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What will it be like when you are gone, I wonder? You’ve been with us for so long. It’s hard to remember what it was like before you came.

First there was a line between two points, a single dimension. It was like living before consciousness. There was no awareness of others. No need for it. It was just the two of us, and I was happy with things the way they were.

Then you came into our world and added a new dimension. You turned a line into a triangle with three sharp points. Everything changed, and I was afraid at first. But then you became my little buddy. Believe it. I took you everywhere in those days. I carried you high on my shoulders, behind my head. Your legs dangled in front of my chest, and I held your ankles in my hands. I wanted to show you everything - the whole world.

When the news came that we were becoming a square, I felt jealous and protective. I didn’t want a newcomer to ruin our triangle. A part of me knew that there would never again be one little girl who was my buddy. But she came, and we saw that she was also good. In time we settled into a four-cornered life.

Then a third girl came, and we took on the shape of a star. In time I came to love our star-shaped family. I even made my own private constellation. I renamed the belt of Orion and began to call it The Three Sisters in honor of my little girls.

Years passed. Each November The Three Sisters rose in the night sky. I watched them and smiled. Things changed. You grew older and wiser and more interesting to me. And I got older too. My shoulders can no longer hold you, and the view is not enough for you anymore.

You were the rooster, the one who announced a new day and a new era. The end of our line and the beginning of our shapes. Reiley Rooster Simon and Schuster. I swear we used to call you that. And oh how you did fly from animals to books, from Old McDonald to Jung, from little girl to young woman.

So what are you saying? Are you saying that we’re going back to being a square again? Are you telling me that you’re going away, and you’re not coming back?

Never? Only for visits? Are you serious?

I knew this day would come, but I never let myself think about it. Never until now at the very end.

Okay, you growing up and having your own life is a good thing. I know that. But before you go, I want you to look into the night sky. Look past our beloved Orion, far above his shoulders and even beyond the red eye of Taurus that sees all. There in the blackness you will see a little teacup constellation of six stars. Many ancient people called it The Seven Sisters.

There were seven stars in this constellation once, thousands of years ago. Seven sisters, but one of them disappeared. One day someone counted, and she wasn’t there anymore. No one knows where she went. Who knows how something like that happens. Maybe it was just her time. Time for that little star to go her own way. And yet, for centuries, they were still known as The Seven Sisters. The seventh sister went away, but I like the idea that they kept the name and maybe a place for her at the table, just in case she came home for a visit.

Somewhere along the way a modern person said, “Hey, there are only six stars.” And now people usually call them the Pleiades, which is the Greek name for The Seven Sisters. But I guess it doesn't draw attention to the fact that one of them has gone her own way.

I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. In honor of you, our departing sister, I officially reject the name Pleiades. I’m going back to the old name. As far as I’m concerned, that little teacup above Orion is called The Seven Sisters.

Can I rename the stars whenever I like? Don’t ask me; you know I can.

So now it is your time. I know that. I see you chomping at the bit, ready to take your life into your own hands. This change is right and good, but it hurts more than I ever imagined. Because no matter how often people say, “Oh, she’ll come home sometimes,” and “She’ll always be your daughter,” you and I know that things will never be the same. My little buddy is leaving, and she doesn’t fit on my shoulders anymore. That’s the truth, and I resent anyone who suggests that it shouldn’t hurt like hell.

So go now, while I am being foolish and philosophical. Now is the time. Go, my strong young woman. Go right up in the face of life. Seize everything. Do not back down or back away.

Sit high above the shoulders of Orion; I want you to see everything.

rlp

Note: This is much longer than I normally write. Don’t read it unless you think you might be interested in what a day in my life looks like. Anyway, here it is.

6:45 am

Wake and make breakfast for the two younger sisters. Endure the normal morning chaos. Shelby only has one uniform skirt, and it has paint on it. Lillian needs something signed and they both need lunch money. The dog needs to go out, and I have to remember to wake Reiley in time to leave with me. Jeanene has to leave at 7:00 for some chaplain thing downtown, so she’s pretty much out of the morning madness for this day.

Shelby is supposed to take some medicine, but I’m not sure what or how much. I give her what’s on the counter, and she seems to think it’s the right stuff. Both girls have rides to school this morning.

