A season of resting

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
Ecclesiastes 3:1-22 (ESV)

I listed my life of the last decade to a friend and she suggested I was entering into a season of resting.

This is hard for me to imagine. The older I get and the more I mature in my faith, the more life seems to become a challenge. I've maybe had some flat land to cover, but very little downhill walks along the way. Most of it has been uphill grade, some of it very steep.

As I confessed to my friend, I sort of asked for this atypical life. I didn't ask for difficulties, but I earnestly prayed throughout my 20s for God to teach me his love, to give me His heart, to teach me His patience and kindness. I've longed to become better than what I am, to be made more like Him.

I've always had a little bit of wisdom. Its perhaps the one spiritual gift I can always identify at work in my life as God brings broken people to me for counsel.

I had at least a little clue about what I was asking for.

Having experienced 40 years of life, and 20 years of an adult path I doubt many people would have chosen given the option, I sometimes wonder if my prayers have been incomplete.

Should I have prayed for more blessing? More comfort? More ... just more? Do I not have because I didn't ask?

Or am I just wired a different way than most. I certainly long for "stuff," but I know God wishes for us to not put our hearts there. So I don't ask. Because, more than anything, I want what God wants for me. I don't want something that could lead to my undoing, or anyone else's for that matter.

I am not a martyr. I have strayed from God here and there, even in poverty and pain, but I believe it was much easier and quicker to reel me back in in that condition than it would have been had I had the means to really go out and chase the desires of my flesh.

This is not a question I would be debating if Jess were alive. May 19 passed, my shared birthday with my late wife, and I would undoubtedly entered my 40th year praying for God's blessing -- for more money, for more stability, for a child, that last one if only to soothe Jessica's tired, weary heart.

But I am 40 and I am ... unattached, returned to the state of simple, single living. Life isn't THAT much easier, but if I don't make the obvious decisions to get myself on financial track I have only one person to blame, only one person to hold accountable. So the right decisions generally get made ... eventually.

I go back to my friend's counsel. I can see the wisdom there, or at the very least a beautiful sentiment from a Godly friend who wishes me well. But as I seek the Lord, I don't see rest ahead. I see more discipline, more expectations, more of God pushing me out from the ordinary and onto the challenging path.

My peers, so many of them stumbled into the kind of life I thought I would lead: long-term marriage, children, stability (for better or worse). But I was too ... spiritual aware to stumble into anything. There was no grace afforded me to do that. I knew better. More was expected of me as a Christian, as a follower of Jesus, and that has been a great burden all of my life.

Whenever I would think of asking for more I would think about the state of people around the world and how even my own meager belongings were wealth in most other countries. How could I ask for more knowing so many of God's own people had so little? How could *want* more knowing God's people were hungry and cold? This is not an infomercial. It's the real human condition for most of the world. And I am self-aware enough to recognize I have more than plenty, enough to share even.

I can't remember when I had a season of rest, frankly. I've had less challenging seasons where I was able to find contentment under lesser circumstances, seasons that prepared me how to find contentment when life is most challenging.

All things considered, I'm fairly happy with how I turned out at 40. I am a better man, and I would be foolish to wish I had been given an easier path here. But I find myself wanting that season of rest, followed by a season of blessing and maybe a little abundance.

But more than anything I want to finish the race, as Paul described it. I think that requires me to get back on my knees and ask for more of the same and be prepared for the challenges -- to be prepared to live an audaciously humble life.

It scares me, but it got me here.

Remedial lessons of the heart

My late great friend Joey Cadrecha was a phenomenal guitarist. I have never personally known a better musician, by the best of my abilities to determine such a thing, a virtuoso.

He studied with Joe Pass. He had those kinds of chops. He asked me to help him and his friends start a jazz jam at Pita Jungle in Chandler and we'd go over there every Thursday night and play.

One night on the way over there he said he was having some dizziness, but quickly dismissed it and jumped in the chair for a couple of tunes. He stepped down after the second one, saying he felt he needed to go home. He asked me to follow -- I was all too happy to oblige.

Joey was all over the road. If I didn't know better, I'd guess he'd had a few drinks at the jam.

His wife took him to the hospital the next day. He'd been having seizures. Ultimately, one seizure claimed his ability to play his guitar.

