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Bunk beds are utilitarian. Stack ‘em deep and wide! Thankfully, I showed up a day early to the dorms and claimed the widest and the shortest bunk – the bottom. My crazy ass roommate was stuck with the top, but he did not know that as of yet. When he did arrive, he was not pleased but never put forth an argument for the bottom bunk – he was on the top bunk, I was on the bottom bunk. And that was the extent of the relationship. We rarely spoke about the superficial and never spoke of more weighty substantial topics. There was never any quintessential freshman “why are we here” chats, but I do remember him asking several times on where to put items of mine he believed to be violating his space. I did not mind. He was quiet, and I was an introvert that needed to recharge when I entered my room – it worked – he was on the top bunk and I was on the bottom.

For this post, we will make my roommate’s name Frank. Frank had scars – lot’s of scars. I brought a boatload of baggage to the room and so did he, but his baggage was much more visible. Frank never shared his story, but at some point in his life, he was burnt. Half of Frank’s face and neck was visibly burnt. The first time I saw him without a shirt on, the same half of his chest and torso was also burnt. Later, coming out the shower, I saw his legs were also burnt. He wore his scars for the mirror and the world to see. I never asked how, when, what, or why, and he never volunteered. He was shy on Monday and apprehensive as hell the rest of the week. He was on the top bunk and I was on the bottom.

We lived together for four months. We spent most days together at some point during the day, and all of fall break and Thanksgiving break together never really speaking to one another. I was careful not to pass judgment on him for what had happened or what it had created in him. For all I knew, it was possible he was shy before the accident. Who knew if the way he was was baggage or just the shirt on his back? I never found out because he was on the top bunk and I was on the bottom.

My penitence for my actions is far less than my penitence for my inactions. When I was first reading scripture in my late teens and early twenties, I was not yet a believer. I fell in love with Peter the Apostle. He had brass balls and his faith allowed him to chew bubblegum and kick ass – and he was all out of bubblegum. He walked on water, he lopped off ears, he had big (and no) faith and big words, and he royally fucked his savior publicly three times. But he did not live life on the bottom bunk while others lived on the top bunk – he brought the two together with his actions. Like most apostles, his faith would bring worldly death – death on an inverted cross – head at the bottom, feet at the top. I love Peter. I gave my first born the Anglicized name of Petros – Stone. I pray Stone never lies on the bottom bunk while he hears someone cry on the top bunk.

Questions are always better than answers. Questions create movement. Questions allow for cross-reference. Questions generate thought. Questions are dynamic. Answers do not. Answers are final. Answers end the game. Answers place the peg squarely in place. Answers are static.

Holding the door at church is the worst job for an introvert – conversations are sure to ensue. Yesterday, as I did my ecclesiastical duty and held the door on Easter Sunday for those with hope against all hopes, it happened…again.

“Have we met?

“Yes. My name is Lj.”

“Lj? Does that stand for something? Oh yes…Little Joe.”

“Littlejohn.”

“You’re moving, right? I believe I prayed for your move recently.”

“Nope. I recently lost my job, but I am not moving.”

“Oh. What do you do?”

What do I do? Good question. But the answer eludes me. I used to think I helped. I used think I provided. I used to think I created an environment where questions were asked and answers were chased up barren mountains and down through lush valleys only to narrowly escape capture. I used to think I practiced bringing the culture of others to the door, knocking, and watching who opens the rap-tap-tappity-tap. I used to think I sat next to those giving birth to new ideas with new words for the chance to see a new world. I used to think I asked more questions than answers were given. I still do. But my classroom is smaller, and I am now both teacher and student. I now ask only the basics – when. I do not have an answer. That would end the journey. The waiting would stop. Faith has no foothold in certainty. So, I wait. I wait in fear. I wait in tears. I wait patiently. I wait in hope. I wait in anger. I wait in expectancy. I wait for answers that do not come. I wait.

“I wait.”

