In my wife’s second to last week, I shamefully agreed to a feeding tube at the behest of my son who could no longer bear to see her painfully thin body taking shallow breaths between all the unconscious groaning. The profound weakness I demonstrated during those final days did little more than extend her suffering; doubly ironic given all the hands I held for other spouses who had demonstrated a far greater courage than me in the final moments of their loved ones. Over this, I have wept many bitter tears.
The feeding tube was inserted and thankfully she never regained consciousness after that. My son was equally distraught by this, and the visible discomfort of the tube itself left him increasingly anxious about what was being done to her. But he also recognized that the procedure was largely taken because he’d bullied me into doing it, so whatever misgivings he carried remained locked inside him. My wife, on the other hand, was still every bit as beautiful to me, even though I noticed my son could barely stand to look at her. My boy and I would stay up long hours there, taking turns holding her hand. I would recite the stories of how we met in a cemetery beneath an inscription that would define us, how I was just sitting there with a book of poems in my hand that would take me a lifetime to comprehend despite their utter simplicity and how she was then, and stayed throughout our marriage, in a state of perpetual rhythmic grace.
In the days before we wed, the two of us were inseparable. I would occasionally hear stories about my seminary friends who’d gone on to pastor big churches – and how their parishioners demanded excessive amounts of the time which they had promised to their families. These old friends were often refused the chance of a normal life by a demanding church council. This was never my experience and in fact, mine was quite the opposite. I found that the entire congregation, which had taken to my fiancé so well, was all but begging us to spend time together. I even felt guilty at the number of days I was out of the office with her, hiking and camping and taking trips. But these dear, sweet people never once complained. Of course I will never be objective enough to know for sure, but I believe my sermons actually improved with time away from my regular duties. By the time we reached the week of the wedding, I was officially working in the office only once or twice per week. None of that mattered though, because the congregation was with me in those stressful moments outside the office – moments of preparation, cooking and cleaning, arranging details, and managing the more trivial church day to day operations.
The congregation even secretly voted to give me a raise, telling me to “apply the bonus salary toward a new baby fund.” It was as if they were all getting married right alongside me and I swear to this day nothing I’ve ever done in my pastoral career felt more like “church” than laughing together with them over my cummerbund selection, or playfully bantering with them on which Bach tune we should play during the seating of the parents. We were truly a family.
When my parents and in-laws arrived two days early to assist, they were aghast by the amount of work that had already been completed by my parishioners, leaving them nothing to do. After the initial shock of it wore off, my parents settled into a relaxed groove. “They remind me of the church I grew up in,” remarked my mother. “I hope you are able to stay here forever.”
“Me too,” I responded. At that time I wasn’t much thinking about their average age, which was well over 65. They all seemed so young and so happy then. I suppose we all did; this was before the riots started, before we all sat on the brink of a civil war, before I’d gathered up an army of bones from the Great Dark and marched them upon the cemetery flowers.
Speaking of the seminary, I managed to my get old friend Joe to perform the service for us. He’d moved through the graduate program there and taken a faculty slot teaching social justice before they axed the program. His homily was delivered wonderfully although it skipped a few beats when he tried to speak intimately about me. I realized how distant I had been in those years and how little of me Joe actually knew. No one but me noticed the snafus, and his delivery was well received by both our families as well as my congregation.
With a wink and nod, we were wed, she and I. And although I mean not to draw too many similarities (I know I keep repeating this), I have since wondered how it is that two minds can find such a nameless entity as love and bask in the glow of it without acknowledging that all light, when in the presence of anything substantial, does in fact leave a deepening shadow. And really, only the chitinous and oily things of this world actually reside in the shadow, but you would need the fortitude to go there I think to even understand. Most of us are not good enough to seek the dark, nor vile enough to make our nests there. We sit lukewarm in the mouth of that which has been written, quietly disbelieving, yet patiently expecting an old familiar blasphemy: the shadow of what we know we could become. And so again, I think I will stop there in case I have drawn too many similarities.
“You should have another drink,” she said. “It’s your wedding.”
I took in every inch of her for about the millionth time. Her eyes beckoned me to shatter the chains that often kept me wrapped tightly to my peculiar, introverted demons whenever I found myself surrounded by an overly exuberant crowd. I obliged, as I had learned to faithfully do at her requests during our time together. She was almost always right to ask more of me. I held my cards too tightly, not because of any personal fears or insecurities, but more out of a nature to protect what was mine. I was a territorial thinker, a trait I believe our son inherited for which I respect, despite our differences. A man need never cast his pearls to the swine until he’s inspected the quality of their hooves.
