On Sacred Ground
Dear Eugene,
Last night I rode my bike to the library. I think my legs, weak as they are, are getting used to the biking motion. I've found a new rhythm that works better for my aging body.
I stopped halfway to look at a little league of little children playing soccer. My son was once there.
He knew not it was about competition then, and in fact we the parents and coaches did our best to say it is really all about health and character development. Treacherous was too big a word then to describe the water they were called to navigate in.
Soon enough in hassling and ruffling the ideas of competence justice and conquering would find their way to come out of our pores like blood sweat and tears. Soon enough the parents would get across the sideline to join them in the ring.
My son lost too much and got fed up and that's when he quit. We move on to find new turf that we can finally call our own, a reign we deserve, small as it might be.
You get them used to working/fighting with people early in life, and they'll have a better chance to survive/flourish--that's the promise made to this soccer dad. I faithfully preached the same sermon to my son after each losing game (which means weekly), like a broken record but with Alex's unique sense of bodily humor and verbal finesse, preached it straight, preached it slant, poked around from all sorts of angle at the same outburst, tantrum with a predestined trajectory that I must go all the way down with him to, if possible, if finally, find a bit of heaven in the hell-breaking-loose.
Another "high profile" suicide. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to make a point and use people as an illustration. I have no point to make. We try to keep a low profile about our own dying.
We came. We saw. We conquered.
We quit.
My son thought he was the one who chose to quit soccer. No, I was the one who chose to not jump in the ring for him.
I was transfixed last night when looking at the kids, crowding around their coach three times their size, in gleeful expectation, trusting that something good is going to happen.
Trusting. Good. Happening.
They were playing with Jesus, heaven on earth.
I took off my shoes for I knew I was on sacred ground.
Yours, Alex
Dear Eugene,
ReplyDeleteThis week, the Spring rain drenched our souls in this pilgrimage starting from downtown by "a Tiffany billboard" to losing ourselves before plunging into "the bright abyss" & become "judged & remade” until at last, we arrived with shoes removed “on sacred ground”.
As I write at this late hour, my dog rests on my lap in contentment, its nose tenderly compressed against my skin & merrily oblivious to the ridges of the 3-inch scar above my right knee.
The origin of my scar, which has remained vividly defined in my memory, marked my first hospital visit when I was about 6 years old. Earlier on that day, my Mom decided to bring me along on her scooter. I recalled in slow motion swinging my short, right leg over the high rear seat in several failed efforts to mount. In my final attempt, my right knee was extended too closely to the corners of the rear license plate, which consequently lacerated my skin & its underlying fatty tissues. The acute, roaring sensation of feeling butchered was excruciatingly surreal.
By the time I arrived at the hospital, my leg presented itself in flaming red. Waiting for the doctor intensified my pain until I became distracted by what appeared to have been an emergent whirlwind of activities behind the shared curtains on the other side of the room. An infant’s shrill cries deafened us all, arousing critical concerns about his chance of survival. The baby reportedly fractured his skull from an elevated fall when his Mom had left him unattended momentarily. He had died before I received stitches on my leg.
Upon reminiscence of this trauma, I could not stop thinking about the evolving mysteries of how time, space & people interplay. This mark of permanence on my leg would not be perceived as beautiful on any "Tiffany billboard”. On the other side of the hospital room decades ago, the infant did not live on to be “judged or remade" for another day, while his Mom might have likely plunged into an “abyss” of eternally damned losses & guilt.
So my dear Pastor Eugene, I must ask myself. While many within & beyond my reach have already dropped dead with a “thud”, how can I continue to live so that “my heart will go on”? And what mark or legacy will I leave behind on this “sacred ground”?