Toward Fatherhood

1. Losing GOD

It's always loomed large over me, blotting out constellations, obscuring long horizons: the image of GOD was judging, apathetic, angry, joyful, filled with anticipation, or moved with compassion, and it was always, always watching me.

Over our many years together, my GOD image grew empathetic, forgiving, good-humored, inspired, inspiring, concerned, and involved. My evolved GOD image cared deeply about the events of my life, where I went, whom I encountered, and what I pondered in my quiet moments. This GOD image truly loved and valued me personally, and promised to never let a righteous man be felled, crushed, or undone.

Then came a deep and foreboding sea change: a terrifying divorce came to savagely exploit my every fear and vulnerability, to seize and destroy not only everything I'd lovingly created, but the very person I'd become. I groaned in the onslaught, soaked the long nights in cold sweat. I prayed privately and wept publicly, begging for comfort, desperate for deliverance. Through it all, I trusted that my four little ones were the apple of GOD's eye; even though I walked paths of raging fire, GOD would not let one hair on their innocent heads be singed.

The day my children were taken from me, my GOD image stumbled, faltered, and finally sank to its knees. My GOD image covered its face in shame, but its hands, too, were crumbling. I was felled like a redwood, crushed and undone. My nightmare had come to life, and I was utterly despondent. This GOD had not come to save me. There was only silence gathered around my torn and bloody heart, and prolonged, pulsing agony.

"So," I asked quietly, "If not this...what does GOD actually do?"

"If not 'for such a moment as this,'"' what is GOD actually for?"

I could not answer these questions. My GOD image continued to crumble and fade.

"What does GOD do...?"

"What is GOD for...?"

A massive hole appeared where my GOD image had held space and court for four decades. The void was quiet and calm, serene. What had lived there? An illusion? A fairy tale? I cannot tell. Every GOD story was suddenly explainable as a poetic re-telling of any ordinary, human story. I didn't feel angry or disillusioned about this new vacancy; rather, I felt grateful for all I'd learned.

During the spring and summer when I lost custody of my kids and my GOD, I also lost my job, my closest friendship, and my sweet home in the heart of Kansas City. Fed up with loss, I grew fiercely determined to survive, and create a new, smaller life. I would accomplish these things with calm integrity through persistent effort.

By the year's end, I'd created a new home and taken a new job, both within minutes of my children's schools. Most importantly, I'd regained shared custody of my precious young ones. I felt immensely proud of the things I'd accomplished with the support of a few friends, with no GOD to take all the credit.

2. Seeing God

On a Monday night, at a pop-up social event, I encountered the most beautiful WOMAN I've ever seen. She glowed with the light of her Afro-Caribbean ancestors, bright and gauzy in the summer evening breeze, radiant with sincere and earnest presence. I asked her to dance, and we sparkled together. I offered her love; she offered hers in return. We found life together, revived, renewed.

Who was this WOMAN, I wondered. Every new revelation of her brought new and astonished admiration from me. She is kind and strong. She is patient and joyful. She is thoughtful and meditative, curious and creative, adventurous and passionate. Who is this WOMAN?

The more I experience her, the deeper grows my love. She is wise, kind, hilarious, honest, patient; she brings love, joy, empathy, grace, inspiration, companionship. I gush over her; I compose, I dance, I hold forth, trying to put into words and motion the height, the depth, the breadth of the love I experience with her. Words fail me. My heart is searching beyond poetry, reaching deeper, trying to name a truth that defies easy definition or defense.

I was busy and alone when we met. Adam in his garden, I was happy, but lonely. She entered the evening joyful, but solitary. Complete, but unmatched. When our hands met, we glowed. When our hearts connected, we were set ablaze.

Alone, she was extraordinary; together, we are divine. This is the truth I was reaching for. Alone, I could not access the supernatural. She has opened the path, become the way. She has become the face of GOD to me.

I believed in goodness; now at last I hold it. I believed in joy; now I witness and live it. I believed in love; now I am immersed, awash. I believed in GOD; finally I see her face.

