Tag Archives: grace

Postcards, Righteous riffs

The Sauce Boss ….

Whenever I am asked to meet with a new employee, I always start with the most important question. 

I mean THE most important question. 

I preface it by letting the person know that I’m about to ask them the most important question that they will be asked that day. 

Possibly, the most important question they will be asked all week. 

I let them know in advance that the question is cosmic in its scope.

Then I hit ’em with it.

“What is the greatest pizza of all time?” 

I then take a minute to make sure they fully understand the question’s magnitude. 

“In your expert opinion, across the hundreds of assemblages of crust, sauce and toppings you have experienced in the entirety of your illustrious, pizza-eating career … what is the GOAT?”

As they deliberate, I invite them to give thought to why. 

What is it about it that makes it the greatest of all time? 

The ingredients? 

Where or how the ingredients are sourced? Is it the style? The type of crust? The manner in which it’s prepared? Is it the individuals who make it? The ambience in which they experience it? The location where it’s located? Is it the company they experience it with? Perhaps it’s the time in their life that they first encountered it?

Over the years, I’ve asked the question at least a hundred times.

Everyone answers differently, but they all have one thing in common. 

The way their face lights up when they tell me. 

You should see how such love lives on their faces. 

__

So, I’m waiting out a Sunday late-morning flight delay at the Kansas City airport yesterday. 

Young fella sitting next to me sees me holding a small print of a cat in a cowboy costume that some friends (who know me well) gave me that morning. 

Asks me about it. 

I tell him. 

Then he asks me where I’m going. 

I answer and, out of politeness, ask him the same.  

He tells me he’s going to Paris for 82 days, to intern for a ‘church-planting’ organization … scattering seeds in France. 

Couple minutes later, he’s asking me if I know Jesus, and whether I’ve accepted him as the only way to salvation. 

In so many words. 

I mean, soooo many words.

Meanwhile, the voice in my head starts audibly exhaling in discomfort, “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…” while rubbing the bridge of its metaphorical nose.  

I’m just a guy admiring a print of a cat in a cowboy costume here.

Meanwhile my concerned neighbor is talking all about sin and eternity … with much conviction.

Which I respect both the act and substance of. 

He’s going to make a great intern. 

Says that our days are not guaranteed. Anything can happen. 

“This might be the last flight we ever take,” he says, gesturing to the door to the jetway. 

I don’t disagree. 

He mentions that Jesus is coming back.

Soon.

I suppress the urge to mention that history is littered with a lot of humans who over-estimated their gifts for guesstimating that particular arrival time.

He starts peppering me with a bunch of questions. 

And keeps pressing me for a verbal … like a flight attendant prompting an exit row passenger. 

Meanwhile, all I can hear is Paul whispering in my ear “… with gentleness and respect.”

I genuinely don’t want to be disrespectful. 

For all I know, God might be eavesdropping on his intern.  

I also don’t want to get deep … meaning the granularity of it. 

But I do want to get deep … meaning the heart of it. 

And I know that if I choose the latter, he’s just going to want to further litigate the former. 

But I couldn’t help myself.

So I answered him … by saying that I have a wise friend who knows more chapter and verse than I ever will. 

And that the wisest thing I have ever heard him utter isn’t a Bible verse.

When someone asked him a question he didn’t have an answer for, my wise friend said that he wasn’t sure.

And added, “I’m OK with God knowing more than I do.” 

Which pretty much sums up my faith right now.

It’s taken me a while to get to this cruising altitude. 

I can’t tell you exactly how close I am to any destination.

There are lots of clouds when I look up.

I’m not even sure how accurate my heading is … as I tend to overestimate the scale of things. 

I’m just trying to hold things steady enough to eventually give me a better vantage point.  

Which is no small accomplishment, given my fear of heights and poor sense of direction. 

But I do have some people in my life right now who are generous in sharing their coordinates with me. More experienced navigators who have logged a lot more miles, spent more time with the map, and seen a lot more of the world than I have. Best of all, they are generous in sharing the detours and emergency landings they’ve made … in hopes that I either avoid, or at the very least, take different ones. 

God bless bound-for-Paris Josoo (“rhymes with ‘tofu’” as he introduced himself), but I don’t think I gave him the exit row answer he and his pilot were hoping for. 

But his soon-to-be-summer employer should know that it wasn’t for a lack of intention on his part. 

After a few minutes, I needed to detangle, so I got up to stand where the boarding lines were about to form.

I confess to you that I hoped that neither God nor United Airlines sat us next to each other on the plane. 

But sitting and sifting here, though … I kinda’ regret praying for that. 

Because I just thought of something I wished I would’ve asked Josoo. 

I would have asked him to talk to me about love. 

About love that rejoices in truth. 

A love that always protects. 

Always trusts. 

A love that in spite of everything … still hopes and perseveres. 

