while reading father fiction on a train

So I have this weird story about the way my dad died, and how it affects my life even now. But it starts before he died, and less than the 40something years ago when he was born.

My dad's part of the story background (roughly highlighted): My parents divorced when I was 11 (in 1989ish). It was messy. He was an ass. My mom lost it. I lost the big chunks of familiarity and safety I'd had (imagine being a single sliver of cheese tossed in a fallen Tupperware bowl, and then the lid being popped off). It was better for all involved. No. Really.

Not too long after that, he found someone else who was by far the most stable lover he'd ever had. He called me the day he married her, roughly 5 years later. I told him my brother was with me, so if I came to the wedding, so would he. My dad didn't see any reason for that to happen. I said, 'if you can't admit that you have two kids, I don't see any reason for you to have any.' He agreed with that statement. I hung up. He disappeared until he died.

My part of the story background: My friend, Jan, recommended a book in May 2006 called, "Blue Like Jazz." We read it, and I had an insta-crush on the writer, Donald Miller. Here, in a book, was everything I'd thought or felt or just needed words for; why I was a Christian; why I was a liberal and why the two mattered, even though there were times they were more vicious than ex-lovers in a fight over the kids (aka my soul). I still lack words for the doors that book opened.

So, there I was, a girl with a book. Fast forward on the Life TiVo, and Miller released more books; Jan and I read them. One weekend, there was a book convention here in town. I'd borrowed a book from Jan, and kept it long enough it could've been called mine. To thank her for being a cool hippie chick that didn't grieve me for keeping it, I took the book to be signed by Miller.

There I was in line, a person away, all jangled nerves and golly-Mr.-Miller's-gonna-sign-my-book. I was 16 all over again, but gawdier and painfuly twitterpated. He asked for my name, and I blanked. (Yeah. I know. Shut up.) I said, Amber? And that was the name that went into my friend Jan's book. (Score.) Thankfully, there was a stack of the same book within grabbing distance, so I did.

Jan got a book, a story, and a laugh.

My dad did whatever he did that was his life.

Then, one morning about a year ago, I was on the train going into work, reading Father Fiction, a re-released/updated version of another of Miller's books. I got into work, and there was an e-mail in my work e-mail from my mom with the subject line 'Call me.' That's weird, I thought, I live with her; it couldn't wait? I called on a break, and roughly the time I'd plugged solidly into Miller's world of uncertainty, my dad's motorcycle had plunged into gridlocked car on one of the major highways in Dallas.


Three days later, I went to the funeral for a man I wouldn't have claimed to have known otherwise.
Now, a year later. My stepmother grieved, still does. She and I have gotten quite a bit closer than we were. It's good, but still very new and... sensitive for both of us.

So... here's the weird part.

The lawyers and the insurance have settled, and my brother and I are due some money that my stepmother was kind enough to let us know about and pass along, too. It's enough that I could give a chunk of change to my church, another chunk to a worthy charity, go to Portland, OR for a week, attend an annual writers' conference faciliated by Miller, and spoil myself rotten in a city full of hippies 'n' foodies.... and still have enough to give to my mom to pay off a debt. 



So, in other words, in death, my dad will take care of the son he didn't want to admit was his - for life. And I, the daughter who never really could be the engineer he'd hoped she would be, can go meet one of the people who could show her how to be better writer. 

But Jan can't go. Ironically, the person who was the reason Miller and I met at all has so much life stuff happening, she can't get away. Last time, she got a new book, a story, and a laugh; I can only imagine what she might get this time.

bunnies, tombs, and intentional grace

It's finally Easter. Time for pretty clothes, chocolate bunnies and giving up whatever we gave up for Lent.

I have a confession: I rarely go to church on Easter. I tend to make it all the other times of the year, and with all the people that show up just at Christmas and Easter (two-timers), it's just not worth the hassle of showing up early, parking far, dealing with all the cars leaving at the same time, yadda, yadda.

So, yeah, I don't go.

I've covered it up with pretty reasons for the past few years. My mom, for a while, opened our house for whoever wanted to pop by. She made gobs of food, and we never really knew who may pop by, who they may bring. I called it our community Easter, and because I was such a good daughter, and my mom needed help, I couldn't possibly make service, too. Darn it.