8:00

Our second car is in the shop, so Reiley and I have to catch the bus. I’ve been in San Antonio since 1989, and this is the first time I’ve ever used public transportation. Not because I’m some kind of snob or anything; I just never think about it. Texas is car country, and your average Joe assumes having a car is a necessary part of life. And if your life and schedule are full, it is a necessity. Things are spread out here, and the bus only comes by the stop once an hour.

I’m excited about taking the bus and keeping looking down the street to see if it’s coming. My daughter is less so, possibly because the bus will be full of stone-faced, high school students, and she’ll be boarding with her grinning, experience-loving father. The bus goes insanely fast down O’Conner, and we give each other a “Holy shit!” look. A few minutes later, she puts on her game face and shuffles off the bus at the high school with the rest of the walking dead.

8:30

After the high school kids leave, it’s just me and the bus driver. I’m chatty and so is he. I pepper him with questions about the rates, the string you pull when you want to get off, his route, pretty much all things bus related. I want to make some notes, but there’s no time. I jump off the bus with a wave and walk over to Mike’s service station, one of the few full-service stations left in the world. Mike is originally from Brooklyn, and you can still tell. He’s been working on my cars since 1990, and we are on a first name basis. He is mopping the bay floor when I arrive and we chat about our oldest daughters. Both of them are seventeen and want cars.

My car won’t be ready for an hour or so. There is a McDonalds next door, and I give in to temptation and go for breakfast. McDonald’s pancakes and sausage - how long has it been since I had that? I also buy a $1 breakfast taco just to see how crappy it will be. It’s awful. I pour on some of their “picante sauce”, but that only makes it worse. How can you be in Texas and not know the difference between salsa and taco sauce?

9:00

Breakfast is over, and I have a little time to do some writing. I pop open my computer and start a diary of this day. I have no idea why I’m doing this. Maybe because without a car, I feel disconnected from my normal life. Somehow less responsible. Somehow more connected to the people moving around on the street. For some reason, I decide that I want to remember this day. All of it.

9:30

Mike calls my mobile phone. “Hey Buddy, you’re all set.”

He always says that when he calls.

9:40

Only 150 bucks; not bad. Could have been worse. I get in my car and pull out of the station, heading for the church. I suddenly remember that this is what my life is like. I don't ride buses or subways around the city, chatting with colorful characters and ending up in romantic places. I have a car, and I ate at McDonalds this morning. I have a hundred things to do, but I won’t get them done. Not today or tomorrow or any day. Ever. I will never be done.

Speaking of things needing to be done, it’s Thursday, and I need to get moving on the sermon.

I pull into the church parking lot and the magic of the morning is gone. I don’t feel bad, but I feel…just the way I always do on these days. Driven and aware of the deadlines, but wistful and dreaming anyway.

9:45

Okay, the sermon is from Luke chapter 3. John has announced the coming of Christ and the crowds shout, “What are WE supposed to do about it?”

A very good question and one that I’ve asked many times myself. I think it will be the focus of the sermon. “What the hell are we supposed to do anyway?” That would make a great title, but I’ll be a good boy. How about "What are we supposed to do about it?"

I’ll just say this about sermons. I never spend one single moment thinking about what I want to say or what I might have to say. Who the hell cares what I have to say? I only think about two things: First, what exactly is the text saying? Second, is there a way I can break this story open on Sunday morning so that my dearest friends, my brothers and sisters, cannot help but listen? All the action you need is right there in the text. You just have to shine a light on it. Who knows, maybe someone’s life will be broken open this Sunday.

It could happen.

11:00

I feel the writing thing. It’s a strong pull on my heart. I can’t think about anything else. I want to write. Right now. I want everything and everyone to go away and let me be alone with my words. The “day in the life” thing has engaged me. I think I’ll go back and change everything to the present tense. That will give it some juice, bring it to life maybe.

Something else is clamoring for my attention. This new thing I want to write. It’s another dramatized scripture story. I’ve been thinking about it off and on for a couple of months, and it’s about to be born. I’m itching to get started and I’m a littler shivery with anticipation. I’m fidgeting, bouncing my knee up and down. Forget the sermon for now. I’ve engaged the text enough to get lost in it. It’s in my head. Let it percolate now, and tomorrow pull it together.