I’d ask him to talk to me about love so Great.

Love that never fails … even when all other prophecies cease, all tongues still, and all other knowledge passes away. 

A love whose planes never run late. 

___

By which I mean … I would have liked to ask him The Most Important Question.

At least the most important one anyone would ask him that day, if not over the next 82. 

I would’ve asked him about the greatest pizza of all time. 

I’d take a good minute to make sure he fully understood the question. 

So I could learn what, in his expert, pizza-eating opinion makes it the greatest … out of all the hundreds of combinations that he’s experienced in his illustrious, pizza-eating career.  

Just so I could see how love lives on his face, and feel how it lives in his heart.

Trust me … I would rejoice in learning of his personal relationship with pizza.

Which would expand my humble understanding of how crust, sauce and toppings can go together. 

And all I know for certain is that he would answer the same question differently than anyone else I’ve ever asked.

And that, by the end, I would likely be hungry to experience pizza the way he experiences pizza.  

And if the Spirit was really moving within me, I might even ask him his perspective when it comes to anchovies.

Not to convince him, mind you.  

Just to see if we had any common ground there. 

All of which to say … I’m no theologian. 

I’m content knowing that if there is a God … she probably looks at me the same way I look at prints of cats in cowboy costumes.

But it’s hard for me to imagine that she cares all that much that I don’t like crust. 

My wife Karry doesn’t mind. 

I let her have mine.

Heck, maybe it makes God happier to see us sharing. 

And I would never deign to speak for her, but I imagine that if God made us in her image, then she probably autonomically smiles when she sees how our faces light up when talking about the greatest pizza of all-time. 

Heck, she’s probably just waiting for us to ask her The Important Question.

So she can reply, in so many words, “Have you ever tried it with the Jesus sauce?” 

So that we can see how a love that hopes all things … lives on her face.

So that we might truly know the GOAT.  

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Fathers and Sons, Postcards, Righteous riffs

Fast Forward …

After driving the six hours home from Philly last Sunday, I went over to the high school track … just to give my legs a stretch. 

My son got there a few minutes before me, fresh from running some errands. 

When we are at the track together, we run separately.

He’s much faster. Keeps track of his times and such. 

Me … I just go for the medicine of it. 

The track was empty when we arrived, but after a bit I spied a couple walking down the hill. From a distance I recognized a retired teacher from the middle school. I see her walking at the cemetery sometimes too, always with a spring in her step, a smile and a kind word.

All of which she possessed when she taught. Both of our kids had her for reading. 

Whenever I see Mrs. Labella my memory goes back to our son’s first year of middle school … when Karry and I signed up for parent teacher conferences. 

That was … what? A dozen years ago now? Thirteen?

I say this lovingly, but Peter was a bit of a handful back then … at least from our side of the equation. 

Whatever internal motor was responsible for his initiative … revved very low. 

Most of his homework got done with Karry’s foot in close proximity to his keister. 

His default with most things was to expend the least amount of effort required. He had dual gifts for pushing buttons and refusing to admit any wrongdoings. We often said he would make a great lawyer someday. 

He also exercised great agency over his energy and attention, which was often at odds with where the world wished he would direct them.

He was never in any great hurry.

His internal clock just kept time differently.

When we met his middle school teachers for the first time, we expected to come back with homework on what we could do better at home to help him succeed in class. 

I’m not sure, but I think Mrs. Labella was first. 

Peter wasn’t much of a reader then … or now. 

Didn’t inherit my English major genes, though he does have a genuine love for language. He just has always preferred working with his hands. Loves making and fixing things.

Reading and writing? Not so much. 

I remember Karry and I bracing for impact when we first walked into Mrs. Labella’s meticulously curated classroom. 

We were indeed stunned by what we heard. 

She said how wonderful it was having Peter in class. 

How well-behaved he was. 

How much she appreciated his participation.

We were like, “Um, our son?”

He didn’t even like to read.

We were kind of speechless. 

I don’t remember Mrs. Labella’s specific words, just that she saw a light in him … that we were too close to see for ourselves … and reflected it back to us.

I now know that those were the days when we — or at least I — spent way too much time squeezing the parenting handlebars way too tightly. 

As Mrs. Labella chatted with us, I remember appreciating being in the presence of a person who’d spent years in the company of 12- and 13-year-olds, who deeply understood the assignment, and who loved the important and sometimes hard thing she got to do … with exactly who she got to do it with. 

Someone who commanded respect, took no b.s. … and was comfortable enough in her own skin to give Grace where and when needed. 

In other words, someone who was born to be a teacher.

By contrast, I realized that Karry and I were as new to being parents of a middle schooler as Peter was being a middle schooler.

Maybe we were all doing a little better than we gave ourselves credit for, even if we were collectively a little fidgety in our respective chairs.  

