User Posts : The Southwest Voice

Let Us Sing

The wind tickled my ears. I exhaled, staring up into the leaf-laden branches shuffling in the wind. Curious blades of grass bearing gleaming bulbs of morning dew formed a green bed around me. I was with God. Face-up in the grass, bared to His holiness, shivering in the cold of my depravity, yet burning with the desire to meet Him again.

A little sparrow chirped a sonnet in some high nest, and the passion behind his song made me smile. Just a little creature, a tiny bird, praising his Creator. If we didn’t join him in his harmonious tune, then the rocks beneath our feet would burst out in a deep-throated chant. In a rumbling anthem screaming of God’s magnificence. I closed my eyes.

I was almost there. Almost at that place. A rolling, thunderous vibrato hummed somewhere deep in the ground. The lisp of the wind in the leaves crescendoed. The little footfalls of the ants marching past my ears fell into the mix, tip-tapping like the kinetic pulse of drums. The music tightened, and the sparrow’s melody rose into a solo. To a passerby, it was merely mindless chirping. But to those with ears to hear, it was a glorious hymn, rising and falling in the throes of emotion. A footfall jerked me from the music.

“Hey.”

I shifted on the grass. It was Randy. He wore a faded black sweatshirt over an old Metallica t-shirt. His jeans sagged below his waist, and a silently rusting chain linked his back pocket to a belt loop. His bleached blonde hair was shoulder-length, draped over his eyes. I couldn’t blame him. Beneath those oily locks, his bloodshot eyes sat in sunken, deformed sockets; the two vein-riddled eyeballs were under his temples. A nearly barren forehead, only stretched skin where the eyes should have been. Hypertelorism, his parents had told him after his first day of second grade; after the first kids had started to tease. Clinically speaking, it was a relatively mild case, but severe enough to make him miserable.

I had first met Randy two years earlier, in the doorway of Northington Baptist Church. He had shuffled into the youth ministry’s fellowship room, clad in black, looking like a troubled mouse with nowhere to hide. And the cat? Humanity, the world, everything. But especially church. Especially Christians. I had flagged him down halfway to the pews, and slid a Sunday morning bulleting into his hand. As he glanced back, I caught a glimpse of his face. He must have seen my shock. He had shuffled on down the aisle with a muttered, “Thanks.”

When he showed up again the following Sunday, I had made him my summer project. Find out who he was, what he was missing, where he was with God. Looking back, I think I might have bitten off more than I could chew at the time.

“What’re you doing?” He asked, wrenching me from my ponderings.

“Thinking, that’s all. Sorry.” I shifted into a sitting position.

The oak scratched against my back. If I could hurry through this, then I could get back to the music.

“S’ okay.” He sat down beside me. I caught a whiff of alcohol, which sobered me, ironically.

“How’ve you been, man?”

He sighed. “Not so hot. I got grounded again.”

“Why?”

He tensed up. Anger.

“It wasn’t even my fault! My curfew’s at eleven. Always has been. I was out, and it was like ten thirty. My mom called and told me to come home, didn’t even say why. I told her I didn’t need to be home until eleven.”

“And then she grounded you.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, “for no reason.”

But there was more. I waited. The poor kid had gone through a lot. First and foremost, his face. The deformities had ruined his social life, and left him with nothing. Nothing at all. That was just the tip of the iceberg. When he was thirteen, his parents had divorced. His dad – a hopeless drug addict – had left his mother when she had entered rehab to get off her own stuff. She had met a guy there who had apparently been a true comfort to her. He had just come out of a heavy addiction to methamphetamine, and dearly wanted to get his life back in order. Randy’s mom had started going to a little church with this new guy, dragging Randy along with her… One thing leads to another, and within four months, Randy’s mom was engaged. Randy hated the man. He saw his mother’s newfound devotion to God as a product of her relationship, and he tried to ruin that relationship. It was hard for them all, but especially for Randy. At least his mother and her fiancée had each other, but Randy was again left empty-handed.

Shafts of golden sunlight bit through the leaves above, and flickered as the tree swayed. Flecks of dust drifted through the light by the millions, illuminated briefly, until disappearing into the backdrop of the park. An allegory rang sharply in my mind. There was another reality, hidden by the backdrop of this world, simply waiting. The glorious light of truth, when cast properly, illuminated this other reality – this marvelous world – and we could revel in its serenity. In its purity.