I get to write now. Yes, yes. I’m like a kid. I can’t stop smiling.

2:00

A phone call from Reiley jerks me out of my writing. I worked right through lunch because I’m so full from that big McDonalds breakfast. She’s out of school early. The afternoon driving is beginning.

I pick her up about 20 minutes later. She sheepishly admits that she liked riding the bus. I knew she did. We make a quick stop at the house, and then I drop her off at the Optician’s office where she works after school. Back home to check on Lillian, who arrived about the same time I did. Okay, time to try to fix the clutter in the house. I make our bed and put things away in the bathroom, take dirty clothes to the laundry, etc. Then I head out to get Shelby, whose school day ends at 3:30pm. Then back home and hit the kitchen. Dammit, I did the floors the other day, and there’s already some grime down there and a noodle or two dried on the tile.

The kitchen floor is such a pain-in-the-ass.

I finish the kitchen right about the time Jeanene walks in at 4:15pm. A quick hug and a hello, then I’m out to write some more. She says maybe she’ll meet me after she gets the girls some dinner and we can do some Christmas shopping.

Cool, I have a date tonight.

4:15

I head over to Barnes and Noble. Their coffee shop is one of about 8 writing places I have stashed around the city. For some reason, I can always get good work done there. EXCELLENT, there is a seat by an outlet. Computer on; see you later.

5:45

One thing I know is when I’m done writing. I can be completely engrossed in something and in five seconds I suddenly hate writing and can’t wait to turn off the computer and do something else. I think I was ADHD before ADHD was cool. So I’m done. I got the first part of the dramatization done, but now I’m at the place where Peter and Jesus begin their dialogue, and suddenly I want out of here. I hate writing. I never want to do it again. I wonder what’s going to happen to Real Life Preacher. I guess people will eventually stop coming now that I’m no longer doing it.

Of course I don’t take any of this seriously. This happens almost every time. Tomorrow I’ll be a writer again.  

6:30

Jeanene has the girls settled down, eating dinner, doing homework, whatever, and she’s going to meet me at La Madeleine’s for dinner. I’m nuts for their potato soup. With three kids and 21 years of marriage behind us, we have to seize any opportunity to have a few minutes alone. We need that time just to remember that we are, after all, supposed to be lovers and all that.

I am dead without romance in my life. Dead and sad and so incredibly lonely. And there have been stretches of time without it. But romance takes work. And work takes time. And to have time, you have to make time, right?

7:15

Christmas shopping. I can’t post anything here because my kids read this blog, and I don’t’ want to spoil things.

9:15

Back at home and done for the day. Lillian, my youngest, is now old enough to watch the Simpsons. Yeah, we have age limitations on certain things. No Simpsons until 4^th grade. No PG-13 until you are 13. And no R until you are 17, UNLESS it is some special movie that I like and approve. For example, I let both my older girls watch The Matrix with me.

But anyway, Lillian is PUMPED about the Simpsons. I have five seasons on DVD, so she and I have been watching them whenever we can. She’s waiting for me, patting the couch where she wants me to sit.

If I’m lucky, she’ll lean into me and maybe even fall asleep. Little girl snuggles are very rare and soon to be gone. Not that big girl hugs aren’t nice, but nothing, NOTHING can ever take the place of a little girl snuggling up to you and drifting off to sleep.

10:33

A little time at RLP, reading comments and answering emails. I jump into the RLP chatroom briefly. RLP users “church nerd,” “enz,” and “spidey,” are in there. I’ve chatted with them many times and enjoy it. It’s a nice way to end my day. But I never stay long. Sometimes I feel like if I go into the RLP chatroom, it kind of spoils it. The attention goes to me, and I feel funny about that. But still, I like it.

11:30

I am done. Finished. Can’t keep my eyes open. As I lay my head on my pillow, I choose one of the things I like to think about just as I’m falling asleep. These are only for me to know - so no details. There are things you wish would happen, but they won't. And there are things that might happen, but they have not. And there are other things, things that you know but could not explain. I think about those things when I'm on the edge of sleep. It's sometimes happy and sometimes very sad.

That's it. That was a day in my life.

rlp

I was a Sunday school boy growing up. My parents took us to church every Sunday, and that weekly event included an hour of Bible study designed for children. We never missed unless we were very ill. As far as I knew, Sunday school was a normal part of childhood along with regular school, visits to grandparents, Little League, and playing in the backyard.