The rest of his teachers pretty much said the same thing. 

Walking out of the school that night, Karry and I joked that maybe we had a budding actor on our hands. Had ‘em all fooled, he did.

We both knew that wasn’t at all true. 

The truer thing was that maybe we were in too much of a hurry with our expectations. 

That maybe our parenting motors were in need of revving a little slower.

___ 

So … fast forward … to last Sunday at the track. 

I waved to Mrs. Labella and her husband when I caught up to them. 

As I jogged by, she said she appreciated a piece I’d recently written. 

For the record, I’m not sure higher praise exists for a writer than to get a gold star from a middle school reading teacher. 

I told her it’s a blessing to have such good things to write about.

I ran on ahead a bit … then felt moved to double-back. 

“In the spirit of not assuming,” I said. “That’s my son over there,” pointing Peter out on the other side of the track. “If he didn’t say hello, make sure you say hi when he passes by.”

“I’ll trip him if he doesn’t,” she said … still not an ounce of b.s. in her voice. 

I was about three-quarters of the way through my next lap when, up ahead of me, I saw this.

My 25-year-old son and his middle school reading teacher. 

It filled my heart full to see that he broke from his pace to walk with them.

Turns out, his internal clock has always understood time just fine. 

They took a good full lap together.

I don’t know what they talked about. 

Only that they each had a smile and a kind word for the other. 

I imagine he told her what he’s doing now. 

I imagine that she told him she’s not surprised one bit. 

I found myself slowing my pace behind them … careful not to get in the way. 

Just grateful for the medicine of it … in no great hurry myself anymore.

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Righteous riffs

The ‘Emma 2’ ….

Paused at the coffee shop before work for a to-go cortado to shim my Thursday. 

“Pete,” Morgan greeted me when I walked in. 

Her expression seemed sombre, but that could’ve just been a pre-cortado take. 

“I have to give you something,” she said. 

Hands me a hand-written note. 

“Dearest Pete …” it began. 

__

Couple years ago I got the best birthday card from my daughter. 

She would’ve made a good cave painter. 

Her accompanying talk track illuminated the epic tale of her seeking counsel from Liam the Wise (whose official title is ‘barrista,’ but in this saga let’s call him “the Oracle”) on what all is involved in getting one’s mug hung on the wall behind the coffee shop’s counter. 

Liam not only offered his wise counsel, but mapped directions to the precise mountain where the monks live who, for hundreds of years, have been humbly practicing their glass making craft of the perfect cortado vessel. 

By which I mean he pointed her to a website. 

Upon procurement of the mug, he told her that I need only bring it in and they would take it from there.

In Emma’s card I knew that I might just be holding the best birthday present I would ever receive.

By which I mean the card, and the heart that made it. 

Ever since, when I walk in and see my mug hanging on the wall where I go to write my weekend medicine, I feel a tinge of what I imagine honored athletes feel seeing their jersey hung in the rafters of where they have done their best work. 

__

“My Dearest Pete …,”

The note Morgan handed to me was from Emma. Not my Emma, but Emma who works at the coffee shop. She started while she was still in high school and still works weekends while going to the local college. 

“It breaks my heart to inform you that I accidentally dropped your mug and broke it ….” 

“I need a minute,” I told Morgan, and took a few steps back to read the rest, in which Emma profusely apologized, begged forgiveness and even offered to pay for a replacement. 

She signed her note, “You’re most loyal and sorrowful barista, Emma.”

Which had me smiling by the time I looked up … appreciating that my Thursday morning had just found its shim.

By which I mean the note, and the heart that made it. 

 “She’s so upset,” Morgan said.

I asked when Emma worked next. 

“Saturday,” Morgan said.

__

Saturday morning I made sure to arrive when the coffee shop opened at 8:30. 

Emma was at the register, Liam at the espresso machine. 

“I’m so sorry … I’ll buy you a new one,” Emma said as soon as she saw me. 

I just shook my head.

“At least let me buy you your cortado.” 

As Liam went to fire up the espresso machine, I stopped him. 

And handed Emma a note.

__

“My dearest Emma, 

You must know that there are few things in this world that I appreciate more than a hand-written note. 

Reading yours brought a spark of joy to my Thursday. 

If my beloved mug had to meet an untimely demise, I am grateful that it was at the hands of one who poured so many hearts into it.

You will not only appreciate that it was Liam who consulted with my daughter (whose name is also Emma) on the exact mug to buy me for my birthday two years ago (which will forever be my favorite birthday present ever), but that, when she did so, it came in a set of two.

So I commission the enclosed to your care … on one condition. 

That you pour the first heart into it.”

She looked up from my note smiling the way her note made me smile. 

“I always carry a spare,” I said, handing over the ‘Emma 2’ … for official christening. 

She asked Liam if they could switch places. 

