The Truth is Stranger Than it Used to Be

Today at church, during the ‘turn and greet your neighbor time’ I met someone.

His name, I think, is D. J.–or maybe it was L. J., or B. J.–it should be clear at this point that I’m not good with names. He was sitting alone, and I felt compelled to say ‘Hi’ and shake his hand because he seemed out of place. We didn’t talk for long, but I found out during the brief break that it was his first time at our church, so I wanted to make him feel as welcome as possible and made a mental note to plan to talk with him after the service. But, after the service, at precisely the moment I was thinking of starting a conversation with him, he leaned forward and asked me a question. “This is going to sound strange,” he said, “but do you have a girlfriend?”

I didn’t know what to say.

That’s a pretty forward question, and it’s not what you lead with with unless you’re a little awkward; I was taken back. In part, because I was expecting the conversation to only get more awkward, but mostly because this topic has been much on my mind. You see, my dating experience isn’t that comprehensive, and in the past five years has, with a brief interlude in the past two months, consisted of unmitigated pain. At some point I will write a blog about that experience; this won’t be it. The key point, though, is that the person I wanted to date kept hammering on the same thing over, and over, and over, and over, and over again (I think I counted those right). And, somewhere along the way I started to internalize the perpetual rejection. I came to believe that I was inadequate, that something was wrong with me for liking this person, and that I was really more of an inconvenience than a blessing. I was told, repeatedly, that this person didn’t value me–regardless of whether that was true or not–I was hurt a great deal by it. Hearing it too frequently has kept me from healing. The hammering didn’t drive the I-don’t-want-to-date-you point home, it created a need where none had existed previously. I now feel that one of the most important things I’m looking for is someone who wants me; I need to be desired.

It’s a strange place to be at 30, to be wanting someone who will want me. In some trivial sense we all want someone who wants us; what I mean is that I will need constant reassurance that I’m not about to be dumped, and that my partner is enjoying the relationship. In a strange way, I’ve connected with a long dead grandfather over the issue. One of my aunts once said that she thought her mother had never really appreciated her father; she could be difficult just to be difficult, and hadn’t valued him. I’m sure this broke his heart a little bit. I feel like I can empathize, since it breaks my heart a little bit for him. I will not repeat that mistake.

Dating has been much on my mind because I’ve been wondering if maybe my standards are too high. I’ve been thinking “Maybe you have a warped view of marriage. Maybe you’re to idealistic. Maybe you should just ‘settle’ because it’s better than being alone for the rest of your life.” These are, of course, dangerous ideas. You shouldn’t marry someone you aren’t into; part of being into someone is finding them attractive; both intellectually and physically. You can grow to love someone, you don’t normally try and change what you enjoy/find attractive. Another shaping experience I’ve had occurred when I was sixteen. One of the manager’s where I worked, if I remember correctly, was named Nadine. One morning we went to deliver the daily cash deposit to the bank. And, in the five minute drive she told me something that explained a great deal of herself. She told me she was afraid of growing old alone. She was eighteen at the time, and she was also dating/living with a thirty year old. Until just now, I’ve never though about what she needed to hear: she needed to be called beautiful; she needed to be desired.

“No, not really,” I said blushing and looking around. “Don’t worry about it. God has someone great planned for you,” he said making eye contact. My face went bright red; I became awkward and think I stammered “Thanks.” Then he left. For a moment I just stood stunned. It seemed as though he had read my mind. I turned to leave the isle, and started walking in the opposite direction he had. I thought, “I don’t want to run into this person in the lobby and have an even more awkward conversation there. I’ve no idea what to say to that.” But, as I moved to the back of the church, something changed. I wanted to confront him about it; I wanted to know why he said it, what prompted it, and on what basis he could make such a claim. So I intentionally hurried to the lobby, and began to look for him, but he was gone.

I don’t know that it was a ‘prophetic word.’ And, I get very easily annoyed by the Christian usage of such language. Why phrase something in Christianese when you can say the same thing in normal language–without sounding like you’re a nut-bar?

But, it was something I’ve needed to hear for a long time.
Funny, that coincidence.

drt.

Part 2: A Brother & Sister

Part 1: Here

My first instinct is to squint, because without my glasses I can’t be sure he’s crying. Sensing my gaze, he turns and we awkwardly make eye contact. He quickly glances away; it is a tear.

“Bad day?” I fumble, not knowing what to say. Turning back, he feigns a smile and sniffles “Yeah.”
I wave my hand at the stack, “At least you’re reading cheery books.”
“These were my sisters books,” he says, trailing off and looking away. “She, uh, left them to me.”

I won’t recount all of the conversation’s details, but what became clear was that his younger sister had passed away. He expressed how he had never been a very good brother. How he used to dismember her dolls, just to see her cry. How in elementary school he had mocked her in front of his friends, and in high-school used her looks to be popular with the senior boys.

Five years ago: a brain tumor. By the time it was discovered: inoperable. Six months later: a funeral.

You might suppose that such a conversation is unlikely: that a stranger would not be so open in such a public place. I will not deny that I was uncomfortable, or that other eavesdropping patrons were not also uncomfortable. Some got up and left.

