A year and a half ago, all the hands in the air and the music and lights were electrifying. I was so fortunate to meet a group of such good, earnest people full of strength, vigor, and an athletic sort of care. But recently, I've realized how confused I've been. Nothing hits me quite the same, like I had built up a tolerance for understanding others, for understanding life. The thoughts and ideas of beauty, of truth that ordinarily moved me toward people without agenda were suddenly marked by my singular desire to change them. My love and my trust in fate, in God lost its spirit, its color. Instead, I was scintillated by everyone but wanted no one. I chased false desires, false despair and false hope-- into raising my hands and raising my voice, striving for the habit of it. This has led to a season of selfishness and waste.
I am now compelled to rebuild, to commit to writing those good pieces of these past eighteen months that time will burn away if I don't. It is the first of this practice to remember what of this past season was beautiful and true in an effort to forgive and submit to God what is and always was His good will. Effort being the operative word. My dear Christ, help my unbelief.
. . .
I closed my eyes and saw an image through the static— my Brixton attic, a stone’s throw away from Her
Majesty’s Prison. My friend rustled in her room downstairs, ending the
evening under covers with On Beauty by
Zadie Smith. Zadie. I sighed. She whispered,
"It's easy to confuse a woman for a philosophy."
I had been in my own bed, watching the lights flicker out from the
prison. They turned out one by one. I saw them: a figure sat on his bed,
hunched with a letter in hand; another lay limp and hot with denial, another depressed, hopeful, listless, serene, seething, praying. I turned on my back and decided to pray. I often tried to pray, though
there never seemed to be a reply. And today seemed no different, at the outset anyway. There was sleet on my skylight and no heat indoors because we were poor, but I prayed facing upward with my eyes wide open, my white breath like a shadow under a bleary moon. The words fell out as they did since I was a child - as when I held my father's hands as he taught me how to pray. I fumbled the words a little less now, but they felt more desperate and tonight, obscenely emotional almost in song, a dirge-- when all at once, warmth fissured inside my chest imbuing all that was deep. It was a sacred thing. Speaking of it seems to mar its
purity, its security. Love had pierced my soul and opened it to the face of all humanity. My body suddenly radiated light and held immeasurable sorrow, held infinite joy and peace.
I rose from my bed, throwing off the white duvet
that had covered my cold shoulders. Brixton and the prison were dark through my window. It was midnight. Tears of desire and astonishment, of conversation seeped through the cracks. These were tears of having
waited for something for a lifetime and having come to an end of unrest and
doubt of ever finding. I stood up, taking care not to bang my head on the low brick
roof, and slipped into the bathroom. In the mirror, I saw my face.
I opened my eyes and saw David washed with the same sensation, his green eyes on fire from a few chairs down. He stood there in a daze,
contemplating completeness, his jaw still loose, his soul satisfied. He held himself in all fragility, wondering whether he should tell
another soul, and he did, albeit hesitantly— he answered when I asked. Light
fell from his lips. I recognized it immediately. This is what they should've meant by exchanging the peace. He embraced me, and as I pulled away, he pulled me
closer—quickly, not at all tenderly, but as a brother does to touch the realness of family, of pure kinship. I was awestruck that I understood— that he understood.
For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed, says the Lord, who has compassion on you. O afflicted one, storm-tossed and not comforted, behold, I will set your stones in antimony, and lay your foundations with sapphires... All your children shall be taught by the Lord, and great shall be the peace of your children.
Since that day above, David has expressed his dreams on how he plans to love marginalized people groups in this world through farming. Compassion. Mercy. Peace. Flowing from the gaze of God.
Oh, and Wikipedia recently told me that HM Prison Brixton had been converted to a training facility for prisoners a few years after I moved out of my attic room. The programme was meant to reduce recidivism, especially since so many had tried to commit suicide there. That and the drugs. Brixton was known for its drugs. How many hours, days, weeks, months had I prayed for that place. Nothing I prayed made any difference, or could it have?