My problem, and my wife understood it, was that I was a perpetual investigator of men’s souls and if every tear in the human spirit were to exist in this physical realm, there would be no way to keep my fingers from probing them all. I existed to stealthily penetrate, like a midnight roach in a tidy home. Sadly, I was good at it too; I could, from mere crumbs in oddly corners, ascertain the constitution of the meal consumed by my unsuspecting, narcoleptic hosts. I could, from the sole of a man’s boot, determine if he read Whitman or lived him out; and after a few short moments with a man, could write his headstone inscription as well as his own mother. Perhaps it was this six-legged skill, slithered up along my own flypaper backbone which caused me to keep my own cards very close in my dealings with others.
About the time I would have begun staggering, Joe stepped up to bid me farewell. My memories are particularly fuzzy on this issue, but I recall him recanting to me the beginnings of the coming battles. He said, “You know the new board appointments are this week,” and I nodded my affirmation. He added, “Lackey is giving it another go.”
The feeding tube was inserted and thankfully she never regained consciousness after that. My son was equally distraught by this, and the visible discomfort of the tube itself left him increasingly anxious about what was being done to her. But he also recognized that the procedure was largely taken because he’d bullied me into doing it, so whatever misgivings he carried remained locked inside him. My wife, on the other hand, was still every bit as beautiful to me, even though I noticed my son could barely stand to look at her. My boy and I would stay up long hours there, taking turns holding her hand. I would recite the stories of how we met in a cemetery beneath an inscription that would define us, how I was just sitting there with a book of poems in my hand that would take me a lifetime to comprehend despite their utter simplicity and how she was then, and stayed throughout our marriage, in a state of perpetual rhythmic grace.
In the days before we wed, the two of us were inseparable. I would occasionally hear stories about my seminary friends who’d gone on to pastor big churches – and how their parishioners demanded excessive amounts of the time which they had promised to their families. These old friends were often refused the chance of a normal life by a demanding church council. This was never my experience and in fact, mine was quite the opposite. I found that the entire congregation, which had taken to my fiancé so well, was all but begging us to spend time together. I even felt guilty at the number of days I was out of the office with her, hiking and camping and taking trips. But these dear, sweet people never once complained. Of course I will never be objective enough to know for sure, but I believe my sermons actually improved with time away from my regular duties. By the time we reached the week of the wedding, I was officially working in the office only once or twice per week. None of that mattered though, because the congregation was with me in those stressful moments outside the office – moments of preparation, cooking and cleaning, arranging details, and managing the more trivial church day to day operations.
The congregation even secretly voted to give me a raise, telling me to “apply the bonus salary toward a new baby fund.” It was as if they were all getting married right alongside me and I swear to this day nothing I’ve ever done in my pastoral career felt more like “church” than laughing together with them over my cummerbund selection, or playfully bantering with them on which Bach tune we should play during the seating of the parents. We were truly a family.
When my parents and in-laws arrived two days early to assist, they were aghast by the amount of work that had already been completed by my parishioners, leaving them nothing to do. After the initial shock of it wore off, my parents settled into a relaxed groove. “They remind me of the church I grew up in,” remarked my mother. “I hope you are able to stay here forever.”
“Me too,” I responded. At that time I wasn’t much thinking about their average age, which was well over 65. They all seemed so young and so happy then. I suppose we all did; this was before the riots started, before we all sat on the brink of a civil war, before I’d gathered up an army of bones from the Great Dark and marched them upon the cemetery flowers.
Speaking of the seminary, I managed to my get old friend Joe to perform the service for us. He’d moved through the graduate program there and taken a faculty slot teaching social justice before they axed the program. His homily was delivered wonderfully although it skipped a few beats when he tried to speak intimately about me. I realized how distant I had been in those years and how little of me Joe actually knew. No one but me noticed the snafus, and his delivery was well received by both our families as well as my congregation.
With a wink and nod, we were wed, she and I. And although I mean not to draw too many similarities (I know I keep repeating this), I have since wondered how it is that two minds can find such a nameless entity as love and bask in the glow of it without acknowledging that all light, when in the presence of anything substantial, does in fact leave a deepening shadow. And really, only the chitinous and oily things of this world actually reside in the shadow, but you would need the fortitude to go there I think to even understand. Most of us are not good enough to seek the dark, nor vile enough to make our nests there. We sit lukewarm in the mouth of that which has been written, quietly disbelieving, yet patiently expecting an old familiar blasphemy: the shadow of what we know we could become. And so again, I think I will stop there in case I have drawn too many similarities.
“You should have another drink,” she said. “It’s your wedding.”