Rapala produces a fishing lure that guarantees “fish on”. The lure looks like a crayfish and comes in many different colors and sizes. I am not an avid fisherman, but I do enjoy fishing. Not so much that I would go out to the lake by myself, but enough to enjoy it with a friend – a fishing buddy. Stone, my son, is that fishing buddy now. Before him, it was my brother, James. He is a fisherman. James enjoys the lake all by himself, or with a fishing buddy. If he has a pole in his hand, he is happy. He enjoys fishing to the degree that he is always looking for the next best experience – a new lure, a new spot, a new method, or a new means to get out into the water. It is this drive to fish that brings us to the tale today.

James bought a boat. Not a bass boat. Not a Ranger, a pontoon, an aluminum flat bottomed, or a canoe. He boat an inflatable “two man” boat – a glorified pool toy to be used by the neighborhood kids for when playing Marco Polo was no longer interesting. He fitted the boat out with a wooden inner floor, a trolling motor, a battery, and all the gear it could hold. We would would load the boat in its deflated state into his Hyundai Sonata and drive to the boat launch at the Nashua River. We would muscle the boat of the trunk, plug in the air pump into the cigarette lighter and wait. While we watched the boat grow and be shaped by the air, other fisherman would back their boat trailers into the water and launch their real boats, park their real trucks, and give us some real looks as the whirring of the pump brought our “boat” to life. Before long, the boat was full, the floor installed, the trolling motor mounted, and gear loaded. We were ready to launch.

As we fished and continually pulled out fish on this day, we soon noticed the boat was not as firm as it was at the launch – a leak had obviously formed. Understanding the severity of the situation, my brother did what any fisherman would do; he fished. The boat began to make a taco of my brother and me, and it was time to attempt to make it to the boat launch up river.  We  made every effort to go against the current in a boat with a new and improved drag ratio, so the situation went from bad to worse. An audible hissing could be heard accompanied with bubbles. The trolling motor fought against the current, and we fought against the scenario of sinking. As we struggled to continue on to the boat launch, we could see the boat ramp not too far off in the distance. The launch was filled with fishermen pulling their boats out of the water onto their trailers. As we sputtered into the boat launch with a piece of saran wrap filled with rocks, the looks were relentless. The judgments were harsh – laughter was had at our expense. Dragging the boat out of the water, my brother grabbed the stringer filled with fish…big fish. The laughter stopped. Confusion set in as the fishermen looked on in shock at the quality and quantity of the fish. What we accomplished with a Building 19 inflatable boat, these fisherman were unable to accomplish with six figures of shiny fiberglass, and two tons of steel.

As I told Stone this story the other day as we mowed a lawn, I thought about my own boat springing a leak. I do not know if I will make it back to the boat launch, but I made out onto the water. I launched. I fished. I laughed. I lived. I’ll take it!

In 1982, I saw the Dark Crystal. It scared the hell out me. Never before had I seen puppets and animatronics move in such a disturbing manner. I dreamed of the scaly Skeksis for weeks. They were truly terrifying. The characters physical persona mimicked their functions in the story – evil looked and acted evil, and innocence looked and acted innocent. It made for a good story – cut and dry. Enter happy boy on a sunny day. All is well in the realm. A dark magic appears and drains the light and the happiness with it. A quest is born. Struggle pursues. A sacrifice is required to restore balance. An unlikely hero steps forward. Darkness is defeated through a purposeful offering. Restoration is found. Evil is exposed and innocence is exalted. Balance.

Richard Beck writes a blog entitled Experimental Theology. In a recent post he speaks of the dark triad – personality traits that align with the darker nature of humanity in the form of narcissism, Machiavellianism, and psychopathy. In his post, Richard writes about his experience with prison ministry. Those locked in a box will do anything to get out. But what of those that are not in a box and act in the “da ku toraifōsu” – the principalities and powers? I do not believe the “principalities and powers” refers only to the spiritual beings, rather both spiritual and physical authorities. These powers require a sacrifice, but balance is rarely restored – if it was ever there to begin with. The dark triad rarely looks dark, and no sacrifice is needed if evil is not present, right? This makes for a better story. A terrifying story where the “good guy” acts both evil and innocent, and the “bad guy” is elevated and justified…all to get out of a box we built ourselves.

F_A = −F_B.