One morning in October, I witnessed a blind man crossing a busy street in Port-au-Prince. Truck beds carting dozens of men and women approached and passed him with alarming speed. His walking stick was held out in front of him. It was warm out. The palm trees swayed. There was burning in the air. I watched from my car up the road. The man took a couple steps forward, and then another couple back, and repeated himself-- when suddenly, he plunged forward. My heart skipped two beats, but he had crossed the street safely as we passed him by. It struck me, how much I saw myself through the eyes of his blindness: I hadn't a clue what tomorrow would look like, but had gathered enough indication or evidence (and courage) to make a run for it. At the close of this chapter, I was moving back home to California.
That same morning in a small church in a sleepy town just across the Hudson River, Delimar rose to read a text and passed the mic to a minister. It was 1 Peter 2:4-10. I had lived in the net of their love for almost two years. A few days later, I was sitting with the verses on the tarmac at JFK asking myself, "Physically, practically, what does this spiritual house look like?" Last week, the same text resurfaced at the church I am currently attending, and I think I have seen a glimpse of what it means.
On one of the last Sunday mornings before I came back to California, I walked to the communion table to discover that there was no bread left in the basket. Everyone laughed (subdued in that peculiarly Baptist form of gentility) because for a young church plant this was an unexpected, tangible indication of growth. A quiet joy covered the congregation and new pieces of bread came from the kitchen. Elaine and I were the last ones to partake, and I remember taking that bread with her and thinking that this was probably the last time I would be sharing this meal with her. Elaine (and her husband, Phil) had given me a place to live, had fed me and even clothed me that year. We talked until the wee hours of the morning. We hiked to the tops of mountains and watched mindless TV shows and went out on the town. We bought groceries together. Phil advised me on men (as I was hopeless in that regard) and took me under his wing when I was at the end of my weariness. He salted the stairs of the front porch, pulled all the weeds from the garden, and killed all the spiders. I thought, "Though I know I'll visit, I know we won't have this life together again. Until we see You face to face, Lord. Maranatha." We took of the bread and the wine.
There came a good break in the Haiti project to pass it on, and I found myself in a car with all of my belongings at the airport. I embraced three ladies that had changed my life. A couple of weeks later, I was sitting in a prayer meeting surrounded by complete strangers. The pastor was talking about Myanmar, and looking straight into my soul. I left knowing that this was it, the next stomping ground. In high spirits, three days later, I received a devastating call. It shook my confidence in my ability to make decisions, to know right from wrong.
Had I made a mistake? Why had I left the home that I loved, the people that I loved? Because I was so convinced in obeying some intangible feeling? Had I moved in the wrong direction? I had never known so much doubt.
I sat in service on Sunday, feeling detached from my body. Thousands of miles away, I saw a hundred living stones laid in a far-away tower. They were going about in their apartments and with their families, sharing meals and laughing and crying together. Rob, one of my greatest mentors, once explained to me his native sense of saudades, and I can't say that my friends were lost to me-- but that grave aching was ever present as I sat there weeping.
The girl sitting in front of me turned around and saw me in my helpless state. It was Kira, a girl I had prayed with at the prayer meeting the week before. She asked if we could take communion together. I sat next to her, just as I had with Elaine those weeks prior. I saw Elaine smiling from the other end, seated those thousands of miles away. Hadn't her prayers been answered? Kira and I took of the bread and the wine.
The next couple of months progressed with some discomfort but ultimate wonder as I traveled further down the road with my new life. I was glad to be with my parents again, and glad to remember all the things that I had once loved as a child. Life was progressing. I was fashioned into a new part of the greater spiritual house, and was enjoying the process overall. Until last week, when through the pulpit came the voice of my old ministers. Hundreds of living souls shone from all the corners of the globe. I missed them all, all at once.
Gloria was feeding her son in a hippie high chair in Seattle. Kelicia was learning French in Bretagne. How long ago had we wandered the streets of 이태원 with her now husband? David bought a house in London! Rachel was already six-months old? Sarah was rocking her new job in Manhattan. Mihye was laying on her bed, contemplating the meaning of suffering. Little Yasmin in Mexico, was she still alive? Jenny! A living, answered prayer. Njeri. Wilton was macking on girls, Cindy's bun was growing, Joanna was dating, John was dating! Daniel was mourning and in wonder, Bobby was fighting through, Grace was fighting through, Marabishi was treating a psych patient, Samuél was feeding the children at his school. And here.... in Orange County, the souls around me glowed-- I was amazed, and so, so weary. I pled, "If eventually you want me to leave this place too, after all that You will build, after all that You have taught me to carry, to lay at Your feet-- I can't do it again. My heart lives in hundreds of different hearts and in a year, or two with these new, wonderful souls-- I will break if you tell me to leave them too."