I don't think a non-musician can understand what it's like acquiring so much knowledge to play an instrument -- we're talking thousands of hours of minutiae -- and to suddenly lose it. The knowledge was there in his head, but he couldn't get the message to his fingers. It would be like forgetting how to breathe -- things become so intuitive that you take them for granted. This massive amount of information flows out of your brain to your limbs and you just ... do ... and it's second nature. There's no thought as to how or why. Every now and then you have an out-of-body perspective and you can't believe this stuff is coming out of you. You've forgotten the thousands or hours you've spent practicing. When you play, it's in the moment, and it just happens as naturally as your legs know how to move when you walk.

He was encouraged to start over again, but he was emotionally defeated. He couldn't bear the burden of having to teach his hands how to do that again. It'd been far too long since he had to think about how he played the guitar. He was ashamed, embarrassed, though he had no logical reason to feel that way. In hindsight, his health was deteriorating to the point he probably couldn't have done it if he wanted to. Joey passed about a year after that (and I probably think about him once a day ... I miss him a lot).

I've been dwelling on Joey's situation more than usual lately, because I realize, emotionally, I'm going through the same thing. I'm undergoing an emotional reboot.

It's safe to say now that I'm handling Jess' passing much better than anyone could have anticipated. I even surprise myself, and at times I feel guilty about it. Yet I know the real challenges lay ahead.

For example, I'm having to learn how to use the word 'I' when expressing my opinion. It's no longer 'we.' In general terms, I'm learning how to explain my marriage in past tense. It feels harsh sometimes, and especially harsh to admit this here, because I know there are people in my life who have not been able to accept it themselves.

At the time, I was frustrated with Joey because I didn't understand his fear. It seemed illogical. But I get it now, and I'm ashamed if I ever gave him the impression he was anything but normal. I knew Jess like Joey knew his guitar. It was intuitive. Not having her around so I can express that knowledge is very much like forgetting how to breathe.

My biggest fear is not being single, but becoming involved with someone else again. Single I can do. It's pretty easy to make big decisions when you don't have to consult someone else, and they impact no one but yourself. Pick up and move to Mars? That's doable, theoretically.

But having to start from scratch and learn someone else like I knew Jess, just the thought intimidates me. It's a brand new language. Learning how to speak 'Jess' took me years, and it was very rough the first two years because I clearly was still learning elementary 'Jess.' That was a lot of sweat and a lot of tense moments wondering if I would ever get to a comfortable point. Only by the grace of God did I get to the other side of that challenge.

I write this because God is challenging me as I type to not jump back into hermit mode. I did that for most of my 20s. It kept me out of trouble, but it also closed off a lot of people to my life. I was single and content, but I was too easily content to minimize personal relationships. That wasn't God's will for my life -- or anyone else's.

It's the other side of the coin to my note about singleness. It's the real challenge of being a single Christian. We are commissioned to serve the Kingdom and not fret about the loneliness, but we can't close ourselves off emotionally, either. There are no robots in the Kingdom.

I have this strange timing of positive momentum, and I promise you it's not my nature to jump into ambitious personal goals and stick with them, but God has seemingly carried me here for reasons I do not understand. I'm hopeful when I should not be. I'm joyful when I should have none. I'm moving forward when anyone in my position would be considered reasonable if they hid away for a year or two. (I'm beginning to think there are people that would prefer I do just that to satisfy their own need to mourn Jess without a constant reminder).

I've been given a lot of grace these past few weeks, much more than I ever deserved. The challenge, I feel, is that I've been keeping it to myself and I should be giving it away. It's not mine to keep. And I shouldn't be afraid of how God chooses for me to give it away.

The unplanned life

I have been in counselor mode now for too long. So long, that I find myself giving advice where my opinion wasn't asked. What an irritation this must be for those around me. Everyone around me has been so graceful because they haven't called me on it, but I imagine that fuse is getting very short.

Earlier this week I caught myself short of breath trying to give a friend a pep talk about going to the gym. I'm doing the gym thing and, apparently, I'm an expert on it now. In my mind, of course. As I sucked air back into my lungs I had to ask, "What was your question again?"

"I asked if you ever tasted Coke Zero before," she said, with a hint of agitation.