A good friend often recites to his classes his memory of having tea for the first time in a traditional Japanese tea house – a chachitsu (茶室) in Japanese meaning a space for tea or tea room. As I drank my coffee alone this morning, I thought on the art of hospitality in the form of the tea ceremony.

Japanese tea ceremonies are held to celebrate the simple pleasures of life – tea, relationship with another, tranquility, and the art of hospitality. In order to receive the hospitality of the host, a guest of a tea house must enter through a small door called the crawl door. In order to enter and receive the hospitality of a host, a guest must rid himself of all earthly possessions in order to fit through the door – warriors must remove armor and weapons, royalty must remove ornate hats and garments, and all must remove their shoes. In order to receive, the guest must be able to do so with an empty pallet. Bringing preconceived notions of the status of the guest into the tea room would not allow the guest to receive the hospitality of the host – the guest would have no where to place the hospitality if her hands were already full with who she believed she was or was not.  The guest, once inside the tea room by placing himself on all fours to enter, is greeted with a simple message on the wall in the form of a scroll. Outside and inside have great symbolic meaning during the tea ceremony.

As I read the news today, reflected on my situation, and took a look around, I was reminded of this need to receive and serve. Newton’s third law of motion states that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction – tit for tat. As my post yesterday stated, I am moving away from the stupidity and negativity of the choices I have made concerning my situation of the loss of my job. I am taking off my armor, putting aside my weapons, and taking off who I think I am, so that I may receive. But not to receive to get, but rather, to receive to take part in the art of hospitality which supernaturally supersedes Newton’s laws to usher in grace – a force far more powerful than a reaction.

May we all serve, receive, and offer grace in place of reacting equally in opposition to a force outside of us.

My Buster Browns did not get much wear when I was a child . We did not go to church. We did not go to functions. And I was not particularly excited about dressing up just to dress up. I’ll never understood the point of donning the most uncomfortable clothes to a place where productivity is paramount. But I digress. My Buster Browns were rarely worn. But, for whatever reason, my junior high school self believed ‘Buster Brown’ was a classic dig; a real zinger insult.

“Shut up, Buster Brown. I know I am, but what are you? Stupid kid say what!”

I know…witty as hell; sticks and stones may break bones, but a Buster Brown insult will bring tears and years of therapy. I used this insult for years weeks. It was my go-to BB bomb…until it blew up in my face.

Riding across the Ames parking lot towards the bowling alley to pick up a pack of $1.25 Marlboro Reds (I know, don’t judge!), a car nearly hit my friend and me. I opened my mouth to deliver the holy trinity of an insult…

“Fucking Buster Brown!”

I had released the Kraken of insults. I rained fire from both above and below! I told them…and they knew it! They had been owned by a scintillating school boy! Owned! A solid burn!

As I rode on, the car turned around. The occupant in the passenger seat jumped out to let me know how much pain the Buster Brown smack talk brought him. He produced a cold blade to my cheek as a counter insult. Touché, bitch! My only fear in that moment was I was going to be killed for the worst possible insult in my vernacular of insults. It was in this moment years later I understood tit for tat doesn’t work.

Nothing good will come from repaying stupidity with more stupid. I have been screaming “Fucking Buster Brown” for the last eight months. Not much has happened. Today, I am going to continue my ride through the parking lot to grab my pack of Marlboro Reds. I’ll own and wear my Buster Browns from now on.

On a train headed to work with Bon Jovi next to me to remind me to live life on a prayer…or Prince to remind me of the sign of the times as I question everything…or Meat Loaf to whisper sweet nothings in my ear as he rounds second base by the dashboard lights…or The Fray gifting me with one last song in Japan on how to save a life to remind me how I spent years trying to save mine…songs mean so much to me. Each song has a place, a period, or an event that was a gift in the moment and a legacy years after that evoke visceral feelings.