“Only fitting,” he said. 

“I don’t know,” Emma said sheepishly. “My latte art has been a little shaky … I’m out of practice,” she said. 

“I know you have it inside you … and I mean that sincerely,” said Liam the Wise. 

Told ya’ he’s the Oracle. 

She took her time and filled it above the rim, trusting in the properties of surface tension and gravity to do their good jobs … so she could do hers. 

It’s always magic to me how the molecules grab on to one another, and keep each other from flowing away and spilling.

I like how they are forgiving that way.

How the universe allows our fragile cups to be filled beyond their measure.  

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Postcards

It’s still good ….

Sunday morning I’m downstairs at my desk when my wife pulls in the driveway, back from picking up groceries after church. 

She likes going to the early service. 

I stay behind and write. 

Both reverent in our pews, attentive to the divine.

Hearing the garage door, I walk out to help her carry in. 

Find her sitting in her car, windows up. 

“You on the phone?” I mouth, making a telephone gesture with my left hand. 

She rolls down the passenger window. 

“I wish you could see your Dad right now,” she says. “His boxers are sticking out above his pajama bottoms.”

She has our daughter on speaker. 

“ ‘Thank you for helping carry in the groceries,’  is what she means to say,” I interject, loud enough for the bluetooth to pick up.  

“And his t-shirt’s too small. Belly’s sticking out.” 

I’m provoked into issuing a statement.  

“I will not be shamed for operating in Cozy Mode on a Sunday morning,” I enter into the record. 

“It’s almost noon,” my daughter chimes in on speaker.

I almost miss being a target of their pile-ons. 

“And, let it be known that Cozy Mode may remain in effect for the next several hours,” I add, which is simultaneously the most defiant threat I can think of, and quite possibly the most pathetic utterance of my life. 

“He looks ridiculous,” my wife adds, grossly overstating the obvious.

Or, overstating the gross obvious.  

“OK, I’ll go in and change, and you can carry in the groceries,” I fire back. 

Was pretty proud of that one. I’m usually not that quick. 

“And I’ll take back the salami I picked up for you.”

She is always that quick. 

Caught me flat-footed. I didn’t see the salami coming. 

Night before, she’s putting finishing touches on the grocery order. Asks if there’s anything I want to add. 

I think for a couple seconds.  “Ooh … do we have any ….”

“Don’t even say ‘salami,’”

In legal terms I believe her asking me the question is what’s known as ‘entrapment,’ but I digress. 

I braced a second too late for what I knew was coming next. 

“I’ve thrown out the last three bags you asked me to get.”

This is true. Not sure I even opened ‘em. 

“I’m not getting it again to have to throw it away.”

Totally understand. So wasteful. 

I feel remorse for requesting salami that I habitually ignore.

I’m not sure why I do this. 

I genuinely like salami. I mean, in between two slices of bread with some yellow mustard? Perfection. Makes salads instantly, you know, fancy. Rolled up with a slice of provolone … it’s like Cozy Mode on a plate.

I have it in my head that salami keeps for a long time. Takes weeks to cure, doesn’t it? You always see ‘em hanging from wooden ceilings on TV. 

So I feel no sense of urgency with salami. Assume it’s always going to be there.

I’m surprised when she throws it away. 

Every time she does, part of me thinks, “It’s still good.” 

I realize I may not be in full command of the facts on the topic.   

Maybe I should start treating it like an avocado. 

Clock’s always tickin’ on an avocado. Doesn’t give you a chance to take it for granted. 

Or … maybe I just like the idea of salami more than, you know, consuming it.

Regardless, the way she kiboshed my request before I could even make it the night before left me convinced I’d have a lot of time to ponder the mystery while living out the rest of my salami-free days.

A punishment fitting the crime.

But … she added it to the order. 

Awwwww.

“She still loves me,” I thought.

At least enough to give me another chance.

I may or may not have placed my hand over my heart after she said it. 

Or, you know, over my t-shirt that’s at least one size too small. 

I mean, she got me salami. 

I’ve come to appreciate that such tiny graces are the wobbly cobblestones that give a marriage a chance to find its fragile footing.

“It’s still good,” I thought.

The fact that I only became aware of her kind gesture when she threatened to take it back was not lost on me.

Clock’s always tickin’ on an avocado. 

“We are such an old married couple,” I said, loud enough for the Bluetooth to hear.

For the record, I was praising us, not shaming us.

Love looks different at 54 then it did at 24.

Says the guy whose boxer shorts are peeking out over his drooping pajamas past noon on a Sunday.

Sometimes you have to put on your cheaters to notice how beautiful it still is. 

I went around back to grab the grocery bags.

Still attentive to the divine.

 

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Postcards

A mad dash of humanity ….

Met a friend for lunch Tuesday while attending a conference in Austin.