Dear Story,

My sweet girl, I remember the day you were born. Our first home birth, in an inflatable pool, upstairs in the old house on the cul-de-sac. We were aided by a midwife, ancient and spry, murmuring the encouraging wisdom of long experience. Your mother groaned, breathed, steadied herself, settled into a deep, mystical place. The creative. Straining. Releasing. Birthing.

Quickly, quietly, you slipped into the world. Suddenly, for the third time, our faith had become sight. Black hair slick against red skin. Squinting eyes raging against the unfamiliar light. Powerful lungs wailing. You were so vocal, so strong. You were born with heart, will, soul, peace, and fight.

The first time you looked into my eyes, you held my gaze for a long, long moment. You seemed to peer into my soul, wondering. Searching. Listening. "Who…are you?"

You were a delightful baby, talkative, objectively cute beyond reason, like a kewpie doll come to life. We taught you to wave. You gave us a thumbs up. We taught you to walk, and you were enthralled, leaning, tumbling, toddling into those first steps as I recorded with my old iPhone, screaming and laughing hysterically, "First steps! First steps!!!"

You have grown into a young lady, thoughtful, intelligent, concerned, beautiful, unceasingly mindful of relationships and personal connections. Your observations of human interactions are as keen, intuitive and intentional as they were in your infancy. You still peer deeply, wondering, examining, replaying, trying to find the good, to find peace. You are learning to stand up for yourself. Practicing standing up for others, protecting what is good, defending what is vulnerable. Your heart is human, humane, and humanizing.

Faithful child, God is with you, delighting in you.

I am your father and I love you endlessly. You are a joy and delight to me. I bless you, "Peacemaker." You seek understanding not as a source of power, but to give aid to the needy, to bring relief to suffering. Your gift is deep and unwavering. You will bring peace and comfort with wisdom and deep understanding. You will speak music to chaos. Comfort to panic. Welcome to exclusion. And in all of this, you will speak embodied truth to power.

I am proud of you, daughter of mine. Know that you are known, loved, and safe in God's deeply good creation. Never forget you are family of family, the only unending human connection, the greatest gift of all.

I love you truly, always.

~ Daddy

A few summers ago, I added several dozen meat birds to our motley crew of free-range poultry. Cornish Cross chickens are pure white, dumb as bricks, and unable to live on their own - unable to live at all beyond about three months. They'll grow so large, their limbs or hearts will break under the weight of their elephantine chassis. These animals were bred for nothing more than their ability to quickly convert greens and grains into roasty, toasty, tasty, savory proteins. And to that end they lived, with all their chunky little hearts.

A week or so after I'd processed those plump, little bumblers, I went out to feed our resident pig, who was called Pig Pig. Pig Pig was an oversized potbelly, blind and mostly grouchy, or grouchy and mostly blind - we could never tell for sure. As I presented my family's food waste as an offering to surly swine, a flash of white caught my eye. One sneaky Cornish had apparently run off on harvest day, and been hanging out in Pig Pig's pen ever since, scavenging leftover leftovers! I admired the pluck of that bird...and made a mental note to include him in the upcoming duck and turkey harvest.

Turducken Harvest day came not long after. As hours passed, our cooler began to fill with still, chilled, featherless food. Now, I am not a man without soul or sense; every harvest day finds me in a somber mood. I play music that's upbeat enough to keep me moving, but well short of celebratory, as I softly contemplate my own mortality and general cosmic helplessness. As my kids were happily growing in age, I was quietly growing more desperate to live. Losing one's father as a baby is a bloodless, almost theoretical tragedy, as I well knew. It's difficult to miss a treasure you've never held. But my four are each of solid, memory-making age - developing dreams, seeking answers why and why not and how in the hell. What would they do without the father who lived in their every past and potential future day? Could they even survive such a loss? I deeply felt a desperate need to live, even as I acknowledged that I had zero control over how and when I go.

So, I counseled my self, If you can't know when you'll die, then you must live in a way that satisfies and makes sense to you. That way when you die, you might die satisfied with how you lived.

