12

If you looked, you would see.

See the boy at 15 who had a dream.

See the boy at 17 making choices.

See the boy at 21 coming out of a deep hole of despair.

See the young man of 24 hired and working and polished and bright.

If you saw him at 15 or 17 or 24 you'd see where he'd be as 40 neared.

Thing is, he didn't see it.

I didn't see it. 

I didn't see that taking one path or making one choice here would close down options.

I didn't see that where I was going, while appealing, was not leading to where I wanted to be.

And I feel guilty.  Because now other parties are involved.  Deeply involved.  And they have a huge stake in my future.  In my path. 

And I feel guilty because others want what I've got and so shouldn't I want it, too?

And then I feel happy.  Because there is comfort here.  Where I am.  A comfort I didn't know at 15 or 17.  A comfort I was still unsure of at 24.

I used to be so nervous.  So very serious.  I would sweat a lot.  And I wouldn't talk. 
Because socially inept as I may have been, I was keenly aware that when I did talk, my mind (and mouth) went places others didn't understand.  Or appreciate.  So, I didn't talk because I hadn't learned the basics of small talk.  And I didn't want to go to that strange place. 

I'm better now.  At the talking part.  At self-editing.  My mind still goes in what must be strange directions, though they seem perfectly normal to me -- and so I just work on not saying the words.  Or tuning out the thoughts and focusing really hard on the small talk.  The smiles.  The nods. 

And so I wonder if I had followed my mind in its plan, where would I be?  Alone in an apartment with a teaching assignment at a small college? Seems like a very likely ending.  With office hours and lectures and students who found me interesting, difficult, and kind.  An apartment in an old home stacked with books and papers.  Sometimes on a date but not usually more than three with the same woman.

And there I'd wonder what would have happened had I been more deliberate.  More focused on small talk and small actions and at least understanding social norms.  Would I have a wife?  Would we have children?

And I think: Do most people do this? Do they wonder about all the possible outcomes?  Do they try and determine if they are on the best path? Or do they just go and go and go until they stop?

I think I understand the so-called "mid-life" crisis.  When you get to the "middle" or near it, you start to see what 20 or so years of being an "adult" has brought you.  More interesting, with the gift of that perspective, you begin to see the next 20.  And the 20 after that.  The ones leading up to the end.  And you think: This is my chance.  Whatever I've squandered or missed is gone, but now.  Now, I'll take that risk. Drive that car.  Chase that girl. 

So, I get it. 

And I'm on this path where I've now brought others.  And I will go where it leads.  For now.

Eleven

We've been at the mission now for 10 years.  We started just after M finished school.  I was teaching college classes and working at a church.  Now, I'm nearly 40 and she's just past 30.  We spent the whole first year in the gym.  Of course, now there's the row house.  Ours for 9 years.  The longest any tenants have claimed it as their own. 

See, we don't have children. We've seen what happens.  A couple comes, ministers, works and then has a child.  They may try and stay for a while.  But then, they leave.  It is just too much to handle with a child.  And we love the work and each other and the life we have.  We don't want to go down the same path everyone else does.  Without kids, we have options and we can serve more deeply and we can care for our work. 

We both teach now, online.  And with that plus the mission stipend, we earn about $50,000 a year.  We have no car.  The row house is owned by the mission, so we have no house payment.  You can do a lot with $50,000 if you don't have a mortgage or a car payment.  Plus, our lunches and meals on the weekends are provided by the mission. 

We've saved.  And we could buy a house if we left.  But even talking about leaving makes us cry.  We've added stability to the work.  And we've found a routine.  Still, it is hard to say we've grown the organization.  And over time, you see patterns and can predict who will be helped and move on and who will not.  Who will leave and come back.  The successes are small.  Except that absent our work, some of those we help would not survive at all. 

I sometimes think about pastoring a proper church.  A nice, small-ish congregation in the suburbs. We could buy a victorian home and have a yard and yes, a child (or two).  I could make myself what we both bring in.  Or, we could find teaching jobs at a private high school or small college.  I could enter my 40s having done more than a decade of mission work and could teach with a compelling perspective.  M could be a young, vibrant force on campus. 