He kindly let me check my roller bag to his room at the conference hotel so I wouldn’t have to schlep it.

After lunch I had a couple work calls. Last one finished up right before I had to leave for the airport.

Perfect timing. 

Called an Uber.

Traffic to the airport was starting to choke a bit, but I’d left myself plenty of time.

Thirty minutes into my ride, just as we were pulling into the exit for Departing Flights, I got the sickest feeling in my the pit of my stomach …

… accompanied by the biggest Oh Shit moment.   

Sheepishly I asked the driver, “Um, excuse me … Did I put a bag in the trunk?”

He eyed me quizzically in the rear view mirror.

Shook his head no.

“No bag,” he said.

I forgot to retrieve my checked bag before leaving for the airport.

Yep, I did that.

As an onset of panic claimed my extremities, I asked the driver if he could return me to the hotel. 

Shook his head no again. 

He’d already accepted another fare. 

I didn’t have time to ride back and get my luggage myself, anyway.

So he dropped my bagless ass off at the curb. 

I thought for a second.

Looked up the hotel. 

Realized that, not only had I not stayed at the hotel, the bag was in my friend’s name, not mine. 

Got bounced around until they connected me to the service manager, Clarissa.

I explained my situation, trying to sound as un-sketchy as possible while completely freaking the eff out.  

She thought for a second, before suggesting I try calling another Uber to the hotel to ‘just’ pick up my bag and bring it to me at the airport.

“Can you do that?” I asked.

Through the phone I could almost hear her shrugging her shoulders in “Uh … beats me?” uncertainty.

So I hung up and tried calling an Uber to the hotel to pick up my bag.

The app asked me to double confirm myself as the passenger, since it could tell my phone was, um, already at the airport.

I lied and confirmed that the ride was indeed for me, since there wasn’t an option for “You’re not going to believe how large of an idiot I am.” 

Surprisingly. 

I immediately called Clarissa back to give her the name of my driver (Daimir), his make and model (black Chevy Traverse) and his arrival time (5 minutes). 

“Ooh. Let me run to the front desk to get your bag. Then I’ll take it down to valet and explain the situation to them,” she said, suggesting I also give the driver a heads up on what to expect … before he arrived.

In the app I could see Daimir’s progress to the hotel.

I waited until he got close-ish (out of fear my unusual request might make his skittish) before I messaged him (Daimir prefers messages, according to the app) to let him know he’ll be scooping up just, you know, a bag.

I hit send and prayed.

Watched the dancing dots … indicating he was messaging me back.

Held my breath.

“I got you,” he said.

Exhale.

My flight was scheduled to leave at 5:50 p.m.

It was on-time.

Of course it was.

Made me shake my head since all three of the family’s Sunday flights from Orlando (me to Austin, Karry & Peter to Pittsburgh and Emma back to Philly) got totally hosed. Em’s got canceled and re-booked for the next morning, while the rest of us arrived hours after we were supposed to. 

Meanwhile, Tuesday’s flight? 

Runnin’ like goddamn clockwork.

When I ordered the Uber, it showed an arrival time of 5:12 p.m. … which felt like just enough time for get through security and find my gate.

Then Daimir’s arrival time started dancing.

Rush hour.

Holding my fate in my hands, I watched helplessly as time began to slip. 

5:17.

5:21. 

5:27. 

5:30.

It, along with the pit in my stomach, bottommed out at 5:32 … when I walked over to the Southwest Help Desk near baggage claim.  

Explained my situation … asked when the doors close on a 5:50 p.m. flight.

First person said, “15 minutes before.”

My heart sank. 

But then she said, “Let me double-check with the boss,” and turned to the person at the next kiosk. 

“Doors close 10 minutes before departure.” 

First person did the math for me. 

“So, 5:40 …,” she said, and then, smiling, added … “So you’re saying there’s a chance.” 

Cracked herself up with that one. 

I refreshed the app … Daimir’s arrival hovered at 5:31 p.m. … which would give me 9 minutes to make it through the security and find my gate. 

I messaged Daimir with my flight info, said I’d be waiting at the curb. “Too much excitement! (ha),” I texted. 

“I got you,” he reaffirmed. 

I hiked over to the TSA Pre-Check entrance, asked the agent where Gate 12 was in relation to security.

“Other end of the terminal.”

Of course it was.

I can’t begin to describe how excruciating it was to watch my fragile fate fluctuate while stress-watching Daimir’s real-time progress.

He was still 15 minutes out when I knew I had to occupy my mind somehow. 

Cracked open the New York Times on my phone … randomly scrolled to an interview .. discussing the premise that over the past few decades, social media has exacerbated the erosion in society, particularly among youth, of anything approaching a shared moral order.

At one point in the interview … the subject said that, while imperfect, systems like religion provide value in the form of a shared moral order or system. 