(I have. I like it. My brother Chris got me going on it. But to a long-time leaded Coke drinker, it's not a replacement for the real thing.)

It's been hard for me to put the counselor hat away because it's the one thing that has truly helped me through this mess. I guess I've felt if I could provide some insight to my suffering, it might help others see life in broader terms. All the positive feedback has only encouraged me to step out and "counsel" some more, for better or worse.

My buddy Danny loaned me a book called A Grace Disguised. He used a portion of it at the memorial, and thought I might find more gems in it. It's written by a man named Jerry Sittser, who lost his wife, daughter, and mother in a car accident. His writing is very familiar to me and I get the sense he wrote this book with the very same intentions I had when I started writing notes about my grieving.

The one thing I will take from this book is it's not a book about recovery. In fact, in his epilogue, he admits "life will never be good again." That might sound depressing, but he counters with his life has been good since he wrote the book. His point, I think, is you don't recover from this type of loss, you don't regain what you had. You end up with something different, something unplanned.

The unplanned life -- that's his point, that's how life really is. The idea of getting married young, growing up with your kids, watching them get married, growing old with your wife, enjoying your grandchildren ... that's a fairy tale for people in our position. There's nothing wrong with people who get to enjoy that ... don't let me steal your joy if that's you. But I think, maybe, people who have the blessing of living their lives as they (mostly) planned them often end up missing on some of the salty wisdom, taking what they have for granted. Life comes at us so incrementally, I think it's almost impossible not to build up some expectation life will always be as good as long as we have nothing to interrupt it.

But my life has been interrupted by dark and vivid colors. I now know real pain, the kind that cannot be felt without first having experienced something of real value. I know what it's like to take life for granted, even at less than a minimum of what most Americans would consider a quality life, and I'm loathe to take it for granted again. I refuse to let the unplanned life dictate to me things I should be able to control -- who I am, what I'm about, what I represent in my words and my actions.

I think that's the thought I've been riding these past few weeks as I pursue many ambitious personal goals. Losing Jess has forced me into countless hours of introspection and I'm beginning to see myself in all the areas where I fall far short of who I want to be. Instead of spending my time in despair, I've found hope in the work and the sweat of becoming a better person, one who does not want to go another day taking for granted what I have remaining.

Bear Bryant, the great college football coach, used to teach all of his players to live every day as if it were their last. That's probably not an inspiring message to a bohemian or a nihilist -- they probably do live every day as if it were their last, on terms that would inspire no one. But to me, as trite and as hollow as that message used to sound to me, is really hitting home.

No more taking a day for granted. No more dismissing my flaws. There's nothing left for me to take for granted. I've now fully embraced the unplanned life.

The long drive home

By far the worst part of my day is leaving work.

I used to dread the drive home because it'd be late, I'd be emotionally drained, and Jess would have any number of stops for me to make before I could walk through the door and start my nightly routine of helping her and getting to bed.

Now I loathe it because it's an express lane to loneliness.

It dawned on me today there's not enough I can do, not enough great people I can surround myself with, that can replace the fullness of life I experienced with Jess. There's nothing I can do that is as rewarding, not enough things with which I can fill my day to keep me from coming home to this quiet bedroom alone.

If you've never had to care for someone -- and I mean physically throw yourself into caring for someone -- it's very hard to explain the deep emotional ties that develop as a result. Not to be intentionally gross, but when you have to wipe your partner's bottom or give them a shower because they can't do it themselves, and you've done it enough times you don't even think to protest it, you are intensely emotionally invested in that person.

Taking care of Jess became a second nature to me. I was her pack mule, her medical advocate, her chauffeur, her pill counter and dispenser, her datebook, her conscience, and so many other things that exceed the definition of husband. I was constantly challenged to think of her before I thought of myself.

And I miss it.

I was discussing privately with a good friend last night about how much my stance on being single and content is being challenged. Before I met Jess, I had never known what it was like. I didn't miss it. I was content in the reality I knew.

Jess and I rarely left the house -- or the living room, for that matter -- together, but it seems like we did more living in seven years than most healthy couples do in a lifetime. I'm not boasting, I'm just offering my perspective compared to what people have told me about their own married life. We didn't have outside distractions and we were forced to cancel so many dates with friends. We were forced to create something between us that was probably healthier for our marriage than any number of nights out to dinner and a movie.