We could just stay here.  Keep living in the row house.  No one stays past 40.  But we're close.  Well, I am.  Maybe staying would make us forever young.  We both run.  And she still swims -- she's wildly fit and it intimidates me some. 

I smile when I think of introducing her at my 20th high school reunion.  Selfish and silly, I suppose.  But for everyone I once knew (and those who still see me in some capacity) to see me with M.  To see that young, earnest boy turn into an earnest man who really meant what he said.  Who is still a true believer all these years later.  A fit, energetic man with a purpose. Married to M -- clearly bright, athletic, and plainly beautiful. 

In one year or two, we'll decide.  Or, the decision will be made for us. We'll have a child and then we'll move.  Or, I'll turn 40 and this will be where we are. Though we could well move to a new phase, a new row, even without the child.  Bring our selfish love to a new place. 

I smile knowing that for now and for always, M and I will be one.

11

Grossly underperforming.

Yes, I was told I was grossly underperforming. 

I didn't seem to be passionate. 

This just a few weeks after I messed up big time.  Big time.

We disagreed over whether or not I should do something.  My boss insistent that it be done.  I equally insistent that doing so was risky and ill-advised. 

I agreed to do it because she was adamant.  Then, I didn't do it.  And at the very last minute, she discovered my path of inaction. 

Had two more days passed, the deadline would have passed, all would have been well, and instead of nearly canned, I'd have been a hero.

Instead, it all came to light.  I was right, of course.  But not in her mind.  And since I had told I would and then didn't, well, that's always bad.

One month before I was told I was grossly underperforming, it was noted that I had been doing an outstanding job with a solid record of results.  This was the only feedback I'd ever been given about my work.  That it was outstanding. 

Now, I didn't seem passionate, she said.

No shit.  I took this job after six months of not having a job in the worst economic downturn in 50 years.  So, yeah, I took it.  And I was thrilled that it was paying more than I had been making at the last job I had.  At the point when I said yes, I would have taken 20 or 30 thousand less.  Just to work and get paid. 

In my first six months, I proved rather effective.  And I also learned this job required about 8% of my capacity.  So, I found diversions.  Books to read.  Articles to write.  At least once a week, I'd fire off a job application.  A couple times, I landed interviews, but no offers. 

Then, I settled in.  This was the job I was going to have and do.  I made decent money and had plenty of time to spend with my family.  We could take trips and I wasn't stressed at all. 

Until I was told I was grossly underperforming.  That it was now clear that I had not been doing all I could for the team. 

Again, if I brought my full ability to bear, we'd need about 3 less staff people.  And, I was comfortable.  I was nailing everything because it didn't require too much focus and I could get it done and do it very well.  Better than my predecessors. 

I'd often hear that it was clear I'd leave sometime soon. 

And then.  This.

So, job applications went out.  Some to jobs I didn't want at all.  But, I had to get out.  She knew when I came in and when I left every single day. 

My lunch hour was monitored. 

I couldn't leave to do the things that so often resulted in good outcomes for our team because if I left it was assumed I wasn't working. 

There were a couple times when I thought of just walking out.  Like I had done one summer when I got tired of a crappy job where I'd been mistreated.  No one every talked to me there, and one day, mid-shift, I just walked out. 

I didn't walk out, of course.  I just kept looking for jobs.  And coming in right on time and leaving right on time and taking exactly one hour for lunch every single day no matter what. 

10

I walk into the Dollar General Store. 

The one I walk past nearly every work day.

The one with the clear scent of despair begging you to come inside and share.

I walk in.

I go to the refrigerator and grab a glass bottle of something.  Snapple, I think.  Lemon Tea.  I actually kinda like Snapple Lemon Tea.

I take it to the back of the store near the diapers.

I pour the entire contents on the floor so they seep under the shelf and into the next aisle. 

I go the back corner and smash the bottle on the ground.

No one comes back to the back and I slip into the far aisle, two away from where the spill is.

I browse near the candy.  I like candy.

I grab a glass jar of Planters Peanuts.  Nuts go great with tea. 