The purr of the crickets rose, ever swelling, growing into an orchestra performing a mournful tune. The buzzing, tear-inducing moan of a sobbing cello, the wailing tremolo of a viola. Praising God. Mourning our worldly depravity, sprawled at Christ’s feet, begging His mercy.

“So how ‘bout you?” Interjected Randy.

I stumbled back into reality. Or was it?

“What?”

“How you doing?”

“Oh. Okay, I guess… Good, actually. We just finished up the house.”

“Cool. My mom mentioned that, I think.”

“Yeah, I might have told her the other day.” I swallowed. “So how’s everything going between you two, anyway? Besides being grounded.”

He shrugged.

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really, but I’m gonna end up doing it anyway.”

I chuckled. Smart kid. “You’re right. Go ahead.”

He crossed his arms, and stared out across the park.

“I dunno, she just hates me, that's all. She's always getting on me for something...it's always something with her. And she gets angry. Like if my music is too loud, she just yells. I try to be calm about it, you know, like kinda stay out of her way. But sometimes...sometimes I just lose it and blow up on her. And she yells back. But I mean, it's like she's trying to pick apart my life. Let's screw with Randy, that sounds fun. Any time she's bored. I guess just since she started going to church. Like since she's such a holy-roller now, she can afford to bring the Bible down on my head. Well, I don't care what she says...don't care what God tells her to do or whatever. As long as she can keep it to herself, that's fine, but just don't start screwing with me. That pisses me off, you know?”

“Randy…man, you’ve heard Pastor Dave up there talking to you for way

too long to call it all just ‘Jesus-stuff’. I’ve prayed for you for so long, you’d

be blown away by how much effort we’ve put into you alone.”

He nodded, gazing at the grass. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Just reminding you.”

“Well, yeah, I know that you guys are trying to convert me or whatever.

We’ve been playing that game for like a year now.”

“And?”

“And I’m saying that I’m not falling for this crap anymore. I’m tired of the

Jesus stuff, okay? I came here to say bye.”

I leaned forward. Please, God. This can’t be. “Randy…”

“Don’t start. My life’s been a living hell so far, and I’m pretty sick of it

now. My mom’s a Jesus-freak, I have no friends except you, and now

you’re beating me over the head with your Bible. My life sucks, man.”

“And you think that it won’t if you kill yourself?”

“Yeah.” He looked me in the eye. “Yeah, I do.”

“You know too much about hell to believe what you just said. You want

to kill yourself now, but imagine when your body is burning and you

can’t die. Don’t let yourself go like this, Randy.”

“Even if I didn’t want to, I’d be doing the world a favor.”

“A favor? Randy, if you call this a favor, you’re out of your mind.”

“Well, if I was dead, you wouldn’t have to deal with this, would you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I would. And so would your mom, and her

fiancée, and our entire church. We would have to carry the weight of

your death. We would have to deal with the fact that we didn’t rescue

your soul before you died.”

He looked away, shaking his head. “That’s your problem.”

I put my head in my hands. How could this be happening? After two years of nothing but growth, why this sudden reversal? What made someone discovering hope suddenly plummet into a pit of hopelessness? It hit me.

This wasn’t a reversal. This was a dam. A wall, a blockade, a door that no-one had yet opened. This was the last stand of sin in his life, and it was refusing to cave. This was keeping back the floodwaters of life. One slip now, and his soul could be forever gone.

I couldn’t stop him, of course. Even if I went home with him, took away his pills or his knife or whatever; even if I told his parents and they locked him in his room…he’d still find a way. The demonic grasp on his life would still drive him to commit suicide. I wondered how he planned to do it; if he wanted to slit his wrists, or to lock himself in the garage and let the car run. Or overdose on some drug, or any number of fatal methods. But I couldn’t peek into his heart. In fact, not even he could. He was oblivious to the raging battle for his soul. I could do nothing but pray.

So I did.

This boy needed to hear the praises of creation. Either he would worship, or the rocks would. Lord, open his ears to hear, clean out the strong dam of sin in his life, and wash out even the last bits of debris. Let the music begin.