I cried for a night, on the edge of loss and convinced that I knew the way God moved. Or maybe other people knew the way God moved. "More will come?" That's what some old man had said to me a couple of weeks ago. "More will come." I couldn't deal. I was drowning in the lives I had left behind. Two more had already come. I hadn't asked them to. Doesn't it always begin like this? I needed the presence of God, like heroin to a drug addict. This was ridiculous: desperate, deep and cavernous. I returned to what I knew. Test everything. Hold fast what is good. I was tired, and like the regular idiot I am, I fell fast asleep.
Then this morning, I woke up. Sometime later, Rachael and Brent from church texted. I had left a group chat the night before, but didn't realize it would announce my departure. When it did, Rachael and Brent had thought something was wrong. "I'm just messed up," I told Rachael. "Community is important," was the obvious response from them both. So, I turned my face upward in the only way that I knew how and was reminded: Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away. And he who was seated at the throne said, "Behold, I am making all things new."
He is building us into a house that is more beautiful than we ever imagined. I thought of Babel, and our limited scope of sight. How He must have looked down and pitied the small vision of man. How He has transmuted it for His glory. He has and will continue to give us more than we need until that day when we can sit and live together again, all together, face-to-face with our living, gracious, and loving God. There is a completeness in the interconnected symphony of our individual souls. He has laid us as singular sounds to join in with a chorus that loves cities and nations, constantly being perfected by our dear Jesus Christ, despite our broken generations and corporate history. I cannot wait. I miss every soul I have left. I am moved to tears every time I think of each of them. I long for the day when I will sit at that table with all of you living souls. As glorious as these earthly experiences are, we are not home yet.
"As you come to him, a living stone rejected by men but in the sight of God chosen and precious, you yourselves like living stones are being built up as a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ."
I met Jake several years ago today on the L train. He was reading The Concept of Anxiety, and I'd been interested myself so I asked him about it. The maple leaves fell gently around us as we walked home together. Turns out he'd been my neighbor all these years down in 29B. It was fate, or so we had thought.
The first Saturday following, we ran into each other again in an outdoor garden and chatted over a couple of beers. It was late afternoon and the light in the city was turning pink. I don't know if it was our age or the sweet nothings of New York, but we decided to come back to the same place the following week. And then it was a routine. I found him by the string of white Christmas lights, or next to a line of Polaroids hung from clothes pins. Over time, different friends had joined our Saturday afternoons. I guess it was just a product of still being in this city, in our thirties and becoming those age old creatures of habit we solemnly swore we would never become. We were such a trope, but I didn't care. It was Brooklyn. We defined trope. At least there was that.
Jake and I headed north last night to celebrate my birthday by watching for meteors in a shower called The Perseids. It was gorgeous out-- the air was thick and wet, smelling sweeter than ever. A few hours out, we found an empty clearing that seemed flat for miles. So we sat there, silently at first as our souls expanded beyond the confines of Manhattan's thinning streets and steel skyscrapers. I had closed my eyes, and opened them to the sound of Jake's voice explaining the story of Medusa. Perseus. He killed her or so the legend went as he poured us a couple miniature dixie cups of bourbon. I reached my hands out towards the sky and nearly touched another galaxy.
Though we saw nothing, or rather I saw nothing-- Jake says he did but I think he was lying or fooling himself-- the night was blissful anyway. I was growing tired of the city speed of things. The endless rooftop parties, large dinner parties, large gatherings in general were wearing thinner on my shoulders by the day. There was something about being able to hear someone that I missed. Thirty-one seemed like a quieter year. Jake had his bike. I wanted to get out of the city. It wasn't a thing. It was exactly what I had wanted.