I walk to the middle section.  Near the cokes.  Or, some people may call them sodas or pop or whatever. 

I dump the full contents of a jar of peanuts onto the stack of cokes.  Then, I take the empty jar back to the back, opposite corner, and smash it.  I can still see the shards of glass in the dimly lit corner on the other side. 

I walk toward the front.  I pick up a bag of pretzel M&Ms.  And then another bottle of Snapple Lemon Tea.  I pay for the items with a $20 bill and hand 37 cents to the guy standing near the line of people who just needs 50 cents, he says, to buy his lunch.  Now, he just needs 13 cents. 

I walk out of the store and smile.  I have always wanted to be destructive.  I've dreamed of walking in and tearing everything down in a grocery store or dollar general store.  This was more clandestine.  Black ops, I guess.  I've wondered what would happen.  Would they ask me to leave? Would they call the police? 

These are the thoughts that wander around in my head as I walk.  My life full of a good-paying job and a comfortable home and ample time to consider things like how I can be destructive at the crappy downtown store.

I can't seem to figure out what to do with all the ideas in my mind.  Should I write them down? Or act on them? Or leave them alone until a later time. 

Tomorrow I will go back to the Dollar General Store.  I'll buy a Lemon Tea and keep eating on the pretzel M&Ms I purchased today and left in my desk drawer.

That will be the highlight of my day.  The rest is really unreportable.  Unremarkable.  And I will go on.  Another day, another week.  The next year.  Perhaps in 3 months or 3 years, I"ll be similarly destructive.  Or, so busy with activity I won't have the time to devise such schemes. 

For now, I'll smile inside each day when I visit ... or even pass ... the Dollar General store downtown.

Nine

M is an athlete.  A swimmer.

I'm not an athlete.  I write.  And I speak.  And I cause problems. 

But, because she swims, I run.

Her body is lean and lovely and tan.

Even when running and lifting weights, I'm trim and fit, but certainly not muscled. 

I enjoy running. The clarity it brings.  The focus required to do it well. 

You can't just pick up and run a half marathon or a marathon. 

You have to prepare.  To have a long-term focus.

That's what I like about it.  The focus.  The looking beyond where I will be tomorrow or even next week. 

Race day brings excitement.  An opportunity to put your training to the test.  Will you be faster than last time?  Will you comfortably address challenges of weather or unforeseen obstacles? Will you stay on pace, or get carried away and lose focus? 

Because I run, I understand her swimming.  Sometimes, she runs with me.  Sometimes, I swim with her.  But truly, we enjoy our solitary pursuits.  And I recognize she is a true athlete.  I'm a bit of a hobbyist. 

The pleasures we enjoy are simple ones.  Physical exertion in our young, able bodies.  A good meal on Sundays.  Reading.  Teaching.  Looking ahead from this point, there is little else we need. 

Will we grow into the mature, established leaders of this mission?  Will we be the ones who introduce the new, young couple to the community around us?  Will we show them the room in the gym that will be theirs until the apartment is available ... until we've moved to a house outside the city to begin our semi-retirement?

Or, will we see bumps and detours that take us away from what is for now sheer bliss? 

In either case, she swims.  I run.  We meet after showers.  A quick meal, some reading, and lovemaking before bed and another day of the same sweet, simple existence.

Eight

I sometimes feel as if there is something wrong.  With me.  Deep inside.  If something happened about which I'm not fully aware.  As if there was a traumatic event that happened but that I've somehow supressed. 

Is something wrong?

I'm not sure.  Something doesn't feel right.  I used to feel.  I remember feeling.  I remember a time when a song came on in the car and I had to pull over I was crying so hard.  I don't even remember the song now.  But I used to feel.   Now, sometimes, a song will hit me.  Or words.  Or a scent.  And I'll have a memory or a thought.  But I don't feel. 

So, that's clearly not good.  But not bad. 

I wonder if it is just aging.  I'm not old, not even 40.  But I remember feeling things more intensely just a few years ago. 

