I wrote this story for the magazine of my alma mater Covenant Theological Seminary. It is about alum Jason Mirikitani whose life was forever changed by a horrific car accident. 
Add Comment In a Single Day 04/09/2009
A lot of the time, life doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Certain things happen on any given day, a plethora of events take place in a single week. Most of what happens to us appears disjointed and out of sort—detached in any recognizable way from the larger story at play. Each day appears as a single page in the epic script unfolding before us—each taking place without our express permission or direct involvement. But every once in a while, we may take notice of particular overlays, repeats and echoes in the story, pointing to—in a strange but fantastic way—an author behind it all. And on the rarest of occasions, several facets of the story may come together… in a single day. Just such a day started for me with a simple goodbye to my 3 year old daughter. But unlike most of my days at school and work, it was not me that was leaving the home—it was her… Somehow Maia managed to squeeze past our best attempts to suppress her natural maturing process (at least, so far) and forthwith ran into her first day of preschool. When we arrived there, she immediately busied herself in the toy kitchen with another little girl. Perhaps a new little friend… As we said our goodbyes, I suddenly found my vision was clouded and blurry. Visions of a wedding aisle and a different sort of “goodbye” kiss threatened to pool my eyes over completely. But, as I’m sure my own parents know, this sort of sorrow is a mysterious one, mixed with strange twists of joy and troubled contentment. Fast-forward a few hours. Late afternoon. I sit at my seat in Christian Ethics. Anthony Bradley makes a throw away comment about Boy Scouts. He blurts out the scout motto verbatim. I was only ever in Cub Scouts. I hadn’t heard the Boy Scout motto in years. The class goes on. We talk of ethics, of life and of the pursuit of holiness in the days and years that we presume to have ahead of us. Dr. Bradley mentions blasting his radio—driving with the windows down—one cool summer night several years ago. I flip through the memory banks to my first encounter with a certain iconic Irish band during my college years. My soul tingled as I remembered that hour-long trip from Lancaster to Baldwin listening to All that you can’t leave Behind in its entirety. I could almost feel the tips of my hair stretching to feel the cool summer wind again… Now fast-forward a few more hours. This time in the home of a dear friend. It was there that we met up with a dear friend of his. Jim and Sandy—each individually—have been around the sun more times than my wife, my children and I combined. I sat in Jim’s little sitting room and simply soaked in the many stories that they shared. Then Sandy began to explain the program that—since retirement—he had started in the local schools. Because the program was born out of the themes found in the Boy Scout motto, Sandy found fit to recite it to me in its entirety. Now in nearly every school district in MO—and several in Illinois to boot—Sandy’s Character Plus program is ethics in practice. I sat and marveled at this extension of the day’s earlier conversations. The remainder of the evening I watched as two old friends shared their lives with one another, poked fun at each other and laughed together. And my mind raced back to the beginning of the day, marked with the new potential for such relationships in the life of my daughter. Now I have left my friends house. I begin to chomp and chew over the events of the day. They come colluding and colliding together and I watch as they fit together like a perfect little puzzle. I reflect on the comments from ethics class about the grand story of redemption… how all will fit together one day in the final consummation. I set my iPod on random to see what soundtrack will close it all off. Now resonating over my speakers comes the familiar refrains of U2’s Gloria, belted out as the perfect doxology. And I drive through the cool summer night, my windows open and the tips of my hair reaching for the wind. As you enter this life I pray you depart With a wrinkled face And a brand new heart -U2 from Love and peace or Else Gums wrapped up in red lily lips Tongues, exposed, tumbling about Wistful dialogical intercourse, Leaned on walkers Death, waiting; Death, waited for Abandonment, desolation Visitation, hope The inhabitants reminded of youth The visitors enlightened to vincibility Silent sermons; shouted Hospitality scorned Dementia, embraced Life, envied; life-sucking Life embraced, joy sustained Tenderness…grace The Whore Sings a Praise 02/02/2008
Oh let the mountains shout and sing to our King! Oh let the nations praise you, my God. You triumph over your enemy, dressed in your garments of light You free the captives, the sluggard, the drug-addict, the homeless. You’ve placed a song on my lips and given me praise! You’ve turned the hateful into life and given a name to the forgotten. You bring bread to the alcoholic and water to the bulimic. You shed a tear for the cripple and you give him a place to rest. The unwanted sings a praise and walks in open places. The destitute finds pleasure in the cool gold beneath his feet. Your mouth was filled with sand…for 40 days you ate nothing. But, Oh!, you’ve broken the rock and you’ve poured out yourself! So you’ve given out your roses, you’ve placed them one by one. You’ve placed them in the hand of the whore, the pimp and the murderer. So sing your praises you widower, sing praises to God, you lost child! His kingdom has come! His mercy makes the dark places bright! Oh let the rivers shout to you, oh mighty King! Oh let the people be glad, for you have redeemed them. Old Man with Round Glasses 09/01/2007