Among other things I won't mention here, I confessed to this friend that, while I can't fathom being with anyone else right now, it's impossible for me to think of the future without that kind of companionship. There are so many other things I could live without -- even sexual intimacy, to be blunt -- but I don't think I can bear not experiencing that kind of fiery, shared emotional intensity again.

I know it's not something that can be replaced and I won't even try. What Jess and I had was unique to us, two very odd, awkward, broken people finding each other. We were different even when we were healthy and, I suppose, stood out in a crowd for good and bad reasons.

But I can't take many more of these drives home without some hope that it won't end without hope. I've had a taste of something better, the real benefits of life, and I want to taste it again.

Another noteworthy moment

I don't know if I'm actually destined to live an unusual life or if, by being so consciously and purposefully different, I just invite the unusual into my life. I'll let you be the judge.

If you haven't learned this about me by now, I am part of a massive global network of friends. I've been actively on the Internet since 1994 (Or was it AOL only early on? I can't remember? Jenni, you remember?), and I've spent the bulk of my time getting to know people in ways most would never reveal in person.

I have hundreds of intimate friends all over the world that I've never met, and some of them I've maintained fairly strong relationships with since almost the beginning.

One of those dear friends is Heidi, fantastic wife, super mother of four, and the personality of a pit bull.

A loving pit bull. A family pit bull. One that loves to play and is great with kids, but she'll chew your shoes and poop on your good sheets if you don't bend to her will or give her enough attention.

I love you, Heidi, but you know it's true.

Heidi and I had a "moment" about 10 years ago, a brief flirtation on Internet Relay Chat while we were both single, before we came to our senses and just went back to being friends. I'm a Christian and she is a KJV-Only Christian. If you don't know what that means, I couldn't even begin to explain to you the cultural chasm between us. After that, she (perfectly) filled the role of annoying sister I never wanted.

ANYWAY, she waited all of a month to shoot me an e-mail saying she heard about what happened and she was very sorry.

She also has a "friend" she wants me to meet.

No tact. No decorum. No sense of timing or filter.

Before any of you jump on her below, I've got plenty of grace for this girl and you should, too. Heidi is just being Heidi, and she's one of smallest handful of people who could suggest something like that right now without hurting my feelings. For all her faults she's been an intensely loyal friend. I've given so many of my friends license to test my patience, and Heidi renews it regularly. She never leaves home without it.

Nonetheless, I told her in no way am I even ready for something like that, so back off, which was pointless, because she always gets her way. It's irritating. And I love her for it. But she's really, really, really irritating. So I give. God bless her, but she agitates me to the point where I just give up and let her say what she's going to say.

Did I mention she's a pit bull?

I started calculating ways I could shoot this down with a series of explanations I thought would show her this was a fruitless endeavor:

Me: She goes to a radically different church than I do. No sale.
Heidi: You don't know what she believes you won't know until you talk to her

Me: She's too far away -- no long distance relationships.
Heidi: She's in favor of relocation already

Me: She's a vegetarian. I'm a Tyrannosaur.
Heidi: She doesn't care what you eat, but you could stand to eat a few more leafy green veggies tubby

On and on this went for two days until I relented and wrote something I never thought I would have to write, not this soon:

"@%)(*#$%. Just send me a bloody photo."

Now, I deal with "mugshots" all day long. I've taken a few. After seeing the photo she sent me, I had only one burning question left for my wanna-be matchmaker:

"How many years does she have left on her sentence?"

And I thought I was being funny.

It was a REAL booking photo. Heidi was trying to set me up with a con. Not even an EX-con. A Current Con, right down to the closet full of orange jump suits. This wasn't even her first time in jail. Larceny or something.

Heidi has been pen pals with prisoners for years. It was one of the first things I learned about her. She had grown close to this girl and, for whatever reason, though she might make a good companion for me.

Because all I need is a little more drama in my life, I suppose.

She still doesn't understand my reticence, but she's backed off now. I'm not expecting an apology. Not from Heidi.

She's just regrouping to the east to flank me when I'm not expecting it in a couple of months.