I took in every inch of her for about the millionth time. Her eyes beckoned me to shatter the chains that often kept me wrapped tightly to my peculiar, introverted demons whenever I found myself surrounded by an overly exuberant crowd. I obliged, as I had learned to faithfully do at her requests during our time together. She was almost always right to ask more of me. I held my cards too tightly, not because of any personal fears or insecurities, but more out of a nature to protect what was mine. I was a territorial thinker, a trait I believe our son inherited for which I respect, despite our differences. A man need never cast his pearls to the swine until he’s inspected the quality of their hooves.
My problem, and my wife understood it, was that I was a perpetual investigator of men’s souls and if every tear in the human spirit were to exist in this physical realm, there would be no way to keep my fingers from probing them all. I existed to stealthily penetrate, like a midnight roach in a tidy home. Sadly, I was good at it too; I could, from mere crumbs in oddly corners, ascertain the constitution of the meal consumed by my unsuspecting, narcoleptic hosts. I could, from the sole of a man’s boot, determine if he read Whitman or lived him out; and after a few short moments with a man, could write his headstone inscription as well as his own mother. Perhaps it was this six-legged skill, slithered up along my own flypaper backbone which caused me to keep my own cards very close in my dealings with others.
About the time I would have begun staggering, Joe stepped up to bid me farewell. My memories are particularly fuzzy on this issue, but I recall him recanting to me the beginnings of the coming battles. He said, “You know the new board appointments are this week,” and I nodded my affirmation. He added, “Lackey is giving it another go.”
This, I didn’t know. James L. Lackey (who died last winter) was my life’s great tormentor. I have often wondered what kind of adversary I would make should I chose enemies. I never have, so I suppose I will never know. My opinion is that I would be the most brutal of foes – that I could with great deception plant any seed, replicate myself in the soil of weaker men and burst them from within, and that I would reserve the sticky afterbirth of each torn orifice to metabolize new maneuvers against the front line of whatever the next one propped up against me. I believe that I could, were I so inclined, unleash great horror upon any that opposed me, and that I could do this with a mechanized efficiency were it not for conscience’s sake.
Lackey was probably the single-worst professor I ever had in school – a graduate assistant professor to be more accurate. He gave me the first letter grade “C” I had ever received while working on my Master’s degree. It all really boiled down to one paper. He hated it. In huge red ink he said, “I don’t think you realize that this thinker totally undermines the dominant Christian perspective of the 20th century.” To this day I can’t remember what the paper was about, but the idea that I didn’t understand the subversive intent of the author? I can only imagine it was why I selected the writer in the first place.
What I do recall was my response to the grade, which came in the following poem, which I also believe offended him though that was far from my intent.
Jaundice
Through infected worlds
lean infectious words,
The Great Iamb:
“I am.”
[that I am]
I would not know it at the time, but Lackey would immediately count me among his ideological enemies, the first of many who would do so. Despite the aggression I have received over the years, I have never counted an intellectual opponent as an enemy. Not even my son who has worked feverishly against me all these years.
lean infectious words,
The Great Iamb:
“I am.”
[that I am]
I would not know it at the time, but Lackey would immediately count me among his ideological enemies, the first of many who would do so. Despite the aggression I have received over the years, I have never counted an intellectual opponent as an enemy. Not even my son who has worked feverishly against me all these years.
I quickly broke from my chain of thought and responded to Joe’s statement about Lackey. “I had no idea he was on the move again. You know my vote isn’t worth anything at the board, besides I’m headed to the Keys for a honeymoon. Have you met my first wife?” Perhaps it was the alcohol, but I couldn’t help but rib him during the seriousness of the moment.
“I know,” he said. “I just thought you would want to be aware.” He turned to me and for a moment I was ready to take back every thought I had of him during the homily. He knew me well enough to know that I wouldn’t let this business sit.
I contemplated my choices on the matter, thinking that perhaps Joe had dropped a seed of war in me; that he had once again sent me to fetch my father’s gravel shovel to remove the expired remains which are always left beneath the untrained tires of a theological lackey. But my troubles now had a ratified, marital outlet, so I instead let him walk away and returned to dance with my wife. That night I made love to her six times. I told only two people this fact and they both mocked the assertion with such an authenticity that I decided I had not inspected their hooves closely enough. I’m not sure why they found this hard to believe. Being twenty-seven years old, it was hardly demanding. In fact, we made love twenty-four times in six days while honeymooning. I emerged covered in a thick spiritual afterbirth; I was ready for anything except a movement of consumerist, patriotic Christianity, sent to vibrate the tiniest bones in this nation’s ear with ecstatic, masturbatory gasps.
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