Maybe it is just that the path is steady now.  Has been for a time.  You know, you keep cruising down the same bumpless path, you get comfortable.  Possibly complacent.  Maybe you lose your capacity to feel?  Or maybe you just avoid the bumps or the detours that create feeling?

Are the people I pass on the street feeling the same way?  How do they experience the world?

What if I had taken an alternate path?  At the beginning, there are so many choices.  Almost too many.  Some are very, very similar.  Some are vastly different than others.  Some allow you to rejoin a previous path, others take you far away from certain choices. 

When you are standing there, with 50 paths before you, it is difficult to choose.  But also, you feel secure, confident.  You know you'll be fine. 

Once you go just a little way down the path, you may come back.  You may see other paths that veer off.  And you take one.  And now you can't go back and certain paths are closed. 

Would I feel more if I had chosen more deliberately the first time?  What doors would have closed had I walked down a path that now seems like it would have been a better choice?  What detours and obstacles would have arisen on that path?  Or the one next to it?  What am I not seeing?

The thing is, it is impossible to second-guess.  You can only go forward, because all the paths end up the same way.  But the journeys can be slightly or vastly different. 

So now, here I am.  This is the path I'm on because it is the one I've chosen to be on.  Sure, I've made an attempt or two to get off.  But basically, the path is my choice. 

I can now see more of the journey than I understood when I first started.  Can see the small choices that have now closed certain paths and opened others. 

I still feel as though something is wrong.  And I write these words because they want to get out, but I'm not at all certain it is wise.  It all sounds very typical. 

Everything is good.  And I don't feel anything.  And I wonder how long that will last. 

Seven

I drive the narrow two-lane road into town.  The town where I grew up.  On the very street where I drove to and from work in high school.  Where I drove if I wanted to leave town.  Where I drove to come home from college. 

Tweny years ago, I was driving on the same road.  I'm quite certain I was listening to the same music.  The songs that were so new and fresh and wonderful at the age of 17 brought back brightly packaged memories.  Stinging pain and sly smiles.  A sense of wonder.  A question:  How did that young man from 20 years ago turn into this full-fledged adult?

Sitting in the car with me, my wife and daughter took in the familiar sites.  I was aware that my daughter was making memories.  That driving into this town with these songs might be forever etched in her mind - or might become part of a faded set of general memories of going to see Grandma. 

I was transported to my own long ago treks to see my father's family.  Of the long drive and the turn off the highway exit that meant we were merely minutes away.  I wondered how my daughter would remember these trips.  I wondered if there would be a time when this would be our home.  When I would go home again and build a new life based on the strong foundation of my current one. 

I became keenly aware of being 17.  Of that time when there were no worries.  I went to school and I went to work.  The summer 20 years before this one was easy and carefree.  There were camps and work days and college decisions. 

At 17, I often thought of my future.  Of the time when I would fall in love.  Of the time when I would be married.  When I would become a father.  Now, those times have passed.  That innocence and wonder is gone.  In my daughter, I find it again.  A sense of wonder.  Her approach to the world reminds me of my own.  Of the way I looked at things -- even at 17. 

I also thought of the day when my world changed.  I was 13.  A phone call came and my mother answered and my life would be forever different. 

I wondered if my daughter would ever face such a time.  If at 10 or 15 or even as soon as 7 -- would there be a call or an event that would take away a bit of her innocence? 

But I recall that by 17, my life was my own again.  The change happened, I adapted and moved on, and I was bright, innocent, open. 

Now, I can more clearly see the future.  More drives in on the two lane road where nothing much changes.  More songs and memories.  More wonder about what's next.  More awareness that what's next is more of the same.  That a lot happens very fast from 17 to 25.  Then, nothing.  You get on a path and stay there.  Sure, it's a good path.  Straight and clear with only a few manageable bumps. 

Do I want to stay on this path? 

What have I done?

What will I do next? 

Will I claim this life as mine? Or, will I get off the path and move to a new one?  Will I change scenery and stay the course?

What if the potential change I see is not the change I really need?  What if I don't need a change at all?

Perhaps, in spite of a clear vision of the next 20 years, there's a surprise.  Of course there is.  But, will it force me off the path?