My reverie was interrupted as The Last of the Cornishes waddled over to me, suspecting not a thing. I snatched him up and set him in the harvest bucket. My 11 year old saw this. "Aw!" he protested, "That's so sad! He totally trusted you and you're just gonna kill him!"

"I told my son that chickens cannot trust or love," I explained to my pastor some days later, as we sipped acceptable coffees at Panera. "They only have very simple, animal brain functions."

Pastor Tim looked thoughtful. "I don't know," he offered. "It's true that a chicken is limited in it's thought capacity, but you might say that, as far as a chicken is able to trust and love, this chicken was trusting and loving you."

The longer I thought about this, the more sense it made. By human standards, a chicken cannot love. Humans embrace a world that is far above chickens, just as God exists far above humans - the worlds are fundamentally, existentially apart and cannot be compared. And just as God cares for me and will pull me from this life on a day not of my choosing, I care for my animals and will pull them from their life on the day I appoint.

But here's the magic - the redemptive regeneration of death:

Since its inception, every bundle of chicken flesh and feathers and bones could only peck and cluck and eat and sleep. Suddenly, it is swept through a gateway, removed from its blind, small existence and subsumed into a higher existence - a human existence that can think and pray and marvel and laugh and give thanks and sing songs! This brick of a bird is taken up and into a wondrous being it never could have understood or fully perceived.

In fact, this kind of violent transition is my own story as well: once upon a time I myself was small and blind and limited and cozy and content. Suddenly, against my will and without warning, I was torn from the only world I'd ever known, into something brighter and broader and wilder than my eyes or tiny mind could comprehend. Today we celebrate it as my "birthday" - but on that day I wept furiously. My eyes and lungs ached, my limbs flailed uncontrollably, and sure that this was all wrong, and the end of everything.

It will be my story again one day, I suspect. I will be unceremoniously extracted from this comparatively small plane of existence, into a higher, wider, grander, otherworldly existence, which this smallish mind could never have understood or fully perceived. There will be weeping again on that day, perhaps a feeling of wrong, of injustice, or ill timing. With any luck, there will also be understanding, trust, perhaps a measure of satisfaction and peace.

Here in this place of wilderness, I must constantly navigate a tremendous strain and sadness. Scarcity hangs on me like a weighted vest, pressing my entire self toward death. It takes constant, grinding effort to move forward in gentleness, kindness, and truth.

In spite of this, or because of this - in the midst of this - I find myself absolutely awash in love. All day long, I am drawn and distracted by stunning faces, lively places, vibrant plants, fascinating sounds, robust structures and heartfelt missions. Sparkles of delight flood my being, and I cannot seem to slow down, calm my heart, stop naming everything “lovely.”

Flowering plants only flower when they realize their time of dying is near. They acheive their pinnacle of beauty once they realize they, too, are mortal. Perhaps they are only mirroring what they can finally know from that place of ordinal acceptance, and they throw in their lot with all the beauty and wildness of the creation they inhabit.

Perhaps our grief invites us into the same kind of wrestling, a recognition of limits, a release of illusions. Perhaps in times of enduring trial we, too, can look up from the constant, searing pain of longing and loss, to see a halo of beauty we have never known.

Any time I feel a little proud of myself, I think of the effervescent little kid from that Schmoyoho video; just as pleased as punch about learning to ride his little bike, he gives a big, encouraging speech to everyone out there in TV Land. "I KNOW you can believe in yourself!"

Well, today I’m somewhat sure I can believe in myself, if only for a moment, or an hour. Today was not what I'd call a "good" day, despite what the Psalmist might say; we experienced a number of shrieking tantrums in the Brown House, furious glares, weeping walkaways, and the like (insert corny quip about how the kids had some emotional moments too, waka waka!) In moments, I felt like I was fostering troubled kids from another dimension. I texted family members, "Today I'm not sure I'm doing this right." Distraught face emoji.