My father was a minister who often preached in other churches, so I sampled plenty of Sunday schools over the years. They were pretty much the same wherever you went. There would be a Bible story, of course, and lessons drawn from the text. There was usually some sort of craft project that often involved dried macaroni and might or might not be connected to the Bible story in some abstract way. There was singing on occasion and sometimes games.

When I was in second grade, my family attended a church adjacent to the seminary where my father got his degree and where I would receive mine years later. Our class was outfitted with standard Sunday school equipment. Heavy wooden tables and chairs, large cardboard building blocks colored to look like bricks, art supplies, puzzles, books, and fist-sized plastic animals that came in handy if the lesson was on Noah’s ark.

That year there was a boy in my Sunday school class named Martin. Martin loved dinosaurs and had leukemia, which we were told was a grave and serious thing to have. Martin sometimes brought toy dinosaurs to Sunday school, which made me a little jealous since I was not allowed to bring toys to church. But Martin had a serious illness, so it seemed right that some exceptions were made in his case.

Our Sunday school teacher told us that God gives a special gift or talent to every person, and that it was our duty to discover our talent and put it to use for God’s glory. The whole thing made perfect sense to me because Martin knew the name and habits of every dinosaur, so he had obviously identified and begun to utilize his God-given talent. I wondered what mine might be and began trying to discover it.

There was a spare piano in a darkened room at the church. I stole into the room and sat on the piano bench. I thought God talents would reveal themselves fully developed and ready for use. I pounded on the keys, imitating a piano player and hoping to hear music. A passing adult put her head into the room and told me to quit banging on the piano. I was frightened and embarrassed and slipped down the hall, hoping never to see her again. Clearly piano playing was not my gift. I tried other things but found no talents of any kind. After a week or two, I lost interest and went back to living my normal and seemingly untalented life.

One afternoon I found a length of bamboo in the alley behind our house. It was thicker than a fishing pole but slender enough for me to grasp it easily. I thought it made the perfect spear and spent half an hour running around our backyard, yelling and hurling the spear here and there.

Lying in the grass in the center of the yard was a large leaf. I spied this leaf and drew back the spear until my fist was beside my right ear. With a shout, I threw the spear at the leaf. By some miracle of chance it pierced the leaf and stuck quivering in the ground.

I was thrilled with myself and jumped up and down with excitement. Then it occurred to me that I had found the secret talent that God had given me. Somehow it was ordained under heaven that I should be able to throw spears with perfect accuracy. My faith in my newfound talent needed no further testing. The obvious miracle of the leaf was proof enough, and the lack of practical applications for such a talent did not occur to me.

I decided to immediately begin using my talent and enlisted the help of my little brother in setting up a public exhibition reminiscent of William Tell. My brother was about to enter kindergarten and was remarkably trusting. I positioned him in the center of our yard and backed up about 15 paces.

“Don’t be afraid, Hugh. I’m very good with spears. I’ll throw this spear, but it won’t hit you. It will fly right by your face. I’ll barely miss you. I can do this because I have perfect aim with spears.”

Hugh stood obediently in the yard, and I drew back my arm with complete confidence. At that moment my father walked out the door and into the backyard.

My father knew nothing of my passionate search for my talent. He knew nothing of the bamboo spear and the miracle of the leaf. He only knew that he opened the door of our house just in time to see me hurl a sharp stick at my younger brother, striking him an inch or so below his left eye and causing him to collapse on the lawn, screaming in pain.

When the spear struck my little brother, I was shocked and horrified. For an instant, my childish view of the world hung in the air like a cartoon character who has walked off a cliff. Then it plummeted, and I never saw the world in the same way again.

When a child’s view of the world is shattered, it is a violent emotional event. The mind reels and confusion reigns for a time. Nothing is as it seemed. If this thing you believed is not true, what other things might not be true? In that instant I gained years of wisdom. Now the whole idea of being able to throw spears accurately seemed reckless and foolish to me. I understood the grave risk I had taken. My brother and I fought ferociously at times, but I had no desire to hurt him.