I went to Target and Trader Joe's with my family today. As Kelli and I climbed in our Jeep and readied to leave, I noticed an older man in a suit pushing his Trader Joe's cart towards us. He was a friendly looking man with round glasses and a top hat, his cheery face wrapped in an invitation to conversation. His face seemed frozen in a comfortable smile, an unmistakable bounce an integral part of his walk. Instinctively, I raised my hand to wave. Kelli almost immediately did the same. As we pulled away, I paused."I just completely waved at that man like I knew him..." "Oh my gosh, I did too!" Kelli responded with her trademark delight in the little things of life... "Perhaps," I offered, "we just had an encounter with a shaven, haircut, summer Santa..." When I Come Home 11/01/2006
when i get home, i'll write you a sonnet but i haven't left yet when i get home, i'll sing you a song and wrap it around your finger you'll hear the mountain lion's roar as it echoes in the valley you'll see the fleeing eagle as she brings food to her young you'll see the sky split and thunder when i come home when i get home, i'll write you a sonnet but i haven't left yet... Innocent Bystanders 09/01/2005
Occasionally a slice of the ethereal slips through the cosmos and into our hands. As I picked up maia to place her in her highchair offerings of Unspoken Requests tinkled in my ears. This was a moment ripe with senzuqtian otherness… the music elevating the lifting of my daughter off the ground into an unending moment in time. Here she was. My daughter. The little life, the little person that I—along with my dear wife—am responsible for. As she started to cry, I corrected her, telling her not to fuss, that it was “time for dinner, maia, and we have to wash your hands”. But than I realized that her bottom was trembling and her cry was not one rank with protest so much as one implicit with need. She needed her diaper changed, but apparently she had needed it changed a while ago. The Rash had set in. So mommy and daddy went to work. Toiling over the needy little one year old, busying ourselves with paper towels, diapers and desitin. All the while, Maia feigning bravery the best she could. This has become routine for her in the midst of a diaper rash cleansing. She grasps for the things around her petitioning, “dis? Dis?” trying not to pay attention to the painful process. As daddy puts on the desitin, mommy proclaims, “daddy’s doing a good job, isn’t he?” and little Maia claps. But suddenly there is a more urgent need. Laying on the changing table, she reaches up for mommy with a slight whine (“ehh?... ehh?”). Kelli bows down and Maia takes her head into her arms. She smiles. I tell her to give mommy a kiss. So she tilts her head back, ever so slightly, and presses her closed mouth against Kelli’s cheek, topping it off with a quick, “mmmmm-muh”. Then she starts the whole process over again, this time reaching up for her daddy, grabbing his face, kissing his cheek and topping it off with another great “mmmmm-muh”… Suddenly, and without warning, an invisible and silent “pop” resonates throughout the room. A mighty force not to be reckoned with, it slams into my heart, the slice of timelessness breaking it to pieces. My tiny tear-ducts spill over vainly—in a brash attempt to comprehend. No matter. It’s not about me, her or us anyway… we’re just the innocent bystanders. I remember seeing Jim at Border’s, milling about, mumbling to himself as he tried to comprehend a book that he was reading. I had no idea who he was. I just knew that he was often there. At that one window table in the back. A table that deserves a plaque placed upon it in his memory. As I chatted with another customer, a man I have yet to see again, I motioned to Jim, offering his contribution to the conversation. He had no idea who I was. But I knew of him through a friend. Jim and I exchanged greetings and chatted about the Sultana. He said that the Sultana was his life. That and “this place”. Now, he leaves both behind. An insatiable thirst to learn. That’s one of the things I will remember about him the most. And an eerily positive outlook on life. Two divorces, two encounters with the cancer. But he just kept kickin’. And I don’t think he’d settle for anything less. My last encounter with him was a week ago today. In conversation with yet another one of his friends, he gave me one last sailor salute goodbye. He was smiling. He was in his favorite place. Among friends, among “family”. And that was how he left. Last Thursday, July 15th, Jim was helped out to the car he wasn’t supposed to be driving. I don’t think he could help himself; it was his connection to “this place”. That day he died. Gone from this world forever. and I still can’t believe it… ...He walks the decks of Douglas fir; now at home, he worships thee. A sinner like me, he sails now with his Savior. He sails upon the waters of the crystal sea, no more by the waves of this world does he waver. In his last days he waved to me, He saluted to me before he parted; it was he who saluted to me, he the captain of the seven seas. His boat with planking of white oak, Jim, a grandfather, friend and brother, a laugh ready always for the latest joke. He built the pieces that held a boat in unity, But in the reality of life he was the piece that held together a community. In the end I saw him slipping, but he never did let go. He sails on a rig of simple beauty, he sails the shores of heaven, he sails with the saints at tow. His pain will no longer cause him to stir, Because, now at home, he worships thee'. Now at home, he walks the decks of Douglas fir. | A bit of earthWhether it be poetry, short stories or memories of life, sometime I communicate best with the written word. ArchivesDecember 2009 | ||
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