I’m not a swimmer, but when you’re training to be a lifeguard, I’m told, you’re instructed never to get too close to someone who is drowning. The victim, unknowingly, will fight you: grabbing, and clinging until they pull you under. Desperation drives the victim to act irrationally; fear overwhelms them.

In the Next Room

Dinner has just ended. The apple crisp turned out just right, and my worry was for nothing. I turn on the radio, and push myself away from the table, retiring to the living room with my glass. Tonight is the first night this week that I can rest and after a few minutes, my mind starts to lose to my stomach. I empty my glass of eggnog, and my eyes slip shut. The warmth of the fire, and the lingering taste of rum push me over the edge. I resolve to fall asleep.

“Don’t you fall asleep on me, in there!” my wife calls from the kitchen. Smirking, I reply “Don’t worry, hun. I’ll put the movie on when you come in here. Almost done?”

“Not yet. A few more pots. Somebody, didn’t use them to cook but managed to dirty them.”

I snicker.

“Did you say something? Hmm–wait till I cook tomorrow!”

I’m about to call out, when the music suddenly gets much louder. Pots clinking, she starts to sing. I know this; she’s feeling goofy.

“Sounds good, baby…” I call out, knowing that she hates that name, and that she knows she’s in the wrong key, has the timing all wrong, and doesn’t know the words. Moon-walking into the room, wearing her apron, she dances over to my chair. I pull her into my lap, and she snuggles into the chair with me. I lean over, giving her a peck on the cheek.

“Movie time?” I ask.

With a glint of mischief in her eye, she turns her head, like she is going to give me a serious kiss. I lean in, and in one swift motion, she licks me.

Have a Merry Christmas!

d.r.t.

James ♡ Jana

I don’t support graffiti. ‘Tagging’ isn’t art.

But, occasionally I run across something that is carved into a desk, or scrawled on a wall that makes me stop for a minute and think. It isn’t necessarily that the message is profound, nor is it that it touches a truth. Sometimes it’s just my subjective interpretation, and sometimes it’s my imagination.

My neighborhood has the icon on the left spray-painted at the occasional bus stop, crosswalk, and outside of a few stores. I don’t know who James, or Jana are. I don’t even know if they’re real people, but I like to think they are. I like to think they’re in love–madly in love. Fireworks; looks full of joy; delight in each-other’s laughter. They are into one another, and they love each-other with abandonment.

James, if you care to know, is dark haired, kind of tall, slender, and never really grew into his body. His hair is disheveled, but always in a way that looks just right. He is a slow walker; he hunches over a little, plunging his hands deep into his pants pockets as he walks. James is a hopeless romantic, but tries to pretend he isn’t.

Jana, is striking. She’s tall, slender, and seems to get noticed by just about everyone–which causes her great discomfort. She likes bold colors, and often tries to match her scarf to her shoes. Her eyes have a hint of mischief. She likes kissing.

How, you may be asking, do the icons get on the ground? Well, I like to think that it’s a ritual. James and Jana do it together on their anniversaries. It was Jana’s idea–she’s kind of artistic like that. Late at night, on their one year anniversary they returned to the spot of their first date, and a tradition was born. All the places have meaning, the first: date, kiss, french-kiss, and then the place they first realized they love the other person.

I think that’s the story of James and Jana. It’s one of hope; it’s one of joy.

James and Jana do live happily ever after: their dates don’t falter, they don’t get cold when they go for walks on the beach, they drink mint teas and stay in when it’s raining, they can see the stars from Jana’s balcony. And, perhaps most importantly, it’s a story that they don’t know the ending to–but want to find out together.

d.r.t.

Part 1:The Coffee Shop

Sometimes I like to sit in a coffee shop and write. It somehow seems appropriate and I think it has something to do with being in an environment where I’m surrounded by people, but not involved with those people.

Today, however, I am involved. Not by choice though. You see, I seem to have writer’s block. I have before me a list of perfectly good topics–interesting, thrilling, emotional topics. When it comes down to writing, though, I’ve not been able to make any headway. Furthermore, I paid $4 for this ridiculous drink, so leaving before today is productive isn’t an option.

After about an hour of struggling in futility, I found myself drifting around the room. Taking stock of my fellow patrons wasn’t easy. I didn’t want them to know I was sizing them up. I would glance ever so briefly at someone, and then turn away, before they could sense my eyes.

In truth, the shop wasn’t particularly busy, or exciting. To my left is an old man reading the paper. He is dressed neatly in grey trousers, with a matching tweed jacket. I can’t know for certain, but I’d guess that his socks are pulled up to his knees. Further left, is the friendly, but frumpy clerk; and further still is a group of women who seem to be going through a morning ritual. At a table quite close to me, on my right, is another man about my age. He is somewhat tall, with dark features, and a melancholy posture. He is brooding before a table stacked with books.

My second glance at the man on my right is somewhat more liberal; it is less of a glance, and really more of a peer. I’m curious about his books and two titles are visible. Albert Camus’The Outsider and Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nausea. The titles seem predictable, and I can’t help but wonder if he doesn’t also have some Kierkegaard dispersed through the pile. He too, appears to be writing–which reminds me of why I came here, and paid for an overpriced drink. I’m just about to turn back to my work, when I notice a singular tear running down his face.