I keep driving and pass my old church, my former school, and arrive home. 

Six

I met M's family just two weeks after we were engaged in a Kroger store.

I hadn't told anyone -- most people who knew me, including my then-girlfriend, assumed I'd be proposing to her over that Holiday break.  My family thought I was going to visit her just before Christmas. 

M and I had agreed, after the euphoria of that night calmed, that we would marry AFTER she graduated in a year. 

Her family was large.  Not her immediate family, just M and a sister. 

But the extended family with whom they visited.  They also enjoyed wine in large quantities.  Something new to me at family gatherings.

Her father, a retired prison warden, lived away from the family until the last year, when his assignment was complete. 

Her mother had worked secretarial jobs off and on to stay busy and to make friends, especially once the girls had been safely engaged in college. 

They were a beautiful, fun family.  Somewhat less "proper" than my own extended family, at least on my mother's side.  But delightful and fun. 

Of course, they were incredibly curious about me.  Her mother did report hearing about me quite often.  Otherwise, I was a mystery. 

I had secured a decent job post-grad school and was doing ok, but -- what did I want to do long-term?  Where would M and I live?

We survived the couple days of scrutiny and her parents were assured when they saw us together, alone.  There was that fuzzy, magic feeling of new love and also the comfort of being with someone you feel you've known forever.

I knew I had difficult days ahead, though.  A woman who had expected a proposal, who soon would start asking for one or would withdraw from our relationship. 

Would I tell her what had happened?  Or, just let it go.  Let the two of us become a thing of the past.  A memory. 

Nothing was wrong with us, really.  We got along well.  We connected on many levels.  And yet, this ... thing with M felt right.  Impulsive? Sure.  But right. 

And it made me realize that I was alive.  In a way I hadn't before.  I knew I could pursue my dreams.  Follow them whereever they took me.  And she would be there. 

And so I drove home.  Alone and quiet.  I played no music on the three hour, scenic drive that took me to my mother's house. 

After the new year -- not sure how soon after -- I would tell her that I was engaged.  And tell her more about M. 

She would understand, in time. 

My happiness would be her key. 

Five

I wonder when the revolution will come.  I walk by the homes with the perfectly manicured yards and I wonder when they will all be set on fire.  Will they know that inside, I am one of them?  Or, will mine go down in flames, too?

Despite the pending revolution that I'm convinced is closing in on me, I can't leave.  Could not dream of leaving.  Ok, I can dream of it.  Do dream of it often.  Of leaving.  Walking away.  Or driving away.  Far, far away.  Of course, the eternally wise Harry Chapin reminds us that "you can travel on 10,000 miles and still stay where you are." 

I used to drive by houses just like this one and wonder what it'd be like to live in one.  To have a comfortable life.  To take beach vacations.  To take any vacation.  To do more than work a 12-hour shift and then another just to have barely enough. 

Of course, I deserve to be here.  I went to college and beyond.  I worked hard (and still do).  This is what is supposed to happen. 

But my heart is not here.  Not today.  Not tomorrow. 

Ok, in fairness, a big portion of my heart is here.  And this is the place I chose.  I chose it by opening some doors and (forever?) closing others.  I walked a path directly here.  To the place where the fires will burn big and bright during the revolution. 

Ours will go early, because we are close to the homes of those most justifiably angry.  Close enough to taunt them with what they cannot have.  Close enough that they drive by every single day on their way home.  And dream.  And spite.  And say to themselves that when the revolution comes, they're going to burn us down to the ground. 

We taunt them with family budgets that include sprinkler systems running day and night, luxury cars from Germany and Japan, high-end security systems, a carefree approach to shopping. 

We see them at the restaurants on Sunday and we tip them small amounts.  We mumble about not understanding why people have to be tipped.  And say things like it's their fault they got this shitty job and why is it my job to give them tax-free income? 

We make them take our groceries to the car, we complain loudly when we're not next in line, we yell at them because they didn't award our child the grade we know she deserved. 

We laugh at the sad, aging cars that carry them on their way.  We point out glibly that we give to the local food pantry and toss away our lightly used polo shirts to Goodwill.  We don't even take the tax deduction, we're so generous. 

