Crash into me – June 5, 2009 | Part 1
I nod, looking at you, and when I turn my attention back to the road, I notice a red Mercedes convertible in front of me, stopped in the middle of my lane, its right blinker flashing. While we’ve been talking, I have been accelerating toward it, distracted by you. I pump the brake hard, and just barely, I manage to stop a foot from its bumper. Then time slows. I turn my neck to the right and look up into the rearview mirror. I see a white box truck coming up fast. I brace as it slams into the back of the car.
Come with Me – May 22, 2009
Jeremy: hey I've been looking at that conference... I got in touch with the guy in charge, and he sent me a schedule. me: So cool! Live jazz, bach cello recital, music collage, a play, "art as a gift to rehumanize the world"! This sounds like the sweetest conference ever. I hope you're going to go with me, because it'd be more fun to go with somebody I know. : )
Uninvited - May 14, 2009
I do not at all take to heart the passage from Mark 4 that we discuss at bible study the day before: “A man scatters seed on the ground. Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how. All by itself the soil produces grain—first the stalk, then the head, then the full kernel in the head. As soon as the grain is ripe, he puts the sickle to it, because the harvest has come.” (Mark 4:26-29, NIV) I ignore the truth it screams at me: growth is slow, imperceptible, out of my control. A seed can’t be rushed into a stalk into a wheat germ. I cannot prod it along with my tears and anxiety and journaling and library stalking, not even a little bit.
Even so, I am desperate for signs of change. Which is probably why, when your teenage sister texts – she got my number from you, and she wants to know if I’d like to come over to hang out with her – I think, sure, why not, and by the way, maybe I’ll just happen to see you while I’m at your house hanging out with your high-school aged sister. Surprise!
Hearing - January 28, 2009 - Part 2
“Is this your house?” I say slipping off my Chuck Taylors, and resting them near the pile of shoes that has formed in the tile entryway.
“No,” you say, “It’s my parent’s house… they’re letting me crash here so I can save up to buy my own place.”
“Cool. Nice sweater, by the way,” I say.
“You like it?" you say. I nod and smile: your sweater is grey wool with red and blue snowflakes covering your upper chest and shoulders. You look like you've walked out of a Swedish Christmas catalog from the '80s.
You smile proudly. "I just found it today at a thrift store. Three bucks for this!” you say, pointing at your chest.
“Great find,” I say. “I like to go thrifting myself.”
“Well, you’ve got to check out the Goodwills around here…” you say as someone calls you from the living room. You turn your head, and then look back at me—“I’ve got to check on that. Just head on into the living room whenever you’re ready. Put your coat anywhere,” you say, already walking away.