It started with the wind. Almost supernaturally, the breeze lifted and intensified. Fallen leaves stirred on the park walkway, and skittered along the walk like orange powerboats on a cement river. The tree above groaned, and the branches twitched and rustled suddenly. A shadow swept across the park with eerie swiftness as the clouds gathered above, darkening the skies. Thunder rolled across the heavens like a startling gong.

A crystal drop of liquid plummeted from the clouds above, and with a cleansing splash, exploded on my face. Like a crashing cymbal. All creatures of our God and King! Lift up your voices! Let us sing!

The rain came, like a blazing drum-roll, roaring across the field and soaking everything in its path. The branchwork above was no roof. The torrent broke upon us with surprising suddenness. I knew then that the dam had sprung a leak.

The tree’s subtle groaning was the mournful bass song; a low, throbbing melody. The tone of the downpour was a glorious trumpet line, a hymn of old. Blades of grass collapsing under their sky-gifted weight was the subtle beat of a timpani. And somehow, over it all, that sparrow still sang.

But this time, it was screaming.

Shouting the very breath from its lungs, eyes plastered shut, soaked by the rain…screaming to the Creator. Oblivious, helpless, selfless devotion, exemplified in that lone harmony – in that single scream. It was an anthem, a banner, a glorious, glorious tribute. That scream said something.

“My Life is Yours.”

Yours eternally, Yours wholly, Yours purely, Yours solely. With every breath, every action, thought, motive, word I will praise my Creator, and Him alone. I may be soaked, I may be broken and bleeding, but even if I cannot move, my thoughts will be His. Until the day I die, I will live in the hope of Your promise, in the shelter of Your wing. My Life is Yours.

I opened my eyes, blinking out the rain. I glanced to my side. That scream had been Randy’s. And he was sprawled on the grass, face muddied, sobbing. He was completely soaked, blonde hair plastered to his contorted face, streams of rain flowing from his nose and chin, mingled with his own tears. I felt a sob rising, and let it come. This was a thing of glorious beauty. There was a chorus of angels weeping with joy, somewhere, gazing down on this scene.

Randy lifted himself to his knees. His eyes were red with tears, but his face was radiant with joy. He grasped me firmly by the shoulder, with some newfound confidence. This was a radically transformed life. He leaned in close, dribbling water on my chest and shoulder, and whispered something.

“I’m clean.”

