Our Silence

Oh the glory that the Lord has made

And the complications when I see His face

In the morning in the window

Oh the glory when He took our place

But He took my shoulders and shook my face

And He takes and He takes and He takes

-Sufjan Stevens (from Casimir Pulaski Day)

She stands at the sink and I stand behind her, too near for words. There's a difference between awkward silence and perfect silence, and I think this is the latter. I just stare in perfect silence. The water runs and light flows through the window shade. Her hair falls across her back in that way that seems so careless yet meticulously planned. We stand silent as everything inside me breathes in her perfections. She allows me this silence because it is perfect to her as well.

I see His face in her. Yet I dare not speak. She lives in brokenness. She would only distance herself more from the truth if I told her I see Him in her eyes. This silence communicates every word I cannot. 

She is taken from me the next day. At her wake I am now broken. Whispers tell me I should have spoken. She needed to know I see my Lord in her and the glory He has made in her. She needs to know I don't see Him as clearly any more. I stand over her graven image, once again too close for words, and my silence seems not enough.

Yet He has always worked in my heart through silence.

Maybe the silence has always been enough.

Our Silence

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Tension at the Movieplex

"I'll be the one who'll break my heart.

I'll be the one who'll hold the gun."

- Leslie Feist (I Feel It All)

"It's not that he doesn't date anyone. He's just picky." Dees is a good friend. He always knows exactly where I've been working to build up my self-esteem, and then as though manipulating a safety pin, cleverly bursts the balloon bringing me back to the reality of who I am... just me. I'M JUST ME!

A list of things I can't or won't do (you decide):

Land a triple salchow

Carry on a one-sided conversation

Smell honeysuckle

Touch my eye

Fight bulls

Attend graduate school

Fix (or find) my carburetor

Throw away post-it notes

Samba

Sell insurance

Blind date

Not necessarily a comprehensive list, but one that I've worked on now for the past several months. When I think of something I can't or won't do, I write it down on a post-it. It's a way to embrace my limitations, even if they are self-imposed. For instance, I suffer from ommetaphobia, a fear of eyes. My nightmares usually consist of a freak "lead pencil through the occular nerve" accident. I cringe at contact lens commercials. Opening my eyes in the pool? Forget about it. This condition has haunted me for years as new friends will find out and then inevitably start touching their own eyes in front of me or flipping their eye lids inside-out.

But I have embraced this small part about who I am. I'm just me - the guy who cries for twenty minutes before and after he sees the optometrist. With my post-it notes and my uni-ball roller pen (micro point) I have contractually obligated myself to accept my phobia and have moved on with life.

All this brings me back to Dees. I had recently decided that I don't blind date. This decision was not made hastily, nor was it derived from some tragic "blind date pencil through eye" experience. This resolution came through long contemplation on the subject. Would I blind date?

Even the question sends chills down my spine. There are chills of excitement:

*Finally a date with no strings attached*

*A reason to eat expensive food and drink expensive wind and not feel guilty*

*Meeting a new person who might share my list of "cant's and wont's"

There are also chills of sheer terror:

*The night might be incredibly awkward*

*I might disappoint the person who set us up when I most assuredly don't want a second date*

*Have I admitted failure in my ability to find someone whom I would love and care for and they might return the favor?*

Pen to paper. Ink to parchment. Chisel to stone tablet. Only three days before our conversation outside the movieplex had I decided blind dating was not who I was when Jessica asked me if I was interested in meeting her friend?

Have I given up yet?

Have I given up on you?

Tension at the Movieplex

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The Band Plays....

It strikes me odd that we can sit on a crowded porch of a bar listening to live music with waitresses bussing empty bottles of beer and half-eaten appetizers, between a bunch of close friends and even more acquaintances, and yet we can still have an acute sense of being alone.

They sit only 10 feet from each other, each pretending as though the C- band is the next big thing to hit iTunes - pretending as though they are mesmerized by lyrics that my 5th grade brother could write. They can not look at each other. Even a quick glance would only admit defeat... admit guilt... admit sorrow. 

And as they remain and friends slowly leave together, their dependence on the band only intensifies. Yet she wants to be here. He's here. Why would she want to be anywhere else. If he would only look at her, she would be at his feet. 

He has become a professional at gazing at her when she's not aware. He can recall in detail most all of the backs of her t-shirts. He knows she bites the cuticles on her left hand when she's nervous and rubs her forehead with her right when she's tired. He knows the pattern of the freckles on her arms and neck. But he has forgotten the color of her eyes - they have not met his in a long time.

She is alone.

He is alone.

Even in this crowd their isolation is only intensified by the tired love ballads the band is now covering. "He is the one that needs to prove himself to me," she thinks. "She is the one who needs to prove herself to me," he thinks. Yet what is to be proved? That each of them struggles with selflessness? That they both are broken?

On a porch, at a bar, it is odd that we can feel so alone when we share so much.

The Band Plays....

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