Reminding myself that my newly minted "children of divorce" are going through the hardest, most stressful and disorienting year of their little lives, I trudged faithfully through the day, weathering withering words and tiny flailing arms, muttered epithets. I sighed. And I made sourdough pancakes.

Saturday is laundry day at Daddy's house, and all kids are expected to help - a fact which shocks and devastates each child no less for having participated in this cruel ritual every single week for several years. We folded and hung up and put away. We threw socks into baskets and stuffed towels into drawers. We sulked and stewed and complained. And I made crisp gnocchi with seared broccoli and lemon peel, this time with a tablespoon of fake maple syrup at the end, because I've run out of honey.

Finally the kids seemed to have worked out most of the angst they'd stored up for today. They played on screens. They called their friends. They ate sliced apples with a dollop of caramel (a snack which remains evergreen in our home.) And I made turkey burgers for dinner, served on sliced bread of course, as the Lord intended it, with roasted sweet potatoes and a bagged salad fresh from the hallowed shelves of our local grocer, Walton’s Mart.

By special request, I let the kids Watch Bob's Burgers while Eating Burgers. This seemed to delight each one. We headed off to bed at a reasonable time. There may have been teeth brushed, or at least fleetingly kissed by bristles and paste. I played my guitar as the kids settled into sleep. I don't play well, but my quiet strumming reassures them that their daddy is near.

And I made bread. Nothing delights me quite like the rare achievement of sectioning off enough of my day, of having and holding enough brain space to remember the very simple steps of my unabashedly simplified sourdough recipe. Doubly entombed in both Dutch oven and oven oven, the bread's resurrection after 39 minutes roasting in hell can be…at once life-giving and breathtaking. And today it was - all lovely and crusty and steaming and quietly crackling in its cooling glory.

And I feel happy of myself. I have loved my kids today, as best i could, in word and work and food. I'm patting my own back, yes, and why not? No one's going to do it for me.

Thumbs up everybody!

It wasn't hope...

...in case you are wondering. Or sentimentality. I'd fully accepted that our marriage was on its deathbed.

"You can do whatever you want," came the assurances of well-meaning friends. "Your marriage is over; it's just a Piece of Paper down at the courthouse." I had heard this phrase before, but never had reason to give it any consideration until now. Suddenly, it mattered. My own marriage was the subject, and the predicate was personal.

It wasn't helplessness

Once upon a beautiful time on this lovely land, I raised a trio of dairy goats. Their daily contributions of warm, fresh, life-affirming nourishment were a joy to me. One sunny spring, one of the dams, whose unusually thin udder had earned her the moniker Tiny Tina, grew suddenly very thin. Dairy goats are rather squishy mammals, carrying their guts very low, slung from high, angular hip bones; a saggy bag of water swung from a sturdy coat hanger. But Tina's eyelids had grown pale. Her jaw swelled; her coat roughened. By the time I understood what was happening, this peaceful, wonderful animal had a fatal case of barber pole worms. I treated the worms and tried desperately to restore Tina's strength and vitality, but to no avail. Soon she was immobile on the barn floor, alone, shivering and murmuring to herself. Tina was dying.

I knew I could put Tina down quickly with my rusty old farm rifle, but the idea seemed so very brutal, a sudden and heartless end to a faithful partnership. After all she'd given, and now facing this undignified end, Tina deserved to find peace at her own pace.

It was hospice

I chose to care for Tina through her final days. In the brief moments between housekeeping and homeschooling, I visited Tina with blankets and gentle words, doing what I could to keep her clean and comfortable as she faded. It was hospice, as best I could manage. Understanding that she would soon die, I dug a small grave for her behind the barn. The ache in my arms and sweat on my back felt honoring to the work Tina and I had done together.

Tina died quietly two days later. I buried her just as quietly, without fanfare, steeped in solemn gratitude.

Every dying sentience deserves a dignified end. My marriage was such a being, a solemn partnership that fostered new lives and nourished growth. It broadened my horizons and showed me wisdom. As my teacher and friend lay wheezing, mortally ill, I refused to simply shoot it in the forehead, or turn my back and let it die alone, whilst I shopped for a new one. My marriage deserved my fidelity in death, just as it had in life.