After I was let go, my spirit was crushed. The wind and purpose had been chased out of me. I had no artist to champion the need of a new song! Hair band cheese metal left me empty in my spandex…80’s music was unable to synthesize any feelings…my grunge days did not have enough flannel to keep me warm once I had been kicked out of home…Meat Loaf warned me there would never be any love, but it was of no comfort…U2 was unable to give me a beautiful day, and Coldplay did not fix anything…Leonard Cohen made things worse by reminding me everyone knew but me…Lily Allen did bring a smile to my face with her dirty ditty, but it did not last…but finally a champion arrived – John Moreland. I have found comfort in the words of John Moreland because I lost my way and my identity and he reconfirmed shit happens. And when it does, sometimes a gentle whisper of who we are is all that is needed.

I am a child of God. I am a husband. I am a father. I am a friend. I am a teacher. I am an advocate. Today, I am, and for this, I am thankful.

I Need You to Tell Me Who I Am

I’m staring at the sky with a lump inside my throat
I’m as green as the grass in every song you wrote
Well babe, I’m afraid I lost it before you knew I had it
Boxes full of dust are falling from the attic
I threw my love into the ocean and I found it in the sand
And I need you to tell me who I am

I got years worth of work and I’m running low on tools
I’ve been worshiping the words of weary worn out fools
We stood out on the sidewalk throwing feathers at the castle
Be careful what you wish for, babe you look a little fragile
And they’ll blow smoke in your direction til you don’t know where you stand
And I need you to tell me who I am

I never cared for anyone so much
I was born with a bomb inside my gut
You spend so long looking that you never really see
I need you to tell me what to be

Well babe, I’m afraid I lost it before you knew I had it
I only wanted one thing and I put my faith in magic
I threw my love into the ocean and I found it in the sand
I need you to tell me who I am

My keyboard has been spared the punishment of the crack of my birchen rod fingers as my writing has fallen asleep in the pew over the last few months. It has been difficult to serve at the shrine of words as I have been filled with so much anger, hurt, and disillusionment. The only words offered on the altar have been negative, vile, and vulgar. It’s not that I believe negative, vile, and vulgar to be all bad – it is therapeutic to process all that waste water into potable water – but nobody wants to read a four-letter rant everyday! I drank some fresh spring water today – and once again, it came in the form of hope amongst grief – it came at a funeral.

Last Saturday, Kannon Isham Manis, Stone’s martial arts coach, lost his battle with depression. Stone and I attended his memorial service on this windy and unseasonably warm afternoon. On the way to the memorial service, I quickly went through the typical order of a funeral service with Stone. He has never been to a funeral that he has been fully cognizant for as well as emotional vested in the person that has passed away. He had few questions, but I could see the anxiety building.

We arrived and took our seats. The church filled quickly to its capacity. So many lives were touched by Kannon – or Coach Monkey as all of his students knew him. Kannon had many students present, young and old. His father spoke of the name Kannon and how it had Japanese roots. I looked up the kanji characters when I came home and found 観音. These two characters mean “watchful listening”. Frequently, the name is translated as one who constantly surveys the world listening for the sounds of suffering. This was the Kannon I knew and the one spoke about today.

However, Kannon’s brother, Koal, spoke of the disease that took his brother’s life. As he did, no eye was dry. Koal spoke of depression as an enigma of highs and lows without logic. He spoke of battles, wars, roller coasters, and victims. It was rough to hear knowing I never knew or paid enough attention to see that Kannon. I only witnessed a skilled martial arts teacher who knew both crafts well. I knew the caring and passionate young man that would call me sir despite countless times of asking him to call me Lj. I saw the beast that came out when he was on the mat. I saw the gentleman and prince of Pride Martial Arts greet, rebuke, correct, and love kids of all ages. I saw the jokester that had fun between classes with fellow instructors. I saw the genuine concern when a student was not performing as usual. I saw one who constantly surveys the world listening for the sounds of suffering! Little did I know that those big ears Coach Epps spoke of today, only pointed out. Inwardly, Kannon had times of intense lows. He was an enigma. He was both beautiful and ugly. He was a beautiful war – the same description given to my good friend John Ross. And the war is over. The banners are laid down, the crown is won, and Kannon is now at peace with a new life. May we love more, pay attention more, and listen more! May we all know Kannon was indeed one who constantly surveys the world listening for the sounds of suffering and he no longer hears his own!