After that, because so many of my Christian friends didn't go to church on Easter, too, it was easy to just not go. We'd find other ways to spend the day - some stayed home to make food for visiting family, others would go see a movie.

I told myself it didn't matter, that God understood. After all, Jesus loved Jacob and he was a BRAT, so He'd totally understand. I loved Jesus on Easter, I just loved Him in a different place.

But that's not the truth, and one thing I do know Christ longs for and appreciates is truth; especially He is Truth.

So, here's the truth.

My family didn't celebrate holidays when I was a kid, so I didn't (literally) know what I was missing. I thought you went to church because that's what you do when it's Sunday. I went to school because it was Monday, and cleaned my room because it was dirty. Church was a function; Easter and Christmas, opportunities to attract new souls to the church.

So, my Easter had no pastel colors or chocolate bunnies. And not being a super girly girl, anyway, I really didn't understand why that was part of the celebration. It was like I was a Native Alaskan trying to feel a spiritual connection to aloe vera because someone said it makes sunburns hurt less.

But... I really do try to love Jesus, even when I don't understand. And here's what I do know about Easter.

Today's Easter. Today's the day that Christ rose from a horrific death, three long days in a fresh tomb. Today's the day the eternal debt of dark was paid.

Today is the reason for Good Friday; the reason Christ even came to Earth in the first place.

Today remembers that Christ died, Christ rose again, Christ will return. Today's not a day of hollow bunnies, and it's supposed to be more than just a reason to go shopping and make a ham.

Easter is the day for hard things, of victory, and of grace so big death can't contain it.

For grace; for a God Who loves so lushly He sent His son when other gods sent prophets or mere mortals; for the One I love not nearly well enough; for all these reasons, I can set aside my fear and pride.

I'll drive across town to be surrounded by people I don't know when I'd rather curl into a ball in my bed. I'll consider others' intentions before judging their actions. I'll accept that because of Easter my dark, hollow soul finds its home, and something eternally more pure to fill it.

The tomb is empty. I am filled. Happy Easter.

good gothic friday

Two days until Easter, and I seem surrounded by death. Not the usual way to greet a holiday known by pastel colors and chocolate. But... it is Good Friday.

The church I attend had a very unique, almost Gothic service. In the soft sunset, the doors opened to an empty, dark platform. The usually colorful piano was covered in dark mourning cloth with a rough-hewned cross just behind the prayer rail. Standing on the communion table were white candles in silver holders, and the only color in the space came from the stained glass windows.

As the service progressed, the candles were snuffed out, one by one. Softly, in a mournfully subtle way, the space seemed to grey and shrink. One song was sung by our music leader. Her usually rock sensibilities flavored the air with a weighty longing. Then, two songs were sung by a handful of congregants, accompanied by a cello or guitar.

It felt like a particular kind of memorial service, as if we weren't mourning the loss of just one wise teacher, a single man, but the loss of all light in the world. Sitting there, as more color bled to foggy grey, it was easy to imagine a night where a small band of followers, left leaderless and alone, scattered in fear. 

Why is this day called "Good"?! What is good about it?!

Ok, I get that we couldn't have Easter without Good Friday. And there's a stark beauty to Christ's willingness to suffer through one of the most horrendous ways to die.

But that choice was made in the Garden of Gethsemane. The wonder of Easter for me has always shimmered in that moment, in that Garden, when Christ sees what will happen, knows the cost, and who will betray him, and just bluntly states, I don't want to do this... but if it's the only way to save those who matter most to Me, I will.

After that point, though, there's a lot I don't understand. Did He really have to be arrested after that? Did He have to be flogged, then die of a broken (or ruptured) heart? And while He's bleeding profusely, beaten up and bruised, did the Romans have to offer Him vinegar to drink? I mean... that's just... MEAN.

How is any of that.... good?

How does any of that make this day worth remembering?

I don't mean to sound ungrateful; I'm honored and humbled God would go to such lengths - for anyone. Ever. The fact that He did it for me, as scarred and stubborn as I am, is... staggering.