And so, when the revolution comes, we'll burn.  Or at least, our houses will. 

Four

I'm buttoning up my white shirt.  Easing up the knot on the black tie.  Now putting on the dark grey suit.  M is watching in her black dress.  The same one she wears every week with a pair of smart black pumps.  She always watches me dress.  Well, always on Sunday. 

We are both lean and reasonably fit.  We walk everywhere and eat at the community center and rarely indulge in any sort of meal away. 

I walk with her to the community center.  This is always the happiest part of any week.  The Sunday morning sun as we hold hands and walk. 

Inside, there are 20 or so people.  Sometimes as many as 30.  All in their best.  Despite dirt and evidence of hard work and hunger, they all look eager.  There are just a few men and one of them has on a tie.  The women all have dresses. 

We have a community meal after service, and that's why many of them keep coming.  It certainly can't be because of my rousing sermons.  I'm typically measured, reserved, and thoughtful.  M loves to see me.  She says it is like a performance. She says she can see my heart when I speak.  She says this is why she said yes.  This is what she saw, had seen that convinced her that if I would but ask, she would agree. 

After lunch, M and I make love.  It is always best on Sunday.  Sometimes, she barely lets me get undressed.  I remain amazed at her.  At her body, her desire after almost 10 years of marriage.  My desire is strong, too.  I want her more than anything.  Want her happiness the most.  It is always twice on Sunday.  After the service and meal and before we go to sleep.  Some weeks, that's all there is.  Twice on Sunday.  But most of the time, we'll find a few moments on a Tuesday or sometime on Friday evening.  Or, I'll come in from a long, hot day of trying to recruit new church members and before she can even serve the meal she's prepared, I'll kiss her so hard she knows.  And then, in the narrow hallways of the row house, against the wall or on the floor, we'll unite.  I'm amazed at how our bodies respond.  How we connect again and again and again.  How sparks seem to fly.  How perfect she feels.

I dream at times of a new way.  A decent-sized home with a yard and some pets or maybe even a child.  A car -- maybe both of us could have cars? Some more dresses and shoes for her.  A new suit for me.  A life that includes a sometimes vacation at a place with sandy beaches.  Or a hike in the mountains. 

But then, the night comes and my body aches with a need for sleep.  And the beep beep beep beep of the alarm hits too early and we go on about our work and I smile and laugh and love this life.  And when I am with her, just sitting bed reading, I want nothing more.  But this one thing:  For this to last forever. 

And then I meet Mark or Carol or Jenna on the street at their usual places and I smile and we talk and they smile.  Sometimes, I take one to eat at Subway and we talk about getting them a place at least at the community center and helping them find work.  Sometimes, they want my help.  M works on applications with them and I make sure they get up and turn them in, make sure they show up to the interview. 

Sometimes, they're just hungry.  But they all have stories and tales and sadness.  Infinite sadness. And we share that, all of us.  The infinite sadness binds us and brings us to a place of understanding, and sometimes of joy. 

This can't last forever, I know.  Or, I think.  Or there has to be more.  Or, really, we can't raise kids like this.  It's just not fair to them.  But now.  Right now, this is forever.  This is the best. This is all I want.

Three

I stood essentially paralyzed on the cool white tile of a Kroger store.  In my car was a diamond engagement ring I had just picked up.  The evening was growing late, the night sky clear, dark, and lacking moisture.  It was early December.  In a matter of weeks, I would be asking the woman I'd been dating for nearly three years to be my wife. 

I had stopped in for some ice cream as I was craving a late night snack.  I was high on adrenaline and satisfied with how my plan was unfolding. 

And then, I was paralyzed.  M was there.  Walking out as I walked in.  Her dark hair framed her face and her darker eyes shone brightly in the harsh store light. 

We met through a campus organization.  She was still involved and I was working my first "real" job.  I attended the meetings for the sole purpose of seeing her there.  On the rare occasions she wasn't, my heart felt heavy.

We'd also run into each other in the library.  I used the college's computers as I didn't have one of my own.  We also had pleasant, if not intense conversations around school, politics, and our work/school activities. 