The absence of such shared systems, the interviewee said, can result in an untethered, individualistic, self-oriented society, which can then become a breeding ground for fear, anxiety and aloneness. 

It was an INTOITW moment for me. (“I never thought of it that way.”)

Fearful, anxious and alone, I clicked out of the article before I got to the end of the interview. Candidly, I was afraid to learn of the expert’s predictions for our future  … since me and my bag’s prospects of making it home were being held together by the frayed tether of a shared moral order. 

I checked Daimir’s progress … saw he’d messaged me.

He asked me to provide a specific landmark so he could bullseye my precise location.

Thoughtful, I thought. 

I snapped a pic of the overhead sign I’d be standing under, said to look for the skinny guy in glasses wearing a black, short-sleeved t-shirt hopping up and down trying in vain to hold his shit together. 

“Got it,” he replied. 

“Doing the best I can,” he added. “Traffic is so bad! [ha]”

The [ha] meant everything.

For the record, my world is duct-taped together by such tiny gestures of humanity.

His arrival time ebbed back a bit to 5:27.

“Go Daimir!” I rooted in my head.

When his arrival dwindled under a minute, I looked up from my phone … and started scouting the glut of arriving cars dropping off.  

When I caught sight of a black Chevy Traverse, I initiated pretty much the dictionary definition of “gesticulating.” 

When the car got close enough for me to register the windshield, I could see Daimir already waving recognition to me. 

At precisely 5:27 … he eased the Traverse to the curb, hopped out the driver’s seat and met me at the back so he could lift my bag out for me.

“Daimir, I would give you the biggest hug right now … but I gotta run.”

“I got you,” he smiled back.

Dashed inside with my roller to the pre-check line. Asked a couple nice ladies if they minded if I went ahead of them, gave them the short version of my circumstance.

After throwing my bags on the belt, I turned and asked their names.

“Tessa.”

“Cara.”

I repeated their names back to them … thanked them for being awesome and promised I would pay their kindness forward.

After passing through the security arch, I looked back to see the TSA agent responsible for scanning just as he began eyeballing my bags. 

Dude was thorough.

A genuine credit to his profession, I tell ya. 

He screen was angled such that I could see what he was seeing. He paused the belt for both my roller and my backpack.

Kept switching between the views … 

Up.

Down.

From the side.

The other side.

Zoomed in.

Back out.

Back in again.  

Doing the phuck out of his job … while I’m on the verge of an embolism.

5:31 tumbled to 5:32.

I start jumping up and down … a by-product of volcanic stress and the practical desire to stretch out my legs for my forthcoming roller bag 400 meter sprint. 

When I realized I was suddenly Jumpy Guy Going Through Security.

Not a good look.

Fortunately, screening guy was so locked in on his monitor to not even register my hyperventilating calisthenics, eventually bestowing his blessing upon my bags, which I snatched from the belt like Olympic relay batons before breaking into my first airport sprint … in decades.  

I was reminded that Austin’s Southwest terminal is really well-designed. 

Super traveler-friendly. 

Lots of hospitality and retail acreage between gates. 

Art installations, too … such as the “Interimaginary Departures Gate,” sandwiched right after Gate 14.

It’s meant to provide a smile and a moment of whimsy to anxious travelers … where you can actually print a ticket to destinations like “Narnia,” among 120 fictional locations … while overhead, a speaker announces imminent departures to Hogwarts and Terabithia and the like. 

It’s genuinely wonderful. 

I’ve cited it often in my work as an exquisite example of context-aware, extraordinary experience design.

And I grenade launched at least a dozen eff bombs at it while cursing it to the depth of Hades for adding an extra 20 meters or so to my mad dash. 

[ha]

I was on fumes and audibly wheezing by the time I caught a glimpse of Gate 12 in front of me. 

Saw passengers still in line. 

Exhaled for the first time since I received Damir’s confirming message. 

Looked down at my phone. 

5:39. 

Found my place and politely wedged myself in, Sweaty-Middle-Aged-Guy-Heavily-Panting-style.

After beeping my ticket, I cracked open the app. 

Gave Daimir 5 Stars. 

And a tip befitting a life saver. 

Called Clarissa back to let her know I made it and to thank her for being awesome. 

“I’m so glad you called,” she said. “I was wondering. I’m so glad you made it!”

I promised to pay her kindness forward, too. 

Which I had the great honor of doing this morning.

As I did so … I made a point to mention them all by name.

Clarissa. 

Daimir. 

Tess and Cara. 

My friend Tim for letting me check my bag in his name. 

I even mentioned thorough TSA screening guy, too. 

For taking his job so seriously.

For doing his best to keep us all safe.

I pray blessings upon them all … and everyone who might read this. 

For crowd surfing me home on the soft shoulders of their kindness. 

A tiny but mighty shared moral order.