But I wouldn't wish my worst enemy to be crucified. Then, though, to be mocked and maligned, purposefully hung up naked in front of His mother while crude, rough soldiers gamble for the clothing they just took from Him...?

Just... Really?!

I sat in a beautifully aged building while the sun set in East Dallas. A service was prepared to make me think and ponder and wonder the height and the depth and the breadth of God. Pretty white candles in shiny silver holders were snuffed out, one by one.

The pastor asked that we leave in silence, but that was fine, since I had no words. I couldn't wait to leave, to escape the weight of such... presence.

Two days until Easter, and I am haunted by a choice made in a garden, by a Man and a Tree.

vampire sparrow christian

Parking downtown, surrounded by old factories and new curvy steel, is an experience. Space is limited – and valued, as evidenced by all the parking lots and meters along any area large enough for the thought of a car. (I suspect that’s the real reason the cops give tickets for loitering; if you’re taking up space downtown, you will be charged, one way or another.)

Thank God, there’s a parking lot just across the street from where I work, and it’s cheap (because I park overnight). The catch is, there’s no guard. It’s an open, irregularly shaped triangle full of lines with just enough space to back out and pull in, and single tollbooth with a locked door.

The most notable things about the tollbooth is the big red sign with white letters blaring to downtown that there is not now, that there has not been, and that there will not be a parking attend. You pay. Your car’s on its own. Take your stuff.

And the light. It’s angled behind a corner of the booth, and could land the International Space station, if it were just a bit wider. It shows where to pay, attracts bugs.

And that’s all I ever really saw when I looked.

Until last night, when a sparrow got caught inside the booth.

Ok, first off, I’m a vampire. There are certain, finite rules in my world: to do anything with the rest of the world means losing sleep; sun makes me sleepy; and if I hear a bird, it’s either a CD or there’s something askew.

I heard a bird. After good, solid dark. There were no earbuds in my ears.

The small, brown shape raced back and forth, sensing light through the dirty windows. Frantic to be other than it was, but trying what it had tried before over and over while it expected different results.

The door was locked…. ish, because the lock was old, and I jiggled it. Then I yanked. But the door would only open slightly wider than the span of my hand. The bird maybe could possibly fly out, but how do you tell a bird that you’re not scary? How do you talk to a bird at all?

I tried, but there’s not a lot I could do to help the bird. I hate that. It’s bothered me ever since.

This morning, I was driving home, rockin’ to Trent Resnor. The lyrics of a song caught my attention:

Just how deep do you believe?
Will you bite the hand that feeds?
Will you chew until it bleeds?
Can you get up off your knees?
Are you brave enough to see?
Do you wanna change it?

And I… winced. It was if a solemn, low-key Voice slithered under NIN and into my core.

Yeah, I claim a label, and yeah, I go to church. Do these actions, these social expectations, these… things make me a faithful follower? If they do, it’s no wonder I race towards other, lesser gods. It’s no wonder I hide in pride and call it confidence.

Church, going to it, being on time, looking pretty on Easter – didn’t and won’t save my soul. And pretty dresses on pretty people have as much to do with faith as much as mannequins have to do with growing wildflowers.

Just how deep do I believe?

I know I bite the Hand that feeds, and I’m vampire enough to admit, there are times I thoroughly enjoy the taste of blood. But it’s not just enough to say, get off your knees, and expect that to fix anything.

Am I brave enough to see?

I have to re-learn how to fly. There’s this big, scary-because-I-don’t-trust-it Presence waiting, jerking rusted doors, wishing I wanted to change so I could be free. And as my heart races and my brain balks, my soul smells help.

Do I want to change it?

Vampire. Sparrow. Christian. Being human and small, the line between these begins to blur. But more than what I am called, yeah. I want to learn how to fly.

boats, dragons & running

For an early Easter gift, my brother bought me the double DVD of The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I watched it with my mom tonight, and cried - again. There's something soft and subtle about this last installation in the Narnian constellation, and that story just always tears at something in me. 

It's not an easy tale, and all the characters in it are used - and used hard by the One they follow. The paths are different for each, but I fear I am most like the biggest brat in the bunch. As C.S. Lewis says in his book, 'There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.' So, yeah, God and I have been wrestling quite a bit recently.

