP.

I decided last minute to add some extended pre-thoughts to this post, but it's looking like they are going to be posted as post-thoughts tomorrow. However, I will edit this post and insert them tomorrow in this spot right below this paragraph, so that they will seem to have been pre-thoughts all along, which they kind of were, since they are in my head already. So check back tomorrow.

added 3/11:
Back when I preached sermons, someone once said to me, "Never apologize before a sermon.  You undermine everything you're trying to say."  And disclaimers, this person said, were a form of apologizing.  I thought it was good advice.

Fortunately, today's post is not a sermon, 'cause I'm in a disclaiming mood.  Though I don't have enough readers on WPFF that very many people could ACTUALLY be asking these questions, I still kinda feel like addressing them prior to my post.

"What's with all the poems and lyrics?"
It's just what I've been doing lately.  Well, for a while, really.  I probably have about 2 dozen poems and lyric "starts" and even more fragments.  I'd like to finish a few before I start some more.  Part of the reason for WPFF was to give myself a kick in the butt to finish some of these.  If I could finish (and, as would naturally follow, post) say, 1 a month, I'd be pretty happy.  Add the "vault factor," i.e., me posting an oldie-but-goodie, about 1 time a month, that's about 2 a month (for an aspiring poet, I've always been very good at math).  Two posts a month out of nine--yeah, I can see how that's disproportionately slanted topic-wise.  But it's just what I've been working on.

"For a non-musical person, you sure do write a lot of so-called 'song lyrics'--what's with that?"
First off, I like you--you've got spunk.  Secondly, good point.  For a while, I've felt like a musical person trapped inside the body of a non-musical person.  As a result, I write songs, but the least musical part of them: the words.  Some of them have melodies attached to them, and I can peck out some of those melodies on the keyboard.  And the end result is half--or MAYBE two-thirds--of a song.  With "end results" like that, who needs middles, right?  But if any readers of WPFF have always thought of yourself as an Elton John looking for your Bernie Taupin--well, let me know.  And if you want to write music to any of these lyrics and run the finished product by me, I'd love to hear it.  If I like it, and you can secure a vocalist and a recording contract, I will be willing to split the royalties with you.

"In the meantime, why don't you just write more poems and fewer lyrics?  And is there a difference, even?"
Sometimes there is a difference, sometimes not so much.  If the lines and verses of a lyric that I'm writing get long, then--POOF!--it often magically becomes a poem.  And if  poem seems extra rhythmical, and if I find myself returning to an image or line repeatedly in a chorus-esque sort of way?  Maybe you see where this is going.  So, in a way, I kind of feel like the classification of what I write is discovered by me only as I go.

I read once in a "how to write songs" book that the words to a song are NOT just "poems set to music."  To some extent, I see what they are saying, but the author seemed a little absolute about it for my taste.  Dylan, Jim Morrison, some Springsteen--folks like that strike me as poets who are also gifted musicians, and in another life they could have been unknown poets rather than well-known musicians.

Which brings me to the other reason I've been leaning toward lyrics more than poems: I, and most other people, like songs more than poems.  There is poetry that I like, but I don't play readings of poetry on my stereo while I'm driving down a winding country road with the windows down.  Poems sung to complimentary music impact me in a greater way than just poems.  Not everyone is like me, of course, and I'm not trying to offend fans of poetry-sans-musical-accompaniment.  The feeling (to use a woefully generic yet effectively shorthand word) I get from a lyrically and musically profound song is likely the feeling that ANY artist in ANY medium aspires to inspire in their audience.  Other folks I'm sure experience and strive to impart that same sort of inspiration through paintings, stories, and what-have-you.  I suppose the method of expression that artists prefer usually corresponds to the method that they themselves are most inspired by AND are most gifted at (e.g., gifted painters are inspired by paintings and prefer painting as their artistic means of inspiring others).  Not always, of course.  And not so much in my case.  Hence, in my notebook is a strange stockpiling of shivering little lyrics, cold without a blanket of music to wrap them up in. 

"OK, so that addresses form--what about theme?  Your lyrics or poems or whatever (including 'Heaven' in this post) often seem kind of gloomy.  Can you do something about that?"
Probably I can.  This thematic bent is something I'm aware of.  I struggle with being not-joyful-enough more than I struggle with being too joyful, and that's obviously reflected in what I write.  This both a personality and a theological leaning.  Theologically, we live in a time when Jesus has come already and introduced his transforming power into the world; but in a time where he has obviously NOT finally, once-and-for-all done away with evil and suffering.  The phrase professional theologians have coined for our current condition is "already, not yet", short for something like, "We have already experienced the power of Christ, but not yet in its final fullness."  I tend to focus on the "not yet" half of that equation--yes, to a fault.  I need to remember to rejoice in the "already" without getting obsessing with the "not yet."  I think "leanings" one direction or the other are good, God-designed, and important, and this is part of the reason followers of God need community, so that the "already's" and the "not yet's" can challenge and encourage each other.  But my leanings sometimes turn into fallings.
I have intentionally started (and occasionally even finished!) poems and lyrics that intentionally lean the other direction in the "already".  Maybe I will re-strive to do that more deliberately.

As an aside: I do not believe Springsteen professes to be a follower of Jesus, so his concept of "already/not yet" is obviously framed differently than, say, mine is.  But it's curious to me that my first in-depth with familiarity with Springsteen was through his "Human Touch" and "Lucky Town" albums, which seemed to be his first self-conscious attempt to overcome his obsession with "not yet" and dive into the "already".  You can hear this in songs like "Real World," "Living Proof," "Leap Of Faith" ("heartache and despair got nothin' but boring"), and "Better Days" (the whole song, the lyrics to which you can read here).

The lyric in this post in particular is about as "not yet" as you can get.  The lines just came to me.  So I wrote them down over the course of weeks.  I considered inserting a bridge that acknowledges the "already" aspect of our existence.  I still may.

Why'd you go all e.e. cummings with the lower case letters in 'Heaven'?
It was an afterthought.  I typed it in that way, and just liked the way it looked.  I capitalized the "H" in the title.  Perhaps it was a subconscious, backdoor reference to the joy that we can "already" know.  Because even "when" (quotes to reference the exact word beginning each verse) things appear as they do, they are ultimately struggles of the lower-case variety compared to the capital-letter joy and hope of Heaven--the same joy and hope that can, indeed, trickle into our present existence.

That's all for today.

-THP



     Heaven

when joys fade like a rainbow,
shoved away by daily pains no
one can take away and no drug can heal or dull.
when by me friends’ lives orbit
too slow to just ignore but
too fast to grab and pour into and nourish both our souls

I know I will go be with you
I’ll be with you
yeah, I know I’ll be with you in heaven
and the things of this world
will grow dim, strangely dim
when I’m standing before you in heaven

when dreamers wake up early,
dreams aborted prematurely
gone, but drifting in the shadows like some undiscovered cure
when prophets dot the landscape
weeping, doubting that they can make
in this crowded, lonely world a speech to challenge or assure

I know I will go be with you
I’ll be with you
yeah, I know I’ll be with you in heaven
and the things of this world
will grow dim, strangely dim
when I’m standing before you in heaven