Why coed gyms are a bad idea

I'm not starting up writing again. I just had to share this unique experience.

I'm a member of one of those fancy gyms that have TVs on the treadmills, TVs on the stairmasters, big TVs up above us ... if they served beer they'd be a top notch sports bar.

But it's a gym and I guess TV is the best way to lure people into punishing their bodies.

I was minding my own business on the treadmill tonight, watching the basketball game, cringing at a particularly nasty collision, when a woman in head-to-toe black Lycra came up and banged on my machine

Holy stretchy suit, I thought.

It's Catwoman.

To my ears she asked, "Are you starting here?" It's important that I point out that's what I heard. I had my headphones on and the gym is louder than a Ramones concert with all those blaring TVs and closeted men grunting over machines in the corner trying to work out their suppressed feelings, so just remember that part. I'm innocent.

"Are you starting here?" I heard again.

She's welcoming me here, I thought to myself. She must work here or something. How nice.

Not wanting to break my forward motion, I smiled nicely and nodded affirmative.

"Thanks for asking," I said, politely.

At least I thought I was polite. She walked off in a storm.

I was finished a little bit after and started to walk out of the gym when a thick-necked Napoleon came up to me with a finger pointed in my face.

"I catch you staring at my wife I'm going to ..."

I wasn't really paying attention to what he said. I got the message, and it dawned on me what the woman really asked me.

She wanted to know if I was staring at her.

My oxygen-deprived brain didn't really have an answer other than it knew we wanted to avoid a "scene" there in front of all the nice trainers who know my situation and made lots of assumptions about my general decent character (I know this because they comped me about $900 worth of PT time). I walked slowly out the door as if that man had been talking to someone else.

The problem was line-of-sight. I'm looking down at the TV on my treadmill, grimacing at at a play, and Catwoman is on the machine in front of me thinking I'm checking out her tush (which, I feel necessary to point out here, was pretty much hung out there in stretchy suit stuff like the morning's produce ... I got the impression she was more disappointed in who she thought was ogling her than the fact she thought she was being ogled ... whatever ogled means).

So there you have it. I'm never going back to the gym again. Not without a mask anyway.

Answering some tough questions

Keep in mind when you forward these notes to make sure I'm represented properly. I mention this because the inbox on my gmail account is being assaulted by people asking me questions as if I were Dr. Phil. I'm just a dude writing about my awful situation the way, I suppose, a stand-up comedian dumps all their neurotic fears into their routine -- cheaper than a head shrinker.

I'm not an expert on this stuff.

Furthermore, the devil in me is so tempted to mess with some of these people. It's all I can do to not respond just to humor myself. So think hard before you hit that send button, because not everyone is going to "get" these things I write.

That said, I had to respond to some of these questions that keep coming up and I thought I'd do it here in case this gets forwarded again. It could save me some time. I am, after all, committed to responding to every personal e-mail that comes my way (sooner or later).

Here we go ... (If these are your questions, I re-wrote them for brevity and clarity, and for no other reason. I thought about asking for permission to publish them, but I decided that was an implied possibility in an unsolicited e-mail. I will, however, maintain your anonymity. Just pray my answers might actually assist other people, too.)

Q. My daughter's husband passed away four months ago and she's already getting serious with another man. Do you have a better way I could tell her it's too soon?

A. Assuming there are no kids involved, I think you should stay out of your daughter's business. She's on her own timetable and she's a grown woman. Don't be a tool. Don't tell your daughter how to grieve, when to grieve, where to grieve, or when she's done. Only she knows. I've been asked this question four or five times now by people in similar situations, and it reveals all kinds of conceit, IMO. My guess is YOU'RE still grieving your son-in-law and YOU feel betrayed by your daughter's quick turnaround. But if you love your daughter you'll stay out of the way and let this resolve on its own. Then admit to yourself that this is all about you and deal with that.

(Pausing a moment to let my anger die down)

If there are kids involved, pretend like I didn't just dress you down. That's different. Your daughter then has an entirely different set of priorities whether she realizes it or not. I don't think she should even date until she knows (a) her kids are at the end of their grieving process and (b) she's somehow explained to them why "Mommy" is going to start seeing strange men. All kinds of confusion there for the kids. "Is that my new daddy?" Ugh. Difficult. In this case, I think you have to confront her (lovingly) and challenge her to think seriously about her childrens' emotional state. I don't know if there's a timetable on that. It just has to be done with the children being the first consideration. Professional counsel should be involved there, people who have clinical insight into the mind and emotions of children.