And He's winning. And that should be good, but it doesn't feel good right now.

It's not easy to have a constantly sun-burnt pride reminding me that I'm not in charge. Worse yet, it was my choice. That just makes the whole situation more... aggravating.

I'm scared. Like, really scared, and in my head, I know I shouldn't be. But here I am, all ego-bruised and vulnerable, hating every breath that quietly shows how frail I am.

What has me all disjointed and discombobulated?

My mom and I signed up for college. Right up there with a thousand foot sea serpent in the middle of a dark night of the soul, yeah? But... yeah. Really, really is.

We went to the community college downtown. We filled out some paperwork, and then talked to the counselors. I'm less than a year away from my Associates in Science. A year.

People go to college all the time. I've even heard there are those that go, like, right after high school; that it's expected for particular jobs. There're all sorts of rumors floating around the 'Net about it. Seems like it might even catch on and be, like, an institution soon. 

I've tried to go to college before, but I got distracted. There was so much out there, so much to see and do, and I've noticed, it still happens now. As soon as I decide to do one serious thing, everything else seems infinitely more pressing and important.

I could write... but there are games on Facebook to play, dishes to clean. The dog needs to be walked, and I have e-mails I really should send before I forget again... The next time I blink, it's hours later, and I've done are things that will either not be remembered next month, or that legitimately could have waited another half an hour or so.

When I've tried college, the same thing happened - twice. It feels like a storm, gradually building until I drown in a sea of voices telling me I can't do it; that I'm not really doing what I'm supposed to; that I really should just go back home where it's safe. Then I wake up, somewhere I've never been before, not sure I am really who I think I am, not looking like what I remember myself looking like.

And I'm no farther along than I was, weaker than when I started... coughing on my own tears, and trying to convince myself it doesn't matter, that I didn't surrender something precious by the blinding rain.

I am Eustace, the dragon, scrapping at the scales that are my not-skin, embarrassed I make a better soul as a creature than I ever made as a mortal.

Drawing me back to college, and, lingering in the back of my mind like the considering weight of a lion's gaze, that means dealing with the darkness I've shoved into the back closet of my memories. I know by the fear that makes me want to look away what major I should choose. And I know by the quiet, steady assurance that it's the right choice that the path is prepared. I've said I would, now I just have to put foot to path.

Now, I strive to run a better race - not because if I do well, my dragonskin will be redeemed, but because I am compelled; because fear is never a good reason to not do anything.

MER & Missing Teeth

I had a dentist appointment this week, and left with three teeth fewer than I went in with. I also cried in the chair, feeling pinned and powerless as some gentle man assured me the pain was for my good. He pulled my cheeks, positioned my head the way he preferred and kept putting more things in my mouth than I could hold comfortably. All I could think was, ‘God. How many times do I have to tell someone what happened to me before I can just be normal?’

I used to have absolutely no empathy for survivors of any kind of abuse that didn’t seem able to talk about anything else. Now, I am one. It’s healthier on this side, I think, but one question remains the same – before and after: What’s the next step? Do I keep talking? Is of that any benefit?

Obviously just talking about anything doesn’t fix anything. (If it did, politicians would be heroes.) But everything needs a starting point, too. I know me, I’m not ambitious enough to start a non-profit to help stop sexual abuse, and there are enough good programs out there now that it’d feel more like an ego trip than anything else. But still, the idea remains there has to be more to do.

I happened to overhear Dr. Phil on TV recently (he comes on after a local morning program I dig), and he recommended what he calls the Minimal Effective Response (MER). According to his website, “Your MER is the least thing that you can do that allows you to get emotional closure. The concept of MER seeks to satisfy your need for resolution without creating a whole new set of problems. It aims to conserve your resources.”

After establishing a personal MER, the site recommends these four questions be considered:

1. What action can you take to resolve this pain?

2. If you were successful and achieved this action, how would you feel?

3. Does the feeling you will have match the feeling you want to have?

4. Remember the word "minimal": Could there be some other, more emotionally or behaviorally economical action that would give you the emotional resolve you want to feel?

