My friend is dying and things aren’t right

-posted with permission

My friend is dying and I can’t get things right, can’t get emotion right, can’t get grief right, the duration right, the proximity right, can’t get my mind right.

My friend is dying and I write nonsense about my religious upbringing because occasionally her and I enjoyed skewering our common religious upbringing.

Or I write dark notes to myself looking to squelch any sign of hope in a line just to prove life is a nihilistic walk on nails, which is to say, just to prove that life without my friend is a mistake.

I want to say transcendence is real, meaning God is real, meaning kindness is real, meaning purpose is real, meaning nothing is wasted, but can’t grasp the exact slant of inflection that would make it sound anything better than a bromide.

Which reminds me that my friend knows at cell level that truth and kindness are a package, and I recall how she showed those around her that truth was not only about reality but about timing and intent.

Which reminds me that my friend already knows, past my stumbling, the depth and height of what I mean to say, which is to say, she knows about friendship.

You see, her gift, given freely, is empathy—willing always to bend, lift, walk with others, bearing steel beams of pain and sorrow—and while it cost her greatly, there is in her no regret. And how high that banner now flies, how bright her light that adds to the human shining.

That’s why I want to preserve everything about our friendship, make it available, open crocks full in the middle of the coming winters, fill glasses, share it around.

So I make petitions at the foot of the universe, not to stay or delay death, but to beat it down, nullify it with the beauty and the bounty of her life, the life she offered and shared with her kids, her husband, her friends.

So I light candles down at the old Anglican church, little votive candles, that like all of our lives shine thinly and waver in uncertain air. (And as I write this line I feel she will like it, which makes me happy and deeply sad, for she could write lines to make you weep.)

And I speak to waves—the lively waves that reach over the rocks—and I listen to these pools full of delicate botanical mystery breathe out that her heart was too full, which made her vulnerable, which made her beautiful, which made her who she is.

Now I wake early in the monochrome mornings to check the sky for colour, check for the sun’s good fire, for birds flying and singing, for white clouds with smiling tigers, for glowing crescents of bright yellow light from a big swinging lantern, for the face of my friend.

connie&deb

A favourite picture: my friend Connie, centre, with my wife Deb to the side.

Growing up Baptist

insidechurch

I wasn’t happy growing up Baptist.
Constrained to be saved,
by the age of accountability
—generally understood to be 12—
just when things got interesting.

Just when the blooming world began buzzing.
Just when I started to notice that United Church girls
wore coloured bras beneath their white blouses.

Just when the Rolling Stones released
“Between the Buttons”
and the mini-skirt reached it’s acme and apex.
That’s when I knew Catholics had it right.

They could dance and drink, smoke and play cards
without that lake of fire lapping at their feet,
oblivious, according to we Baptists, of their lostness,
happily entering pool halls and public houses, where
in the “Craven A” haze, hair was let down.

By my reckoning, Methuselah would have had a good
130 years before the covering of ignorance ran out.
But I was late born on the pious side of a prairie village,
where all was verboten except to:
“pluck out the eye” at the flash of a thigh.

The brown fog of electoral wasteland and the excarnation of the religious right

 

As all Grow Mercy readers (the crowd in the phone booth) know, it’s not often I hold forth politically. But the spectre south of the 49th has me seeking some kind of catharsis for my internal churn. (As I was moiling, the muse burned.) Writing it out helps. The following then is a sort of purge, and so departs from the usual aim of this blog. You are therefore more than forgiven should you cease reading at this point.

uselectioncartoon

Have mercy upon the American voter: caught in the brown fog of electoral wasteland; caught by the constricting choice, or rather non-choice, of apparent soullessness or warped foolishness; caught with the option of a nod toward servitude to the grand system or acquiescence to abject loutishness; caught in the despair of either a quick or more prolonged national degradation; caught in the horns of voting for someone whose single virtue is that they are not the other person; and finally, caught by the notion, masquerading as imperative, that voting for a third party is a wasted vote…have pity.

But have more for the block of voters known as the religious right—the Christian conservative/evangelical Republican. For wave upon caustic wave of fact-less, bloviating and bilious screed, backed by uber-boorish conduct has finally flayed the faith of even the semi-conscientious—driven them to the other side, or to no side, or to seek life-support for the party itself—and has left those who have remained, de-fleshed, scrabbling and scrambling for shreds to cover their bony essence, that is: allegiance to party before fidelity to professed faith.

Seemingly, less than a generation ago, integrity of character and something called Christian conduct was hailed as the hallmark of a candidate’s qualifications. Apparently these no longer matter, or are overlooked, dismissed (as a conspiracy of lies from the other side), excused or even defended and biblically re-storied. Not long ago, a candidate of such low inclination and high exhibition would have been seen, not as viable or suitable for the office of President of the USA, but as an indictment against its very culture—not as some saviour, but as exacting judgement. At best the progeny of Crusty.

In the chilly void of ordinary decency, the clammy pressure of calculated piety, the dank sloughs of daytime gospel shows—their whitened-toothed leaders with their considerable hair urging the flock to vote triumphantly—the brown fog has swept in. Here, one might even pause to recall the Moral Majority’s or Christian Coalition’s oft and eager smears on that old devil humanism, with tears of nostalgia. I am no Old Testament scholar, but I’ve read my Amos and have imagination enough to guess what the boiled old prophet might have said about the current candidate(s). And perhaps also about those who clutch gilded KJV’s while imagining their man a modern Moses with a mic.

I realize of course that I’m an outsider with a limited view, and I have my own blinkers and biases, but the thing is, this election matters, it matters not only to neighbouring nations, but to our globe. As such, I cannot merely say, what the hell, but must say, have mercy on us all.


Early in the morning you enter my mind.

It happens like this: I’ll be sitting outside and the reclining light of a near full moon will glance off my shoulder onto my fingers and let me, make me, work these keys to find the song that will change your life.

Then, by breakfast, those words, that very tune, will slide off my toast and land on the floor sticky side down, leaving me to scour the oh-so-sober morning for meaning, for reasons, for something to give you, tell you, show you, relieve you, strengthen you, heal you.

By the afternoon, the moon is a lie, the sun is a tin ball, rolling in grey, the wind is bending windows and I see cold rain hit your back like a shotgun.

Nothing is fair.

And while I’m here, let me be clear: this attempt to bring you a galloping word to ride in the pink of a new dawn, also signals my weakness, my denial, my fear for what comes to us all. And these lines full of arms that try to hug you across the miles—might be as much for me as for you.

But know this: though frail, I will stay faithful.

For all the days of your darkness, all the dangers of earth and sky, all the dirty corners in all those clinics, all the shadows that rattle against your evening shutters, all the hunger you can’t fill, and the hunger you don’t feel, for all the sleepless middles-of-nights, waiting for light at the edge of your curtain, I will never not think of you, never not pray you rise to the given day, never not carry a weight for you, never abandon you.

sunrise