The light was low and just breaking through when we found our way out of the woods. Jake lit a joint and finished it before we hit Queensboro, the new, more popular edges. We drove through a large Jewish cemetery. Rosenbaum. Rosenthal. Rosen-- it boggled my mind that they had all died in alphabetical order. Jake hugged the curves a bit too wildly, too obviously. A cop pulled us over.
'Dammit.'
He never cursed. He quit smoking years ago. Except for the tattoo that sprawled across his left ribcage, all remnants of rebellion had vanished. Anne told me a couple of weeks ago that Jake's mom had passed. He hadn't told me yet. I had known she had cancer, and I had known it was bad. I figured he would tell me when he was ready. I didn't know how anyone dealt with that sort of thing, or that he did. It made him such a contradiction. I could give him that, so long as it didn't become a habit.
Jake was a grad student at a small, conservative seminary-- the kind that was proud of piety and authority. He was a rising star and a darling of professors, if those exist in Bible school. It seems counterintuitive. And though I never understood what or to whom, he was always trying to prove himself. Maybe that was why we were friends. I didn't care for any of that posturing or what box he was trying to fit in.
I answered for him as he blubbered around for his license and registration.
'Morning, Officer.'
'You know, you were going fifteen miles over the speed limit?'
'I'm so sorry, Officer, it's just my dad's birthday and we need to make it back in time for his party, and we were supposed to be there for breakfast. We'll be so careful. We won't do it again.'
The officer looked at us quizzically, first at my obvious lie and then at Jake's sincere penitence. He must have been having a good morning, because he only said,
'You two look like a nice couple, so I'll let you off this time.'
'But we're not--'
Jake's honesty made me smile. We rode on through an alleyway, and it took us a longer time than usual to get back to Bushwick. He was making full stops and looking both ways.
'I probably shouldn't have driven you.'
'Why?'
'Never mind. Sometimes I don't know why I bother.'
Innocence beguiled and irritated him all at once. It felt as if we'd just spent the last fifty years together-- a bad sign for a Saturday.
'You want breakfast?'
It was more of a statement than a question. I was used to it by now. Caffeine made Jake a better man, so I only nodded and we were seated. We were suddenly in better spirits. The city around us was stirring and readying itself for pancakes and eggs benedict. He said grace.
The conversation took an optimistic turn. Our dreams ran out in front of us and skipped over our breakfast into morning as if they were school children linking and swinging arms. I think it was Jake's way of dealing with all that was going on in his life these days. He was relieved to talk about the things ahead; where he would be, what he would be doing, who he would be doing it with. Dreams. Possibilities. It was the kind of happy care you gave to your early twenties. He was a whole decade late, but so earnest. He started whistling a hymn.
'I wanted to become a professor,' he said.
'So then become one.'
'It doesn't just happen like that. I've got to be home for now. And you need money to do these kinds of things anyway.'
'Even for Bible school...' I laughed at him and he didn't look so amused. I sighed and leaned back. There was a family across the way. They were speaking in German, but the lady's stern admonishment was clear in any language. The child was wearing a sailor's hat. He had just shoved half a croissant in his mouth, and looked ready to cry. The boy's father had turned the slightest shade of blush.
'I'm sure you'd be great at it. What would you teach?'
'Theology.'
'Isn't that what seminary is?'
'Kind of, actually, it doesn't matter. What about you? I can't believe I've never asked,' he suddenly looked at me with a twinkle in his eye,
'What did you want to be when you grew up?'
'Oh, I always knew I'd be traveling the world, but I never thought I'd be doing it alone. I used to have these dreams when I was a kid, of being in Belize or Tel Aviv with some guitar-strapped sojourner. But now that I'm doing it alone, I kind of miss him and he's not even real. It's silly.'
'Just pick one up from off these street corners-- they're a dime a dozen.'
To be honest, I forgot what he said after that. There was a lot he said in those days that I just couldn't listen to-- mainly because they were reactionary or weren't true. We stopped by Goorin's afterwards to try on hats. The bell on the door tinkled as it opened and we were met by the musty scent of a very old store. It was cool inside and dim. I discovered a green bowler hat, put it on, and browsed further down the narrow aisle. When I turned, he was looking out the window-- shoulders low, back turned against me. I heard him murmur,
'Ma's gone.'
