Fumbling

The coach would hit the balls out to us on the field. I liked being out there. I liked the other guys. I liked the smell of the grass and the blue sky overhead.

We spread out past the bases, waiting on that ball. But I was never very good with the “I got it!” I was always a little afraid of that moment when the ball might come towards me. I wasn’t afraid of the ball. I was afraid of not catching it. There was a better chance that I’d miss it than catch it. I could get to the ball, my hand eye coordination is pretty good, but no one taught me how to set myself, to be ready for it. You had to walk in the door with certain skills or you were quickly pushed to the sidelines and simply put up with.

I caught it sometimes. But, mostly, I fumbled the ball before dropping it. There was a certain clownish aspect to the whole thing. Fumbling was normal for me. Trying to get the grip. Trying to gain some control, but failing. That kind of peace and security is elusive. At least for me.

Later, I found out that fumbling was more of a football word than a baseball word. With a football, you have your hands. No glove. And the hands either get it or they don’t. You either complete, or you don’t.

I never much went for football either.

I’m just kind of a fumbler. I’ve fumbled a lot of things over the years. Goals. Dreams. Hopes. Ambitions. Friendships. Moments that could have mattered a lot more than they did. I just couldn’t get a grip. A lot has slipped through my fingers.

But while I still struggle with this, while I still fumble all the time, I have some peace because I know I’m held for eternity by hands that never fumble. Ever.



Jude 1:24-25
Peace to you.



© LW Publishing 2011

Reconnoiter

I peer, quizzically, into the darkness. Something out of place, I don’t know what, has lifted me out of the depths of sleep. A mild threat of chaos. And it calls to me. It says, “Be a man.” So I get out of bed, stepping gingerly onto the carpet. It whispers to my tired feet as they move past. The wife is sleeping soundly under a mound of pillows and blankets. She is burrowed in comfort, unconcerned.

I survey the doorway, slightly outlined by the light of moon and stars. I step forward carefully, sticking my head out of the door first, into the hallway, like a thief looking for a cop. I can barely see anything. I listen intently to see if it will repeat itself. The thing that woke me.

The noise. I’m sure I heard a noise.

I look into the room where the children sleep. They are breathing the night air, softly, content. Unaware. I move past, stepping through the hallway as my eyes begin to adjust to the dark. I see the vague shapes of chairs and windows. The light from the street illuminates the livingroom. I move forward. Quietly. Listening.

Nothing.

I pass from the living room to the kitchen. In the moonlight I see that it is empty too. I don’t bother with the light. I can see now. The moon is bright. It sticks its fingers through the kitchen shades and pries them apart, curious, looking to see what’s inside.

I grab a spatula for protection from the counter, then move ahead, down the creaking steps to the basement. It’s dark down there. Silent. Ominous. The inky darkness crawls all around me, leering at my inner child, boiling up childhood insecurities. I decide to turn on the light. I brush my hand along the wall to find the switch. I connect. The light fills the basement like water fills a swimming pool. It hurts my eyes, but it is a friend. The room glows with the greenish yellow phosphor of florescent bulbs, emitting their bad humor. It is an empty place at this time of night, offering no solace. Yea, verily.

I listen again to nothing out of the ordinary. The furnace blows warm air through the ducts, out the vents, keeping us alive. It is a grace. The small refrigerator hums. The florescent bulbs buzz in quiet, desultory anger. But I can’t let myself be distracted.

I look around at the empty room. I walk to the other rooms, through other doors. I look and see nothing but what was already there. I feel the night, pressing against the outside of the house, slouched against the block glass windows of the basement, wanting to get in. I return to the steps and turn off the lights, as if to say, “All full here. No more room for the night.” At least the darkness in the house is familiar.

I walk back upstairs into the kitchen, checking the lock on the back door as I pass. I stop one more time to listen for the noise, half heartedly, doubting my senses. I move on and glance out the tiny window through the front door. The street is gently illuminated by street lights. Motionless. Nothing and no one. That door is locked as well.

I look at the kids, the wife, thanking God they’re in this house with me. I listen to them breathe, wondering vaguely how I could ever live without them there. Then I lay back down, weary but satisfied. I have done my duty.

All clear.


Peace to you.

© LW Publishing 2010

Encounter 3

More time passes.

I think it was late November. I know it was cold outside. I was working as a delivery driver for a company set up near Metro Airport. They sent me into downtown Detroit to deliver a package. When I finished I was told to wait. That meant they wanted me to sit out there in case a call to pick up a package came in from that area.

I went to Burger King. Went inside to eat. I read my book while I ate. Don’t waste a minute. Always have a book ready. Reading and waiting. My beeper kept silent.

After a while, for no real reason, I decided to go out to the van and read out there. It was starting to get dark, but I had a light in the van. On my way, I noticed a person walking up the sidewalk toward me. At first I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Turns out it was a woman. She was carrying a large cloth bag full of what looked like clothes and blankets. She was swallowed up in a dirty, oversized, puffed up coat with a big hood. Under that were what looked like bed sheets and scarves, wrapped all around her. It made her look a lot bigger than she was.

We made eye contact. I said “Hi.”

She had on thick glasses. They were chipped and cracked, covered with smudgy fingerprints. I wondered how she could see through them..

Me: How are you doing today?

She walked up to me. She was filthy and she smelled pretty bad. She just stared at me for what seemed like quite a long time. I wasn’t sure she was going to say anything at first. But then she talked, really fast. She was a little hard to understand. Something like...

Her: I’m good, I’m good. Just a little tired. Good. Not bad. Just a little tired. It’s kind of cold. Are you cold? It’s kind of cold out here. I have a coat. I’m a little tired. It’s getting dark. I’ve got a coat. Did you eat in there? Are you hungry? I’m kind of tired.
Me: Yeah, I just ate. Are you hungry? Can I get you a hamburger?
Her: No. No. No. Don’t need a hamburger. My foot hurts. I’m a little tired. It’s getting kind of dark. I have my coat. What are you doing out here. Are you cold? Why are you out here?
Me: I’m just working. I had a burger. Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat?
Her: No. No. I’m just a little tired. Don’t need a hamburger. Don’t need it.

Awkward pause.

Me: Do you have somewhere to go?
Her: Oh, yeah. I got me somewhere to go. I know where I am. I’m just a little tired. I don’t need a hamburger. I got my coat. I’m good. I’m good. Just a little tired.
Me: Okay. Well you have a good night then and be careful out here.
Her: Oh yeah. I’m good. I know where I’m at. I’m just a little tired. You be careful too.
Me: Thank you.
Her: Alright then. Good night.
Me: Good night.
Her: Alright.

I got in the van and watched her walk away. She shambled on, talking to herself. I think I had interrupted her. Her bag kind of flopped around a bit as she walked, but it didn’t seem to bother her.

She did seem a little tired...

So. It all makes me wonder how far gone you have to be before everyone writes you off. Some people are very secure no matter what they say or do. They have family. They have a net. But, other people, not so much. Some have very little room for weakness or failure in their lives. No net.

We all have things that cause someone to write us off. You don’t look a certain way or talk a certain way so there are people who don’t want to be around you. You don’t know certain things, so there are people who don’t want to be around you. We all go through this kind of thing.

But there are many people who have essentially been written off by practically everyone. Some of them are sick, physically or mentally. Some of them never learned to cope. Some of them have earned their isolation with destructive behaviors. I know how it works. But I’m just saying. It’s easy to forget that these people, overcome with conflict on the outside, fear and confusion on the inside, are just people. Nothing more, nothing less.

2 Corinthians 7:5-7





Peace to you.

© LW Publishing 2010