ThinkBlog

I’m sitting here in the same Waffle House where I learned how to order a plate of eggs and hash browns “scattered, smothered, and topped” at three in the morning so many years ago. (Can’t do that now, I’m sitting here with a decaf and a water, two eggs over medium with dry toast—a bit lighter fare than grease city.) Now that the novelty has worn off, perhaps I can write.

I drove around Greenville, my hometown, tonight when I woke up from a short nap and had called a dear friend back. The conversation we shared was brief, but stunned me in a way that hurt, but beneficially so. It turned my mind to things that I’d been keeping at bay for a while, things that really only hit in the wee hours.

Lately I’ve been around people a very great deal. I haven’t done much reading, and what I have done has been fairly light. It’s much easier to have a cold one or make yourself a vodka tonic and watch a movie, or make what really amounts to small talk, or play cards, or anything but sit there and think. And I don’t mean brood, which is what you do when you can’t really think but you know your heart is heavy for some reason. I mean really think about life, like you do if you journal or keep a diary (whatever you call it). I used to keep a journal for over two years, from August of 1998 through the spring of 2000. I catalogued almost everything I did and thought, averaging four or five days out of every week, until the thing filled numerous binders. I stopped when I went to Clemson right out of high school because a little something inside of me died, and I didn’t want to record my reaction (which involved multitudinous cold ones, and a lot of other things of which I’m not particularly proud).

Well, tonight I’m alone and it’s given me a chance to think (and brood, if we’re being honest here). The conversation between myself and the aforementioned friend really made me think about the stuff of life, and the point of love. I drove toward downtown, and it really hit me why people leave their hometowns to try to start a new life. So many relationships ended, so many little pieces of myself, my creativity, my love, my soul’s lifeblood in little patches all over this city. She’s married; she moved across town; she went to college; she went to college out of state; she’s employed around here; she’s—the wound is still to near to say.

But what strikes me is how common alienation is; not just how I feel right now, still recuperating from another the collapse of another tower of promises filled with the lush tapestries and hand-crafted furniture of hope, but in general. I woke from my nap late to a huge, dark, empty house save for my mom (and my sister, who for various reasons I shan’t touch cannot be considered company for mom), who was trying in vain to fall asleep. There she is, alone in the dark. There’s my sister, sleeping, neverminding the clicking of the machine by her bedside. I went to see my dad earlier in the day, alone in his house. We just talked: dad and I, mom and I. Then I called my friend back and we talked for a few moments, and then I drove around.

Greenville, between midnight and two in the morning on a late-spring Thursday morning, is an odd sight. There are lights on in all these deserted buildings, ready for the next day but presently dormant. There are subdivisions full of dark houses. And there you sit at the red light, half-wishing for some jackass to cut you off just for the familiarity of another terrible driver to keep you company on the road.

“I said all that to say this.” The love of Christ is unique in that it bridges the alienation between people, when properly applied. Christian love is not legalism, it’s not a cultural standard, it’s not even shaking a hand and smiling; it’s an action rooted in the firm desire to see that another person is, in that instant, cared-for. Some take this too far, by smothering someone and trying to control his or her life; and others don’t take it far enough, giving a buck to a homeless guy on the street and mumbling over his shoulder “God bless” or some other such worn-out pseudoreligious cliché.

I’ve been lately going through a rough spot in my walk with Christ. It always happens: another bridge burns and falls and I on it into the rocky surf below, burned and broken because I stepped out on faith between the cliff of singleness and the cliff of marriage, then dropped a cigar too many on the deck. I’m stiff-necked, especially when in pain, so of course then perhaps (speaking of smoke) I have one cigar, one glass of wine, one pint, one hour of sleep—too many. And the women shout from that cliff of singleness to which they were so able to bound back: “I told you so” or “I saw it coming,” and the guy friends say, well, nothing at all, but don’t you dare cry—here man, can I make you another drink?

And God waits patiently, not laughing, letting you thrash yourself around on the rocks in a stupor until your heart is humble enough to let Him work through you by unselfish love. It was a blessing to go have a ginger ale with my dad on his back deck today; it was a blessing to dine with my mother; and it was a blessing to talk with my friend, who left unsaid all he knew I’d understand. It’s a blessing tonight not to have erred in my consciousness, either in excess (by quaffing coffee) or defect (by tilting back brews). I’m slowly working through my anger, bit by bit, and God’s at the helm, showing me love when I show love to others. Go figure. Lessons once learned can be remembered, the lesson deepened.

Thanks to Apple Network 07db31 at the corner of Main & McBee streets in downtown Greenville for having an open WAP from which to blog.