'I know. I heard from Annie.'
'But I don't really want to talk about it. I just wanted you to know.'
'You always say that but you do anyway.'
He turned around and the ghost evaporated. His eyes looked altogether differently at me, nakedly at first and then they were the only part of his face left to me. Hiding was how he coped, as most of us must. I watched as the old, familiar mask enveloped his soul and returned his face to the one he showed the world. Hat in hand, he smiled imploringly and said,
'How about this one?'
They say that the heart of a woman is pity. I smiled back, 'Decent.'
'Come on, let's get out of here.'
We walked through the store and down a couple of more warm blocks to the back of an empty restaurant. Lush forest-green ivy crawled high over the old brick facades. I took a seat at one of the wrought iron tables. The seat was rusting. Jake emerged with our drinks and suddenly launched into his thoughts without hesitation. It was our way, his way with me-- there was never any warning.
'Do you know what's the worst part of this whole thing? My dad. He got it the worst. He doesn't have anything anymore.'
'What do you mean? He's got you, he's got lots of people.'
'I mean his life's work. It's gone. All the things that he put his family through, her, us-- it all burned to the ground.'
'You think that's why your mom got sick? Because of him?'
'He loved her. He loved her more than he loved any of us. And she gave her life for his-- and the family we had built. Every day. We got up early and cleaned the pews, we stayed late and straightened up house. We went to soup kitchens on Christmas and shelters on Thanksgiving. We prayed, for hours and hours. And for what? It doesn't exist anymore. It's dead.'
'That's unfair. You don't know how your parents affected your community, and what the church did for the people that were there when it existed. You don't know any of the final things.'
'Yeah, I know, you're right. It just feels like he hasn't got anything now.'
Jake wasn't one for crying, but it looked like he'd cracked in half. His body slid lopsidedly as he pulled himself together. It was growing dark out and the neon red lights behind him had flickered on just a few minutes ago. He looked at his watch.
'Oh, I told Jane I'd be at her concert. We'll just stop by for a minute. It's outdoors. It'll be nice.'
We rushed out of the restaurant. The exhaust had dirtied my white silk blouse over the course of the night and day. We crossed bridges and roads, and soon were on the other side of the river. The river was an undulating, darkened mass that reflected hidden glimmers of city light. As we veered inward towards the heart of the island, the park came to view. We were in Chelsea. The band had already started and its sweet notes strained to reach our ears. Jake pulled back around to look for parking, slowing suddenly at the intersection on a small tree lined street. I recognized the old building to my right. de Kooning had lived in that complex. A lot had happened to him on this block. Rent had been $35 a month, he had gotten engaged here, and been evicted.
'Did you see that?' Jake yelled over the din of his bike.
'See what?'
'In the sky, it was a falling star. I swear I saw it. The Perseids.'
'No. It's too bright here anyway. It'd be almost impossible.'
'But I'm sure I saw something.'
A shot from an old trip to Italy, way back before Instagram filters.
If my memory serves me correctly, this Perseus is one commissioned by the Medici family.
*Music from Sufjan Steven's Carrie & Lowell, "Should Have Known Better"
A girl walked in this morning looking like spring. I looked down at my own knotted wool sweater about four lifetimes past its wearability and smiled. The juxtaposition launched a thousand images. I thought about what my mother would say. She teased, "You'll never get married if you keep that sweater." I thought about my unkempt hair. Very Highbrow was shaking her own neatly kept locks all the way from Japan. The computer screen said something about security interests. My End of the Bargain laughed from Samoa. I knew she'd say, "Friction, there's too much friction between the annals of property and human rights law."
And then quiet among the voices was a breath. "Be rooted."
I have wandered through a dozen cities and an entire decade en route to this gallery, into a chair I last sat in as a child; and today, though I had long been afraid of it-- of domesticating my rebellion and flight-- I have found an odd freedom in sitting still. Ask me again tomorrow and I might feel differently, but for now there is a light in doing the thing I had not wanted to do because I had been afraid of becoming tethered; but I am afraid no longer.
%2B192.JPG)