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Postcards, Righteous riffs

Blanket Drop …

Re-watched all of my favorite holiday movies this season. 

Except one. 

A Charlie Brown Christmas, which we never got around to. 

Destination TV when the kids were younger, though.

I mean, Linus droppin’ the mic at the end? 

Puts a lump in my throat every time. 

It was only this year that I was made aware of something I’d never noticed in all my previous watchings. 

He drops the blanket, too.

In the climactic “Light’s, please” scene, right before he says, “Fear not …” Linus drops his blanket. 

All those years I watched it, I never noticed it. 

When a friend mentioned it to me, I got chills.

A sermon hidden in plain sight. 

Looked it up online. 

Yep. 

Apparently, the Internet’s known about this for some time. 

I asked my family if they were aware.

Nope.

Once I became aware, though, I couldn’t stop geeking out about it, asking friends. Sharing with those, who like me, were uninitiated. 

Immediately thought of my high school buddy, Bob, an animator, who grew up a connoisseur of comics and cartoons. 

I shot him a note … said I assumed he knew about this, but I couldn’t risk him not knowing. 

He, of course, knew about the scene.

Shared the wisest reply. 

“I did know about the dropped blanket thing, but I never really attached any significance to it. 

“I always looked at it from an animation perspective, where I think Linus does a lot of arm gesturing during that scene and instead of animating a blanket moving around wildly with his arms, they just had him drop it and then pick it up again when he was done talking. I think the reason I thought that was because when Charlie Brown is talking to him right before Linus goes off, Charlie Brown drops his coat right before talking with his hands. Again, I assumed that was for animation purposes.”

Brilliant insight, which Bob’s always been good for. 

At first his reply hit me like a splash of cold water. 

“A Charlie Brown Christmas.” (Peanuts Worldwide)

So … a practical animation choice. 

No sermon intended.

Nothing to see here.

Hmm. 

But just because Charles Schulz may have been more interested in easing his animating burden doesn’t mean there’s not a sermon to be found. 

Just because something isn’t true, or as intended, doesn’t mean it can’t be meaningful. 

Otherwise myths wouldn’t exist. 

Or religions, some might say.

We live in a world that would rather know how the trick is done than believe in magic. 

Not me. 

I’d rather be (open to being) awed.

I’ve learned to keep my antenna up for magic and meaning … even where it’s not supposed to exist.

Who says a perfect sermon can’t be found in a practical choice?  

Even Bob in his wisdom agrees. 

“But I guess in the big picture, it’s a much better story and makes more sense to say that Linus didn’t need security during that moment.”

We can let the blanket drop … without letting it get wet.

__

Sitting in my usual seat at my favorite coffee shop where I’m typing this, I watched an older woman, bundled head to toe for the cold, walk in to warm herself for a few minutes before catching her Saturday morning bus. 

As she was trudging back to the door with 12 warm ounces in her hand, already bracing for the cold on the other side, a familiar downtown face came in, and seeing her, stepped to the side, and with his right arm, backhanded the door open for her. 

Not the biggest fellow, he had to bend over a bit to muster the strength to brace the door open with just his one arm. 

But from where I sat, his forced hunch read as a bow, imbuing his humble act with an added reverence.  

Allowing the older woman catching her bus to pass through the door regal as a queen, nobly enrobed in her winter coat, her toboggan pulled tight like a crown.

She nodded thanks to him as she exited. 

As if to a loyal subject. 

It was a scene that neither would likely think of ever again. 

She, a bus to catch. 

He, cold hands to warm at the fireplace. 

Me, a lump in my throat for the gift of bearing witness.

It was a scene I’m likely never to forget. 

His bow. Her nod. 

A sermon hidden in plain sight.

A sweet and simple reminder to be kind where we can to those we encounter along the way.

To humble ourselves to allow the strangers we meet to walk in dignity in an otherwise cold world. 

If he’d have been holding a blanket in his right hand, he might have made the practical choice to drop it, too.

Lights, please.

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Excursions

Turning Point …

Did a couple brave things Tuesday night. 

For starters I drove through the snow into the city. Roads were awful. Slid into a bank trying to make the left onto Maiden Street.

Traffic on the interstate slowed to a sloppy crawl just before Canonsburg. Google told me I should peel off the exit, so I listened.

Called home to let Karry know my circumstances. 

Candidly, part of me was hoping she’d tell me to just come back home. 

Give me an excuse not to go through with the second brave thing.

“You should stay on the interstate. It’s gonna be better than the side roads.” 

She is so much better than Google.

It was the wisest counsel … from the person who’s been pointing in the right direction for 30 years and counting.  

So I got myself turned around. Limped back onto I-79. 

Kept going. 

Sent a text letting ‘em know I was on my way, but was gonna be 15 or so minutes late. 

“That’s OK. You’re on last!” 