Q. My father just died last year and I still can't find the strength to laugh. How do you do it?

A. Having a dog helps. A couple of nights ago I accidentally dropped a treat underneath the bed where my dog Meeko couldn't get to it and watched him stuff his body all the way under the bed. No treat wasted. That's his motto. He got stuck until I put another treat out in the middle of the floor. It took him about 20 minutes, but his stomach is always mightier than his fear. Watching him turn sideways and move his body along with single butt cheek out of sheer little doggie determination had me howling.

It's the kind of thing Jess would do to entertain herself while I was at work. I never understood how funny it was until I tried it myself.

I guess my point is whatever fond memories you have of your father laughing, that's where the joy is. That's where you'll find the laughter. You just can't fear the laughter. There's a release there if you're willing to embrace it. it doesn't require any strength at all. It's possible you've been using all your strength to keep from laughing out of some misplaced guilt or shame. If your father laughed, you can be certain he wants you to laugh now.

Q. My 14-year-old died two years ago from complications of a car crash. She was on a respirator for six months in a coma before her tired little body gave out. The accident was a hit-and-run, probably a drunk driver, but my wife couldn't help but blame me. She served me divorce papers a day after the funeral. We couldn't sell our house so I moved out last month before the banks could change the locks on me. I'm living in my old neighbor's garage sleeping on a cot next to wall-to-wall canned fruit. I feel like I should be in one of those jars. I feel like I am in one of those jars. You write with so much hope and I think I hate you for it. I know I shouldn't, but I've got this e-mail here and I screamed into my pillow with rage without even finishing it. I'm writing you to ask for forgiveness, but you should know I don't really want it. I'm just doing it because I think it's the right thing. I want to tell you and your God to [censored] but what's left of my conscience is directing me to this instead. [Lots of other angry things here snipped out] My faith was blind, but if God wants me now, he's got a [censored] of explaining to do.

A. First, I'm going to stop complaining about my situation. I feel like a pretty small man right now.

I don't have the first clue what it's like to walk in your shoes and whomever sent you my notes should've used better discretion. What you're going through is a complete life meltdown I doubt anyone here could even relate to. You have my deepest sympathies, but I think I'm clued in enough there that you're pretty tired of sympathies. Some other things I bet you're tired of:

- Platitudes
- People trying to explain to you God has a purpose in all of this
- People trying to explain to you that this is somehow by design
- Pity
- Your wife's unjust judgment of you
- People being afraid to approach you
- The wrong people not being afraid to approach you

The good people don't know what to say and the idiots have all the answers. Am I right? I'd scream, too, if I read some drivel from some guy that others are saying is so brave, and there you are going through REAL hell. Buddy, you are so right. I don't know what hell is, but you do.

The truth is evil is evil and it can march on good people. It does every day. That's not God. That's the enemy. This is his domain, his world, his touch of death. That's the kingdom of darkness.

My truth is that I have no hope. It's given to me. Without it, I would be angry and depleted and a total wreck. My hope is in God. That's it. I am as capable of letting the darkness swallow me up as you are, but God won't let me go there.

That's not something I can reveal to you, only God can, but I assure you God meets you where you are. Anger is good. It's real. IMO, your anger is just. Just be sure your anger is directed at the right target: the enemy. That's common ground there with the Big Man. He's angry, too. That's right, I said it. God is an angry God. A justly angry God. He abhors the darkness so much He intends to destroy it for all good time. We just aren't living the Age of Judgment yet. We're still living in the Age of Mercy, the "right now" before the "not yet." The day will come when darkness in vanquished, but right now we're living in the fallout of a cosmic battle. You have to have faith that your daughter is with the Lord and you and her will be someday be able to share a witness of God's final plan.

If you truly want a way out, there's your direction. It won't bring your daughter back. It has nothing to do with your wife. Now life is all about what's between you and the Lord. Like Andy Dufresne says, Get busy living or get busy dying. That's the crossroads of grief.

John 1:5: The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.