Of course I didn’t have much time to consider these things because my father was headed in our direction. He covered the ground between us in about 2 seconds. He attended to my brother who, as it turned out, was bleeding a bit but not seriously injured. When he was assured that Hugh was okay, he turned his attention on me. I remember that his eyes were locked on mine and filled with anger.

“Gordon Douglas Atkinson, have you lost your mind? What were you thinking? Don’t you realize you could have put out his EYE? Don’t EVER EVER EVER do anything like that again!”

Those were the days when conscientious parents spanked their children. It was what good parents in our part of the world did. We won’t debate the question of spanking here. What I will say is that a bamboo pole broken twice over your father’s knee makes an effective paddle and is a powerful disincentive against repeating the offending behavior. We went round and round, literally.

When it was over, my brother was hustled into the house to be further cared for by our mother. I was left in the backyard. My bottom and my legs were hurting, and I had a strong but unclear sense of injustice. The whole thing was complicated and not the sort of thing a boy can easily explain to an angry father. Obviously hitting my brother in the face with a spear was a very bad thing to do. But I knew in my heart that I had arrived at the moment of transgression innocently and with good and honorable intentions. I believed that I had a talent. I felt like I was doing the right thing by seeking my gift and faithfully using it.

I never told anyone about thinking that spear throwing was my spiritual gift. I was happy to forget about it and move on. I was not a cruel boy, so I suppose my parents counted it as some kind of aberration from the norm. And yet, this event had a powerful impact on me and on my thinking. From that point forward, I was mistrustful of miraculous claims made at church. After the event with the spear, I allowed that what you heard at church might be true, but you should check these things out carefully before you put your life on the line. After all, people can get hurt.

It was a small and quiet change in my viewpoint. But it was important. It was one of the many moments that shaped me and made me who I am.

rlp

I don’t know how many of you are out there. I have some statistics that suggest there are a lot of you. A very large number of you. I try not to think about that when I’m writing. It’s hard, but I have to keep my eye on the ball. I have to pay attention to the writing and not think about the people who will read it.

But yeah, I know there are a bunch of you. Sometimes I think about you when I’m not writing. I imagine people sitting in front of their computers, their faces aglow with a blue light. I will not be able to explain this, but somehow you feel like friends to me. My Real Live Preacher friends.

That’s crazy, I know. But that’s how it feels.

It’s completely impossible, but it would be fun if we could all get together just once. I would reserve a huge banquet hall and fill it with round tables. The tables would be loaded down with wonderful bread. French loaves, doughnuts, fresh baguettes, cinnamon sticky buns, croissants, every kind of bread you could name. And there would be homemade jam, fresh churned butter, and honey too. There would have to be wine, of course. Bottles and bottles of it. More than anyone has ever seen in one place. There would be other drinks, sodas and coffee and tea. Plenty for everyone.

Children would run and play among the tables, handing out bread and getting pats on the head. After the wine had flowed, the conversation would flow as well, and just for one night we would all believe in neighbors and friendship and love.

You there. Lonely girl. Yes, I see you. Even you would come to believe. Because if you were standing around wondering where to sit, a hundred people would pull out a chair and wave you over. You would blush and your heart would pound in your chest because it feels so good to be wanted.

The buzz of a thousand conversations would throb in the air. Some people would close their eyes and sway to the ancient feeling of that sound. Listen to the Om, to the growling roll of the multitude.

After a time I would step up to a microphone. You would hear a faint, “ding ding ding,” as I tapped my fork on my glass. I would be a little nervous because for the first time I would see how many of you there actually are.

Here is what I would say:

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Many of us have traveled a long way to be here tonight. Some of our journeys were of the geographic sort, but others were journeys of the heart and the soul and the spirit. Some of our journeys are so personal that we never speak of them. Sometimes you have to travel a long way to find food and family. I know something about this kind of journey.

My mother and father are both from deep East Texas, from the little town of Livingston. They were the first in their families to go to college. They took their two boys far away to El Paso, and that is where we lived for a time. But once or twice a year, when the days were accomplished that we should be delivered, we packed our car and made the journey across the state to Livingston. We traveled east on the road and backwards in time. It was a long journey, and we were going home.