It was the birth certificate

This is why I stayed faithful, why I chose care over abandonment: if my grief and feelings of disconnect could reduce my marriage to "just a Piece of Paper," then my marriage, at it's very core, had only ever been a piece of paper. It had only existed as a binding reality as long as I "felt" married. But the vow I had so solemnly taken, before God and my community, was “until death.” That piece of paper was a birth certificate, and I chose to sit alone with my ward, my marriage, my friend, until the bitter end.

It was an honor

I am proud of the care I gave, though it was draining, demanding, crushingly lonely at times. I stood at the edge of death, feeling its nearness, and I wept. I cried more in that year of stillness than in all my previous years of toil and effort. I was able to sit in such fidelity only with the adamant, warm, vociferous support of my family, close friends, church community, therapist and counselors. They comforted me, prayed for me, encouraged me, cried with me, checked on me, sent their notes and thoughts and love and care.

It was not alone

Ok God,

Surely none of this matters, if you have your hand in it. Nothing of this will come to anything, if you have a part to play, or a story to tell.

Surely none of this depends on them, on their fidelity or ability.

It is my early morning practice to sit in our hot tub in the dark and do four things: Wordle, the NYT Mini Crossword, a DuoLingo Spanish lesson, and prayer, always in that order. It's my daily liturgy. My church service for one. Today my prayer time was cut short. "Oh God," I sighed, sinking, "I'm so tired..." My mind drifted and I began to imagine an argument between me and my wife. Just as the imaginary row began to heat up, I felt my body rise up from the steaming water, grab my towel, and begin to step out. It felt as if my body was trying to save me. "You're too exhausted," he said to me, "let's get you to someplace restful."

My childhood was not a restful place. There was little room for our tribe of seven to express emotion. Anger was seen as rebellion. Sadness was just self-pity. Frustration was probably selfishness, and so on. Learning to recognize and name my emotions was difficult for me in adulthood. It wasn't until I approached middle age that I could honestly name my emotions. I learned them not as spiritual, intangible mists and fragrances, but as physical sensations in my body. I feel anger in my arms and legs; fear sometimes in my legs, but often in my gut; amusement makes my head feel light; joy and delight feel like sparkles trickling down through my whole body; pride adds an impression of tears behind my eyes; anxiety ripples through my stomach; anguish rests in my lower back; wonder feels like a hug. The list goes on.

The unexpected gift of getting in touch with my emotions is that it meant partnering with my body, whom I now see as a friend and guide. While my cognitive mind is at the wheel, feeling important and making logical decisions, my body is down in the engine room, checking dials and clanking wrenches, sending up urgent messages: "Hey we're getting a hot mix of anger and compassion here! Which one do you want to go with??"

So I want to take this moment to honor my body, who is constantly trying to save my life. Whether I am dealing with a stubbed toe, a stubborn child, a slippery flagstone, a stab of loneliness, or a burst of joy, my body is there to alert and inform and care for me. I love this part of me. He is a joy to be with, and an excellent partner and friend.

I have an agreement with my youngest daughter, who is 7: upon request, I will stop whatever I am doing to accompany her to the bathroom. The agreement is reciprocal, really. She will continue practicing using her words to express her needs, desires, and emotions, and in turn I will allow this continual interruption of my day.

To be clear, this interaction is not needful. My daughter can use any bathroom in the house on her own. She prefers the master bath, which is well lit and beautiful and has a heated bidet. But she simply will not go alone. Abandonment is her greatest fear, for whatever reason, so she is constantly checking in to confirm that she is still seen and heard and specifically cared for. "Do you care for me more than that silly task you're doing? Stop that and show me!"