I’m sitting here in the same Waffle House where I learned how to order a plate of eggs and hash browns “scattered, smothered, and topped” at three in the morning so many years ago. (Can’t do that now, I’m sitting here with a decaf and a water, two eggs over medium with dry toast—a bit lighter fare than grease city.) Now that the novelty has worn off, perhaps I can write.

I drove around Greenville, my hometown, tonight when I woke up from a short nap and had called a dear friend back. The conversation we shared was brief, but stunned me in a way that hurt, but beneficially so. It turned my mind to things that I’d been keeping at bay for a while, things that really only hit in the wee hours.

Lately I’ve been around people a very great deal. I haven’t done much reading, and what I have done has been fairly light. It’s much easier to have a cold one or make yourself a vodka tonic and watch a movie, or make what really amounts to small talk, or play cards, or anything but sit there and think. And I don’t mean brood, which is what you do when you can’t really think but you know your heart is heavy for some reason. I mean really think about life, like you do if you journal or keep a diary (whatever you call it). I used to keep a journal for over two years, from August of 1998 through the spring of 2000. I catalogued almost everything I did and thought, averaging four or five days out of every week, until the thing filled numerous binders. I stopped when I went to Clemson right out of high school because a little something inside of me died, and I didn’t want to record my reaction (which involved multitudinous cold ones, and a lot of other things of which I’m not particularly proud).

Well, tonight I’m alone and it’s given me a chance to think (and brood, if we’re being honest here). The conversation between myself and the aforementioned friend really made me think about the stuff of life, and the point of love. I drove toward downtown, and it really hit me why people leave their hometowns to try to start a new life. So many relationships ended, so many little pieces of myself, my creativity, my love, my soul’s lifeblood in little patches all over this city. She’s married; she moved across town; she went to college; she went to college out of state; she’s employed around here; she’s—the wound is still to near to say.

But what strikes me is how common alienation is; not just how I feel right now, still recuperating from another the collapse of another tower of promises filled with the lush tapestries and hand-crafted furniture of hope, but in general. I woke from my nap late to a huge, dark, empty house save for my mom (and my sister, who for various reasons I shan’t touch cannot be considered company for mom), who was trying in vain to fall asleep. There she is, alone in the dark. There’s my sister, sleeping, neverminding the clicking of the machine by her bedside. I went to see my dad earlier in the day, alone in his house. We just talked: dad and I, mom and I. Then I called my friend back and we talked for a few moments, and then I drove around.

Greenville, between midnight and two in the morning on a late-spring Thursday morning, is an odd sight. There are lights on in all these deserted buildings, ready for the next day but presently dormant. There are subdivisions full of dark houses. And there you sit at the red light, half-wishing for some jackass to cut you off just for the familiarity of another terrible driver to keep you company on the road.

“I said all that to say this.” The love of Christ is unique in that it bridges the alienation between people, when properly applied. Christian love is not legalism, it’s not a cultural standard, it’s not even shaking a hand and smiling; it’s an action rooted in the firm desire to see that another person is, in that instant, cared-for. Some take this too far, by smothering someone and trying to control his or her life; and others don’t take it far enough, giving a buck to a homeless guy on the street and mumbling over his shoulder “God bless” or some other such worn-out pseudoreligious cliché.

I’ve been lately going through a rough spot in my walk with Christ. It always happens: another bridge burns and falls and I on it into the rocky surf below, burned and broken because I stepped out on faith between the cliff of singleness and the cliff of marriage, then dropped a cigar too many on the deck. I’m stiff-necked, especially when in pain, so of course then perhaps (speaking of smoke) I have one cigar, one glass of wine, one pint, one hour of sleep—too many. And the women shout from that cliff of singleness to which they were so able to bound back: “I told you so” or “I saw it coming,” and the guy friends say, well, nothing at all, but don’t you dare cry—here man, can I make you another drink?

And God waits patiently, not laughing, letting you thrash yourself around on the rocks in a stupor until your heart is humble enough to let Him work through you by unselfish love. It was a blessing to go have a ginger ale with my dad on his back deck today; it was a blessing to dine with my mother; and it was a blessing to talk with my friend, who left unsaid all he knew I’d understand. It’s a blessing tonight not to have erred in my consciousness, either in excess (by quaffing coffee) or defect (by tilting back brews). I’m slowly working through my anger, bit by bit, and God’s at the helm, showing me love when I show love to others. Go figure. Lessons once learned can be remembered, the lesson deepened.

Thanks to Apple Network 07db31 at the corner of Main & McBee streets in downtown Greenville for having an open WAP from which to blog.