Gray plastic bag

Solomon’s Porch is a little coffeehouse and bookstore on the premises of my church.
They do a lot of frozen drinks, dubbed “Freddos,” and iced coffees and stuff like that, but I think the best thing they have is the Americano. I like it in a 12-ounce paper cup, with maybe 1 and a half or 2 inches for cream, double shot. I use more sugar than most people, but less creamer than most (I consider it a healthy trade-off).
People do all sorts of things in Solomon’s Porch. Most of the time it’s pretty quiet. One time I saw an architect drafting a building on his laptop. He had a pressed shirt and a Rolex, and close-cropped hair. A pair of those rimless Ray Ban spy sunglasses rested on the table next to his leather laptop bag. I think he was the only interesting person I’ve seen there who wasn’t from the church.
So I was at the coffeehouse today with my mom and my brother. My mom wanted to say goodbye to one of her friends, Katie, who was leaving with a church group to go to Israel. The rest of them were coming back in a week or something, but not Katie. Katie and her sorta-fiance, Donny, are going to stay in Israel indefinitely. They’re probably going to get married there, and they’re probably going to live an amazing life in the name of Jesus Christ.
Donny was talking to me before he left. They were only allowed to take one 50-pound bag for the trip –– church regulations –– but since he and Katie are actually moving away, they really had to pick what they’re taking and what they’re not.
He’s a musical guy. He was in a band called Venerate. No one was sure how to pronounce it, our youth pastor was Hispanic, so he said it “Venerahtay”, and I think everyone started calling it that too. They played a few times at our church. But anyway, he wasn’t able to lug along his guitar or his bass or anything. He had a harmonica, and he was blowing through it while we were talking.
He was saying how excited he was to get going. “It’s just saying goodbye to everyone that’s so hard. That’s what I didn’t want to have to do.”
“Yeah. I remember when my family picked up and moved out of the states, it was so tense. Sometimes you wanna just drop everything and head out.”
He agreed with me. We started talking about music again, it was the only thing we had in common, except that we both wanted to be going to Israel. I have short, boyish hair and I’m not very muscular –– sort of a skinny little writer kid who’s kind of got his head in the clouds under his sunglasses. Donny is much more down to earth. He’s got that hip, bohemian appeal. Long red hair and a red goatee, his wallet is chained to his belt, baggy black cargo pants. Sometimes I wish I was more culturally relevant than I am. I just sit inside and write and listen to jazz.
Donny can’t wait to get over to the place he and Katie are going to be staying. He thinks he will really enjoy the worship over there. It’s in Hebrew. Katie is almost fluent in the language, but Donny not so much.
We saw them off, and my mom started to cry a little when people were taking pictures and getting in the cars. Donny and Katie got in a red sports car with Donny’s mom, and they just drove off. So that was that. I sat outside in the boiling Southern California heat for a while, trying really hard to not mind it, because I didn’t want to go inside and have to talk to people. It must’ve been 10 minutes, maybe two hours.
I started to think really heavily, as I tend to do if nothing else presents itself. I was thinking about Israel, and wondering why I wasn’t going over there, or already over there. Everything relevant happens in Israel. Not just Biblically, but politically, economically. Did you know that Tovia Luskin discovered oil reservoirs at a Meged-4 drilling site, containing 100 million barrels of oil?* That’s a lot of power. Everything is happening in Israel or around it. I wondered why I was here and not there, why churches were visiting Israel on sightseeing tours instead of moving there like Katie and Donny, where they could relay information back to the mother church, instead of garnering their facts from bus drivers on the way to the Temple Mount tourist trap.
I was thinking about all this, and at the same time, watching a gray plastic bag that the wind was blowing across my field of view. Outside Solomon’s Porch, there is a very small parking area, 12 spots or something, and next to it there are railroad tracks. It was really hot when I was sitting there; I was sweating enough to feel all sticky just sitting there doing nothing.
That plastic bag floated across the asphalt, snagging on a curb or a parking block, then continuing its journey. It finally went over one of those “no parking” curbs and stopped on the railroad tracks.
I wondered about that bag. I think we’re all sort of like it, in different ways, floating with the wind, here one moment and gone another. In my perception, I interpreted it as an allegory of my walk with God. Like that plastic bag, I’m not really driven. I sort of find my way for a week or a month or even a year, and then it gets too hard and I just settle. Settle for church instead of God, or for religiosity instead of excitement, and I know it’s my fault, but that’s not what I’ll say.
“Hey, don’t blame me that that snag was there. Hey, don’t blame me that the wind brought me here or there. Hey, I’m just going with the flow, man. Hey, take it easy!”
I was in the middle of wishing that I could work up the emotion to start crying, or have an out-of-body experience or a vision or something equally profound, when the door opened from Solomon’s Porch and a guy came out.
He was probably 40 or 45, with close-cut black hair and thick eyebrows. He was sturdily built, but his eyes looked like everything pained him –– like he was really struggling to keep up with his image. He looked like a good guy who used to be a druggie or a war veteran or something painful, that God took and turned around. He sort of saw me for the first time.
“Hey man, how you doing?”
I said “good” way quieter than I meant to. I probably sounded like I had been crying. I hate it when that happens, it’s sort of like a junior-higher who squeaks and then gets embarrassed, except when it happens to me I sound like this sensitive little guy who watches reruns of “Doctor Quinn: Medicine Woman” every week.
“You OK, bud?” The guy kept walking but looked back.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m just waiting.”
“OK.”
The guy walked stiffly, sort of like a neurotic robot, past the parking lot, over the red “no parking” curb, to the railroad tracks. He bent down and picked up that gray plastic bag, and then walked back. He bunched it up in his hand like he was going to throw it away, and then disappeared inside without really looking at me.
I don’t know why that is so profound to me, but it is. It seems sort of like an intervention, like I wonder if that guy was an angel or God or something. No, wait. God looks like Morgan Freeman. I forgot. But anyway, it hit me then, that that guy was actually doing something in the world. He was making it his. Checking on a sensitive little buddy sitting outside, picking up a plastic bag –– I mean they’re not the hugest things, but somehow that guy really earned my admiration today. I hope I see him around.
* (I got this information from a fantastic book I was reading, nonfiction by Joel Rosenberg called “Epicenter.” Great reading.)