__

On a whim the week before I submitted something for Story Club Pittsburgh’s monthly live gathering.

Something about the theme — Turning Point — caught my eye. Made me think of something I’d written but never shared before. 

The following day Kelly their (awesome) producer emailed me back, “The Spotlight slot’s yours if you want it.”

Eesh. 

After I said yes Kelly informed me that the stories had to be under seven minutes.

Over the next few days, violent editing ensued.

By the time I’d gotten in my car Tuesday to drive into the city, I still hadn’t quite limbo’d my story under the bar. 

Crawling along the interstate afforded me some extra practice time in the car. Must’ve run through it a half dozen times trying to find places where I could chop a few more seconds … without having to rush it. 

And praying I’d remember my edits. 

Seven minutes seemed like both forever and not nearly enough time.  

As I drove I reminded myself I was last, so I’d have some time once I got there if I needed it. 

Arrived while the emcee was still on stage and before the first storyteller. 

Other than the spotlight slot at the end, the proceedings are open mic. Anyone who wants to tell a story drops their name in a hat — from which they pick seven names to go on stage. 

As I grabbed a chair, the voice inside me said I owed the brave humans on stage my full attention … the same gift I would soon be asking from them. 

The greatest gift in the world as far as I’m concerned. 

They made it an easy gift to give. 

The first person shared a brave and beautiful story about a person they stayed in a relationship way too long with, and what their hopeful but misplaced optimism had taught them. An older gentleman spoke about losing a best friend in high school and how he’s tried to live for both of them since. Another person relayed an amazing daisy chain of grace and kindness from law enforcement that allowed him to essentially walk on water all the way from New Jersey to Pittsburgh. There was a story about a rat in an apartment and another about a snake on a trail. And a lawyer told a tale of tracking down a client who met him not with a handshake, but a shotgun pointed at his chest.

Before I knew it, the emcee was calling my name. 

By which point a good 90 minutes had passed since I’d taken my seat. 

Since I’d last thought about my story. 

I’d been picked as a Spotlight Storyteller once before, about a year ago. But I got sick and couldn’t be there in person. Made arrangements to share virtually from home. Had my notes on a second screen just in case, which made it easy. 

This time, it was just me. 

No notes. 

The lights made it hard to see the faces of the people in the audience. 

As I started in from memory, my mouth felt dry. 

Was about a minute in … when I felt my words sliding to the tip of my tongue.

Got a little over halfway through. 

And lost my way. 

In the spotlight. 

Alone on stage.

In front of a pretty full house. 

With the clock ticking. 

Stuck. 

But then … 

… something amazing happened. 

A few people in the audience started snapping.

A couple clapped encouragement. 

And a wonderful soul in the front row … one of the few faces I could see in the lights … repeated the last couple of lines I had said back to me. 

A roomful of humans that was already offering me their greatest gift, did their best to point me in the right direction. 

Took me a moment, but I got myself turned around. 

Limped back on the interstate. 

Kept going. 

Crawled the rest of the way.

Until I made it.  

__

On my drive back home, I thought of Patti Smith, and the time she forgot the words to “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” while performing in front of the King of Sweden and the royal family at Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize ceremony in Stockholm. 

And how beautifully and humanly she wrote of her experience. Of the kindness shown her afterwards by some of the Nobel scientists in attendance, who shared their appreciation for her very public struggle. “I wish I would have done better, I said. No, no, they replied, none of us wish that. For us, your performance seemed a metaphor for our own struggles,” she wrote so movingly in The New Yorker.  

It occurred to me that, had I spent those 90 minutes before I stepped on to the stage going over my story, I would likely have avoided my embarrassment and delivered a better performance for the audience I was there to serve. 

But that would have come at the expense of giving my full attention to all the other wonderful storytellers that came before me. 

It would have required withholding my most valuable gift in the world. 

So I refuse to regret my choice. 

I accept my stumbling as a fair price to pay … for the gift of bearing witness to their stories.

Maybe even a bargain. 

Because had I not stumbled, I would not have experienced an audience of strangers reaching out to steady me. 

And the traveler writing these words would be much the poorer for that.

I could have been perfect. 

I would much rather be human.

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Postcards

Grace

Last time I was here, I asked for a saucer 

for my morning cup 

you know, in case I spil

l. 

They were out, so the person behind the counter

put a

BIG PLATE

under my

tiny cup, 

Which made me fall in love 

with the world 

all over again 

for a moment 

it was so perfect. 

My life needs 

a generous splash radius. 

Now every time I come in 

I ask for a large plate. 

The one they gave me today 

had a couple chips, 

which made it even more perfect. 

I told the person behind the counter 

that in my head, I was imagining a plate

 so

LARGE

I could sit on top of it while sipping from my

tiny cup. 

To catch every last

drop

of 

my 

mess love.

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