At that moment, I was paralyzed.  Immediately, I wanted to take the ring from my car, get down on my knee, and ask her to marry me.  I could think of nothing else.  I don't recall what I said.  I certainly didn't mention the ring in my car or my plans.  Though I know she knew of my girlfriend.  I recall the look on her face the day she asked me what I was doing one weekend and I told her I was traveling to see my girlfriend.  She made a few pleasant comments and then left.  She never mentioned the topic again. 

I still remember the overwhelming feeling in my heart -- that feeling that said beyond doubt "you should marry her." 

As she walked out, I stood for a moment in awe of her presence and the intensity of my feelings.  I walked to the ice cream freezer.  Made a choice.  Walked back to my car.  I did these things without thinking.  The cold night air brought me to some sense of reality.  In the car, I admired the ring I had purchased.  I thought about the night I would ask my girlfriend to become my wife.  I thought about M. 

M and I continued to be friends.  To exchange emails.  She once invited me to a dinner with her sister.  But I didn't say yes or no and on the day of, sent her a message saying I couldn't make it. 

She told me of her life, of her family, of the sometimes dates she would have. 

And then in my inbox, some seven years after I'd met her, there was a message.  It was from her account. 
It was her mother.  M had been killed in an apartment fire.  She had lit a candle in her bathroom and apparently gone to bed with it still burning.  The flames ignited the shower curtain and the bathroom and apparently she was unable to get out before it overtook her room.  No one else in the apartment building was hurt.

Her mother noted that I was among a group of friends she had spoken of favorably and often. 

I re-read the message again and again and again.  I cried.  I took a long walk in the summer sun.  I cried more on the way home.  I cried the next day as I opened my email inbox and saw the message, with her name, sitting there.

I still have that message.  I read it from time to time.  And I'm reminded of the poems we shared, of the clear connection we had, and of my inability or unwillingness to act "in the moment" at that Kroger store. 

Going out, getting the car, getting the ring... asking her.  Then explaining why I even had a ring in the car and why I felt the way I did would have been too much.  It was a door too heavy to open.  I didn't even knock.  Didn't even indicate I wanted to come in.  Stayed at a safe distance. 

Because knocking might have meant a messy situation.  A breakup with a woman for whom I had strong feelings.  A period of uncertainty.  A response that I didn't want to hear.  It seems unlikely that M would have said "yes, I'll marry you."  But it certainly seems possible that just by asking, more might have been offered.  Or, that I ignored a clear, strong feeling of the heart and should have followed its messy path to explore the potential of M. 

As long as she was alive and there were emails and meetings, there was hope.  Maybe some circumstance would bring us together.  And of course, my life with my wife was going amazingly well, so the need to follow that call grew weaker. 

Now, I will never get an email from M.  Never hear her voice or stare into her deep, brown eyes.  I had a moment.  I was given a chance.  And I froze. 

Two

The people point and make sounds.  They want to go over there or eat here or watch that.  The sounds don't matter.  The noise is purely functional.  The sounds are forgotten as the doors of the Dollar General open and the stale, desperate breath creeps onto the sidewalk.  And I am reminded.

I am reminded of the time I was walking into a Dollar General not too far from this one -- maybe 30 miles north, and the smell reminded me of a Dollar General in a town near where I grew up.  I am reminded that I am often reminded. 

As I ran the other night, I was reminded of a night like that one several years before when I was running next to the homes on a quiet street.  While running on a quiet street and thinking about the homes, I was reminded of the homes we used to drive by when I was a kid.  And so, the other night, while running, I was reminded of that night several years ago when I was reminded of riding around in a car dreaming of what it would be like to live in a home like one of these.

And I realize that now I am often reminded.  That I rarely just experience events.  That the heat from the sidewalk this June feels like the heat from the sidewalk last June and that I'm rarely present.  I'm often drifting into a seemingly distant past.  That I'm left wondering what happened to the last year.  What happened to the time when I sat on a hot, black metal bench and felt the sting of heat? Why am I doing it again? And why can't I just have that one moment? 