Sometimes I miss the cue. "Baby, you don't need me," I'll remind her as I go on grading papers or washing dishes, "You can go to the bathroom by yourself." But we have a safeguard for that as well. A code phrase. A reminder. "I-don't-need-help-but-I-want-help," she'll mumble impatiently, mashing all the words together into a barely decipherable jumble. I don't need help, but I want help. It is a perfectly clear and valid expression of her desire for connection through companionship. Go with me, she begs. Of course I don't need help - I just don't want to feel alone.

My eldest son carries a working grudge against my eldest daughter. They are 12 and 9, respectively. My son is a scientist, an analyst, a highly-informed enthusiast of military aircraft. He loves air guns and horseplay and poop jokes and has little time or patience for all the mysterious quirks of humanness. My daughter is a willow and a light, a singer, dancer, musician, writer and illustrator. Her right brain is fully alive. She loves snuggles and togetherness and running fast and climbing high, and she can burp louder than any man I know.

If I leave the two of them in any space together for any length of time - and I mean any length - I'll return to an emotional flurry of loud protests, detailing slights and aggressions toward my daughter from her big brother. "He makes throwing-up sounds whenever I sing!" "He keeps moving his chair away from mine!" "He said I ruin everything!"

My son, on the other hand, sees himself as the true victim here. He's the one who has to live with her! He's the one who has to hear her singing while he's trying to read! Why does everyone look at him like he's the villain? Can't they see that she's being annoying on purpose?? He sometimes grows furious to the point of tears over this, feeling utterly unseen, ignored and misunderstood.

I think my son has difficulty accepting his sister because her way of being in the world is so...just so different from his own. So foreign. He can't make sense of her, so he shrugs and condemns her whole person to the refuse pile. I wonder if she seems to him about as real as a Disney movie character, or the alien visitors his grandfather loves to watch on those conspiratorial pseudo-documentaries. Some people might think she's a real person, but he's not fooled; he's a scientist.

Or maybe she reminds him of what he's not - cute and silly and charming. Giving affection is easy for her, and it comes back to her just as easily. Why should her way of being human be so acceptable, so laudable, but his pragmatic standoffishness and acerbic wit draw nothing but ire and castigation?? From his point of view, the whole world is naturally tilted in his sister's favor, leaving him in the shadows and dust.

Perhaps the most surprising part of this for me, the wise parent, the father of this feuding pair, is that I truly don't know what to do about it. Lectures, time-outs, positive reinforcement, negative consequences, hoping, waiting, hugging - none of this has swayed my son from his resolute annoyance. He's like a housecat who believes he belongs on the kitchen counter. You can take him down, spray him with water, hiss and fume and scold, but the minute you leave the room, he'll be back on that counter, contentedly settled on his comfortable dishtowel. He doesn't know or care whether you want him there. In his mind, this is his place in the world.

It's this realization that shakes me and shapes me. I am neither all-knowing nor all-powerful. My children are not, and will not be, exactly the people I teach them to be. I'll do my best to teach them wisdom and virtues, and they will make their own choices about whether and when to employ those gifts. I am also imbued with an empathetic grace for other loving, caring parents whose kids are not doing as they've been taught. We're all struggling to make sense of our own lives in front of (and sometimes through) the clear, wondering eyes of our children, while also trying to interpret their and direct the life that is in them. It is a daunting and demanding role we play, and the older these kids get, the more our frailty and ineptitude start to show through the cracks. "Jesus said, 'Don't tell me you love God if you can't love your own siblings,'" I reminded my son last night. He thought for a moment. "Do you love your own mother?" He shot back with a grin. He knew he was dipping into deep waters with that retort. My mother is estranged from all seven of her children, such is the toxicity of her way of humanness. My son's remark hurt and offended me. Luckily I had enough sense or stupor to stay quiet and let his words echo back to him.

"Oh, um, maybe that's not a good example," he finally stammered with an embarrassed smile. And there I saw it: a glimmer of hope. A moment of empathy. A brief emergence from his self-immersion, just long enough to recognize the experience of another human person. This is the parent's report card, this moment of seeing, this glimpse of life below the surface. Good things are growing down there, and so hope is sustained up here.