My brother and I were small boys. We fought and fidgeted our way across Texas. If I close my eyes, I can conjure up a jumble of images. Small gas stations; drinking grape soda in the sun while my father stretched his legs; spotting the glowing eyes of white-tailed deer at night; singing little made-up songs with my brother when the pine trees that marked East Texas appeared outside the windows.

Livingston seemed forever lost in a bygone era. My parents would settle back into the routine of being children and siblings. Old ways were remembered, and everyone grabbed their partners and moved in the familiar rhythms of our family’s dance.

I felt at home there, though I had never lived in Livingston. But I knew that our people were Livingston people, East Texas people, country people. The family welcomed these two confused city boys with open arms, even as they shook their heads in amazement at our tender, white feet and strange fear of fresh vegetables.

The weather was different; the smells were different; the accents and attitudes were different. But nothing was as new and unfamiliar as the food. In El Paso my mother bought our food at the grocery store. In Livingston my grandfather had a garden big enough to require a small tractor. We ate the fish he caught, the fruit he grew, and the vegetables he pulled from the ground. The fresh vegetables were strange to us at first. But in time we got used to them, and then we came to love them. It was as if this food was made for my soul. Or maybe my soul was born at my grandmother’s table.

Cream Peas were my favorite. The women would shell them on the back porch while we children played and the adults talked into the night. My grandmother would cook Cream Peas with butter and a little bacon. How can I describe the taste of them? They are like the soft, light, and buttery young cousin of the harsher, Black-eyed Pea.

The food we ate in Livingston was earthy because it had only just come from the earth. You ate the fruit of labor and land, and there were a hundred stories and traditions behind the preparing and the consuming. Country cooking is rich and fat and flavorful. It nurtures working men and women. It grows children. It makes a home.

We never forget the food of our homeland. We long for it always. I have a black, cast-iron skillet at home, and I can make corn bread if I feel a need for it. I know how to make it so that the outside is crisp and dark, but the inside is soft. I keep my eyes open for roadside stands that might sell the very rare and hard to find Cream Peas. How I long for them. Perhaps I shall have some next year in Jerusalem, or maybe in Nacogdoches.

We lived far from East Texas, but it was still home for me. In Livingston you were loved, family was close, and the food nourished your body and your soul. I never lived in East Texas, but East Texas lives in me. I cannot escape it. I will never forget it. No matter where I go or what I do, I always remember the summer nights and the laughter of the women shelling peas. I remember my people. I remember who I am and who I long to be.

So many of us have lost our sense of home over the years. Others never had a home to speak of. And that is why I say that we have journeyed long and far to be here together tonight. For those of us who are Christians, the bread and wine are symbols of something old and rich and meaningful. The bread nourishes more than our bodies, and the wine loosens more than our tongues. This meal is a celebration of the redemption we have always hoped for, always sought, and desperately needed to find. We consider ourselves to be a family in this faith.

Those of you who are not a part of our spiritual tradition are nonetheless welcome at these tables. The bread is freshly baked. The wine is rich and heady. As you share in this meal that means so much to us, perhaps you will tell us of your own journey to find meaning and to find your place in the world.

Laugh and talk and drink and be loved. Feel at home here, for the food is good and you are among friends. Eat as much as you want. Stay as long as you like. I’ll turn out the lights when everyone is gone.

That’s all.

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Then I would step down and you would not hear from me again, nor would you be able to find me. If you looked for me at the microphone stand, all you would find is a hat and a denim clerical shirt folded neatly and laid over the back of a chair. I would be gone, lost among the tables, just one of the children, just another son in this human family.

The laughing and the noise would go on into the wee hours of the morning. Slowly people would leave their new friendships and make their way to the doors. All would be comforted to have found that kindred hearts are all around us. How sad it is that we haven’t taken the time to get to know each other.

Then, when no one was left and all you could hear were the crickets, one small man would turn out the lights, lock the door, and walk alone into the parking lot. He would turn his face toward his beloved stars, wipe the tears from his eyes, and say, “We did this; and we remembered You.”

rlp

Cream Peas

Our dog Linus died in May of 2003. Jeanene and I brought him home in 1987 when we had been married for two years. I thought there could never be another dog as sweet and loving as dear Linus. It was hard when he died with his shaggy head in my hand, but it was harder watching the quality of his life diminish over the last years. Our youngest daughter never knew the Linus that Jeanene and I remember.