Ironically, the story posted after the questions echoes eerily similar to mine. A woman was sexually abused starting when she was 12 (mine was far over by then), and her father passed recently. Her MER was to find “friends” of her father and tell them off.

Thank God, that’s not something I have to do, or need to do. I’m not sure what my MER is right now. There’s not a definitive action I can take to resolve this pain; there’s just… not. He’s dead, it was 20 years ago; I’m not that person; his widow doesn’t deserve to be maligned because my father happened to be one incredibly sick person when he was with me.

If I were successful and achieved whatever action it was that would resolve this pain, how would I feel? Relieved. Healthier. More able to help others. Able to move more smoothly on with my life. Less scared.

Does the feeling I will have match the feeling I want to have? YES! (That was the one easy question!)

Could there be some other, more emotionally or behaviorally economical actions that would give me the emotional resolve I want to feel? Probably – but that would require knowing the answer to the first question first, and I really, really don’t.

So… for now, I wait for my mouth to recover from the trip to the dentist, talk to God about what’s going on in my head… and keep an eye open for what my MER may look like.

bittersweet knowing

One of the first ladies’ retreats I went to at my mom’s church changed the way I felt out the world. Even before I’d left the campground that year, my brain felt overstuffed. Journals were quickly filled with poems and thoughts; the world spread out before me like something curiously kind and all things seemed softly possible. I still treasure the gold-tinged memories of that early voyage, in the bittersweet way of a first love.

Going that year wasn’t easy. The church was new-to-me, the people unknown, and I really, really didn’t like strangers. Tyler, where the campground was located, was not even a dot on the map in my head; it was a name mentioned with roses, but it could have been in Canada for all I knew of it.

A few months before the retreat, I’d had a disjointing experience. My boyfriend at the time, Matthew, and I were very contentedly in love. He’d come down for a visit, to meet my mom and show how just generally cool a person he was. He’d hung out with my brother, played handyman around my mom’s house. We’d had all the talks any one person has to have with another when there’s going to be more than coffee involved, and we liked each other more at the end of them than we did before.

I loved him, and he made me feel… beautifully normal. So I asked if he’d be ok with us being more physically intimate. He blushed furiously, stammered a little and agreed. The closer the time of his visit it was, the more good and right our decision felt to me. I was excited. He was kind that night, thinking turning off the lights would make me more comfortable. I was touched, and it was lovely… up to the point that I was jerked back into a vile, formerly-repressed memory.

All I could see was a different set of thighs, different colored hair. There was suddenly a different taste in my mouth. My body seemed distant, not at all mine. It didn’t fit right, and I couldn’t breathe. My vision narrowed, my throat closed up. I felt like I was drowning in darkness, but disappearing into it at the same time. Thoughts scattered like marbles on tile, and the only one I could hold on to was, ‘He tastes different from Daddy….’

I wanted to cry or scream or react, but I didn’t know how to not mar this moment for Matt. Ironically, the significant drop in body temperature and subsequent panic attack took care of me needing to talk. He was kind, so sweetly asking me what happened, and I hated the words I had to use.

We broke up not too long after that. He tried to understand, but I just felt like I’d smeared ugliness along his pale soul-skin.

Less than a month later, I went to retreat. During one of the group conversations my mom facilitated, it came out that my dad had abused me. I still see that brunette girl sitting on the blonde pew, and remember thinking, Dear God. Now everyone knows.

I should have felt isolated in that quiet chapel full of pretty women with suburban lives and ambitions. The sun shining through the glass windows should have been ironic, because my skin was cool and nothing chills like being the other in a room of same.

But it was ok. I was ok. Not perfect, not solid. But someone reached over the pew and just wrapped her arms around my shoulders.

I was shaken and completely exposed. But I was held, too. Since then, when it got dark in my head or when I started to think God is cruel for this life He chose for me, I remember the pretty church lady that held me while my soul cracked in public.

I was dirty and scared and she knew. That chapel, that hug, that moment was my retreat.

I wanted to tell the world, but I didn’t know that anyone would believe something so sweet still happens in this world. But I knew, and sometimes, just knowing is enough.