I want to appear to be doing something important. I want strangers to passively admire my dedication and service. But I am a full time, homeschooling parent. Invisible. Low. Unimportant to the culture. Even when I explain it to others - even as I experience my own gratitude for this life and for the privilege of raising my kids every single day through nearly a decade, getting to know them intimately as unique and individual humans, living out opportunities to pray for them and hear them and explain the world to them and instill virtues - I still feel some level of embarrassment. I don’t produce any tangible goods or services. I don’t have any advanced or specialized education. I create no income. Do I matter? Do I even exist without witnesses?

I see a man sitting across from me, a gray-templed man in an expensive suit and shiny shoes. I see another man, a weary man in a rumpled coat over wrinkled scrubs. The suit and shoes can go to Goodwill for all I care. It’s the distressed teal that catches my desire like a beautiful stranger. My eyes follow them without conscious directive, distracted, longing. Longing for what? Vocation? Admiration? Recognition? Perhaps longing for a rigorous path on which to study and develop my own, deeply-rooted passion for nurturing and flourishing. Perhaps this is the future of God.

The Future of God

At the heart of everything is

Spirituality

Which is impossible without

Relationships

And expressed through

Passions/Hobbies

Which I develop through

Rigorous study

And in which I will invest

But I've forgotten how to write, it seems. I used to sit for a moment and thoughts would pour out, and an hour would fly by, and then another half hour, and as time ran out I'd finish my edits and throw in some relevant (or potentially relevant) photo, and rush away to my office job, feeling refreshed. Relieved. Unjumbled. Solved.

I want rediscover my writing self, but I just keep shorcutting instead. Virtual reality gaming is my pseudo-social release. I get to talk to other adults while accomplishing a team-oriented task. The task is only shooting zombies while carrying what on any planet would be an ungodly burden of guns and ammo, and also some volume of rockets and bombs purchased from repurposed IED vending machines made from old arcade machines. And we talk. From vantage points across the globe we encourage and despair, and yell at our kids in the background DON'T YOU EAT THOSE CHIPS IT'S ALMOST DINNER TIME! And we go on shooting, faces hidden in stupid-looking VR helmets, which the more dedicated of us may have tethered to ceiling-bound extension cords above computer desks and custom gaming chairs. After the best of interactions, we laugh and thank one another for their company and camaraderie, and quietly add our favorite teammates to our personal friends list.

It isn't enough though. Like a soft drink on a hot afternoon, it only prolongs my thirst. I long to say words, to convey ideas of importance, to hear I'm not the only one experiencing the trials common to this phase of parenting young humans. So I'm going to try writing again. Interrupted, incomplete, rusty old writing. Dust off those typing fingies, you tired, drooping, middle-aged young man!

Man. I just encountered a family begging on a busy street corner. It bruised my heart. Right away I was flung back to my chaotic childhood - the humiliation and helplessness of being unhoused and un-white. We nearly passed them by, my elder daughter and I, until I remembered the odd ten-dollar bill in my pocket. I made an illegal right, and a quick U-turn, rolled down the front passenger window of my luxury vehicle and offered, "I'm so sorry you're struggling," with my meager currency sheepishly extended.

The mother might have been 35 or 55. In a Mercedes SUV and chunky sunglasses, she'd have been just another over-tanned, long-haired Johnson County yoga mom. But her tan was honestly earned, I guessed, and her long black hair braided to preserve some sense of self-respect. "God bless you and your family," she returned in a thick, Eastern European accent. It was the accent that really got me. I'm a minority in this country - Black people make up around 12% of the US population - but I was born here. I know the language. I know the systems, twisted though they be. I have a people. But this family was truly marginalized: without language, systems, community, or native passports. This mother, human like me, with all the pressures of motherhood, all the despising stares of strangers, bearing the humility of poverty, this mother was truly a minority, and low on options. "When you're that poor," I explained to my daughter, "Everything is either hard or humiliating. A lot of times, it's both."