I do things like turning the radio up super loud and rolling down the windows so I can get lost.  So for one moment, for thirty seconds or even a full minute I can be here.  Experiencing the song, the music, the scenery as if for the first time.  And then, I am reminded.  Of driving to college and listening to this same song with the windows down and smiling and laughing. 

The number of new experiences seems to be dwindling.  The period of wonder and discovery is growing into a period of knowing and waiting.  Even before I hit 40, friends from high school and college have died. 

The number of years between what I call "total happiness" experiences is growing.  1993 shows up twice, 1994 is on the list, 1995, 1996, 1999, 2000, 2006, and 2011. There may have been more before 1993, but I'm thinking of my adulthood, mainly. 

There have been a number of truly good experiences to go along with the euphoric moments.  Perhaps I could have had more euphoric moments had I made different decisions?  Perhaps I'd also be reminded of different things?

I feel as if I stare at the future knowing almost exactly how it will unfold. Somewhat absurd, sure.  But, in the past, I stared at the future and had no idea what might happen. I knew certain events would occur (marriage, children) but didn't know when or how.  Couldn't see them.  Now, I can see the progression of a marriage, the growth of a child, my own aging process.  I can see a career path and I can see the doors I opened and closed with various decisions. 

And so the people point and make noises and Dollar General breathes on all of us as the hot sun burns the memories of the time I walked past a Dollar General and was burned by my memories. 

1

I am not supposed to be here.  I belong in a row house in Baltimore.  I should have all my belongings in that house.  One clean, nice, dark grey suit.  A white shirt.  A black tie.  One pair of black dress shoes.  Two pairs of black socks.  I wear this outfit on Sundays when I preach at the community gym just a few blocks down from my house.  Otherwise, I have a pair of tennis shoes, a couple pairs of khaki pants, one warm sweater, and some t-shirts.  I have a simple desk and a laptop, but no home internet access.  To go online, I go to the coffee shop – my de facto office.  I take meetings there all day and night.  Rarely leaving the double table in the back corner.  At home, I use the computer to write.  With no distractions.  I sleep maybe 4 hours a night because I have to write and I have to get ready and I have to be up and people are counting on me. 

But, I’m not there now.  I’m here.  Here where I pass a Dollar General downtown from which emanates the soft scent of despair.  Recognizable, painful, and definitely Dollar General.  Even the Dollar General stores in the suburbs take you to another world.  Gently hopeless.  Not oppressive or angry or hungry.  Just hopeless.  Softly breathing the scent that says, “not today.”

A woman at the counter pays with coins.  Puts an item back (a loaf of bread) because she only has $2.10 in dimes and nickels and I stand and watch; a fresh twenty dollar bill in my wallet, a pack of gum and a Big Red in my hand.  And this despair seeps onto the street, announcing “not enough, but it will do.”  Whispering, more than announcing.  Beckoning those with a few coins or a newly won dollar bill or the remnants of their weekly check, cashed on Friday and mostly gone by Tuesday. 

But I don’t live downtown.  No urban life of clubs and shows and entertainment and apartments with views and pools.  No, I don’t have to stay with those who put back the bread they were going to use for sustenance until Friday comes again.  I live in the leafy suburbs. The land of plenty.  Ugh, such a horrid cliché.  But true, really.  By plenty, I mean comfort.  A place to hide.  To pretend that your own misery isn’t that miserable and that the hungry, hurting people you see aren’t real. 

But I’m not supposed to be here.  Not at all.  That’s not where I was heading.  Not where I’m stopping.  Except I have stopped.  I watch, I critique, I write about the comfort that sucks you in even as I’m sucked in, ensconced, unable to escape. 

And why would I leave? To go to a place with one tiny bedroom, a closet, just one suit and a few aging clothes?  To be needed, desperately sought out but not really compensated.  Why would I want that as my existence until I’m too old to take care of myself? 

So, I am here.  Lulled to sleep.  Lured into a fuzzy, flexible morality.  Not really certain of … anything. 

There, where I am supposed to be, I know.  I know who I am and what I stand for and what I’m doing.  But, I’m not there.