#87: pittsburgh observation #1

            The entire city is filled with middle aged women who talk very loud, drawing out their vowels to nearly oblivion. They're initially obnoxious and then endearing. And they're everywhere. Instead of the buses being filled with young single, stroller wielding mothers, clusters of chirping teens and city-dusted men in their quiet corners, the bus system is pulsing with these clucking women. It's hilarious. Women who grab my arm--forearm to forearm with her tight, small fist around my elbow--when the bus stops too suddenly and say, "Jus hold on to somethin, sweetie. Jus hold on to somethin." Women who moan and complain about the bus being a whole hour late as they board in their blindingly white, pediatric shoes and then look at me and say with a side smile,  "I'm just so upset. I'm just so emotional." They tug on suit jackets of the older gentleman who are standing to urge them switch spots because they'd really rather stand with a "Go ahead now. Take a seat. Go on." They holler up to the newest, slightly skittish bus rider who didn't bring enough for the bus fee, "Don't worry about it honey, I got it." as she pulls the dollar amount from the pocket book perched her lap and aggressively taps the gentleman in front so he'll pass it forward. It's a city full of put your jacket on, sit up straight and don't mumble mothers. That's what Pittsburgh is. The city of motherly love.

how to move to pittsburgh in 5 easy steps

 

say goodbye to your nearest and dearest. 

[insert brave face here]

  

cross your fingers and say a little prayer

that they'll be teaching like this ^ waiting for you. 

 

set your alarm for 4:30 in the morning, brush your teeth with squinty eyes

and remember to pack your phone cord, your toothbrush and a scarf.

 stop in chicago for a night with old college friends and a morning

with some pretty famous coffee to get you jazzed for the 24 toll roads

you'll hit over the next 8 hours

 keep it together during the last 45 minutes of a 24 hour car ride.

(which I've always found to be the very worst part.)
it usually helps to find the local techno radio station and stop every
five minutes or so for a snack or two.

it's just that simple. see, you could move to pittsburgh too.

#86: i can't do it on my own

Below you'll find a letter that my father wrote to his older sister, Melinda (who has just discovered that she has stage two melanoma, an aggressive form of skin cancer and while we're waiting to see whether the cancer has spread further, she's setting a date with doctors to have her big toe amputated.) I guess my mom was struck by the humble compassion in his letter too, since she sent it out in an email for us all to read.

sweet melinda,

what a horrible reality you've suddenly had to face.  we always know that fearful and terrible things happen in life, but when they show up in our very own everyday, it's a shock.  i know your world is being rocked and you are struggling to stay calm and be brave.  i am completely without courage and have always been marked by fear and insecurity. so i've always found the Lord to be the only answer for every little (or big) thing because i know i don't have it in me. 

last year I was reading a book about prayer, and something in particular from that book has really stayed with me.  the writer was calling attention to God being our father.  think of your own little child coming to you for help, and how you treat them.  all that matters to you as their parent is that they belong to you and that you are in a position to help them.  you don't care what tone of voice they use, what words come out of their mouth.  you just take them into your arms and console and care for them.  

this is how God, our heavenly father is toward us.  this is the essence of the gospel, that we are no longer cosmic orphans. we have a perfect father who can do anything.  he will never forsake us or fail us or reject us.  there really is no other permanent comfort.  go right to him and blubber uncontrollably. he loves you. he will take care of you.  he will solve all your problems.  what could possibly be better? we will also be talking to him about you, and asking him to really show up for you in a profound and reassuring way. 

we love you,

damien

I have no surgeries coming up, but sometime mid Thursday of next week, I'll be pushing past Colorado's border to start an internship in the yet-unknown city of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania sans Eric, friends, a place of my own and certainty in my near future.

In the midst of all things (tiny little new jobs and great big scary surgeries) this can be our bravery. We are no longer cosmic orphans. We are allowed the great, luxurious freedom of throwing our hysterical, sobbing pleas for comfort onto the lap of a sympathetic heavenly father.

#85 monday morning, you sure look fine.

Most people dread Mondays like the yearly dentist appointment and math homework on a Wednesday afternoon. I've heard that they're unpopular. For sometime now, however, Mondays have my own personal, weekly, very quiet holiday. Even my beloved Sunday has momentarily slipped into a sad second when I think of my Mondays. While everybody else suits up and takes to the highways, the bus stops, the corner coffee shops for their first shot of the day, I'm only just slinking out of bed mindful to walk those twelve steps to the bathroom at meandering pace, making sure to crawl back into bed a few times before I commit to the journey. Only because I can. And because it feels so good. On Mondays, our apartment's sun soaked, cement porch that sprawls a good portion of the front lawn is all mine. All those new, bright white lawn chairs too. I can have my pick. A rickety old metal table teeters under the weight of my hopeful stack of books and unwritten notes. My keys, my coffee, a few pencils and my ever faithful v5 precision point pen rest on it's chipped, sun scorched surface available at my every whim. And the sun. That sun. Of all the things I would ask be at my beck and call, it would be the morning sun at ten o'clock on a cloudless spring day.  And it is. Beyond all of Thursday's wildest hopes and dreams, the sun holds still in it's spot concentrating all of it's soul soothing rays straight into each shadow locked inch of me. And for a few short hours I am free. Utterly and incomparably. For a few hours, all relationships will mend and perhaps resume their old ease, forgiveness will be given and --what's more -- received, fear loosens it's grip on my shoulders, the corners of my lips and the sore bottoms of my feet. Mondays are my mend, my hope, my rest.