I wish I could save them. Save this little family. Give them dinner, and a place to stay, and a moment to think, and employment prospects. At the same time, I always feel something's deeply wrong in those begging family scenarios. It's always a beautiful family, minus dad. Lovely children, wearied mother, hand-lettered sign. No men. But the men are somewhere. Doing something. My sense is these women and children are under some kind of pressure. Pimped out, in a sense. And it breaks my heart even more.

“What do White people have against wearing a mask??” 

My wife has been puzzling over this for some weeks now. “I really want to know,” she tells me. “What. Is. The reason!?”

Well, a huge part of the reason is that wearing a mask sends at least three very direct messages - 

First, it says, “Yes, sir.” It is quiet submission to unseen authority. White folks have long had some kind of leeway around rules (think marijuana possession, or illegal fireworks, or even traffic violations); not having that freedom feels aggressively restrictive to a good many.

Secondly, it says “I am vulnerable.” I could contract this illness at any time, from anyone, so please give me space. For many White Americans, this feeling alone is very uncomfortable, and very new. Our country is known for its fierce independence and belligerent exceptionalism. Vulnerability is not our language. It is un-American. 

Thirdly, wearing a mask recognizes “I may represent a threat to you.” I am asymptomatic, but sometimes so is this virus, so you may feel nervous around me. I understand, and I make this outward gesture to ease your fears. And you don’t get to choose to whom you make this concession. You may represent a threat to Black folks and White, filthy rich and dirty poor, bouncy high school kids and the elderly couple shuffling along in front of you. 

Yes, sir. I am vulnerable. I understand I may represent a threat to you.  These admissions are very uncomfortable for White Americans at large. But they have always been the words of Black Americans. This is the script you’ve had us reading every day for centuries. Hands on the wheel, 10 and 2, “Yes sir.” Head down, defenseless posture, “I am vulnerable.” No sudden moves, hands out of pockets, don’t draw attention to yourself, “I understand I may represent a threat to you...I make these outward gestures to ease your fears...” Our skin is our outward marker of threat and vulnerability, and we can never take it off. 

But in a historic and unprecedented flip of the tables, White Americans suddenly find themselves wearing their own outward marker of threat and vulnerability - and they are required to wear it in public and not take it off. If you remove the mask, every place of business (and every customer, security guard, and police officer) has the right to confront you. My sister refers to this strange new condition as “mask-Blackness.” White Americans are being forced to experience what has traditionally only been a Black American experience. 

So I understand why many of our White folks are rebelling against this mandated messaging, this loss of autonomy and free expression, this identity being forced on them by their own elected officials. 

Black Americans have been fighting this very battle for generations. The one great difference, of course, is that after the pandemic...we’ll still be Black.

Here’s a story I’m grateful to have, even if I’m not quite sure why...

When I was a kid, I heard this scripture: ‘...whoever hears these words and does not heed them, he is like a man who sees his reflection in a mirror and, turning away, immediately forgets his own face.’ Inwardly I panicked a little. Was that scripture about me? I NEVER knew what I looked like. Every glance in the mirror was a surprise. Every glance! Like I had some sort of auto-face-blindness. I only knew how I felt, and how I felt was not at all how I looked. Whatever this facial dysphoria was, it lasted from my youth until last year, when I turned forty. 

When I turned forty, I dreaded up my hair. I bought new glasses. My pores enlarged. My laugh lines deepened. My rule of life revealed itself. And wouldn’t you know it, I started to recognize the man in the mirror. 

I’m grateful to have had a full year to contemplate this change. It’s been wonderful to look in the mirror and think, “Yeah, that’s...absolutely right!” Not at all perfect. Never flawless. But it’s true me. The real JB. Forty year old me feels like the me I was always going to be; the foreordained me. Everything after this moment is existential encore.

I’m grateful for a life that includes gratitude for something as simple as recognizing my own face in a mirror. I don’t look very often (just once today, by accident), but when I do, it’s like seeing an old friend. Like God’s own intention. Even when I’m dirty. When I haven’t changed my shirt in a couple of days. Even when there’s a duck feather stuck to my head and my hair is standing up like a unicorn horn.