Chapter 20 Poetic Intentions Notwithstanding

I wandered to that place where cliffs fell into shadows. I was lost and dark consumed my distance. Ignite some flame, I begged to nothing. Come quickly now and cheat the night!

Alone you found me, so tired there. I was cold and shaking, but then, your whisper was ever true.

Hearing you, I made the choice to follow.

Now leading me, you reach back and hold me close; unyielding. Together we watch the light creep slowly in. Underfoot the rocks unsure; your grip grows tighter still. It’s clearing now, you gently promise, as the wind calms and night surrenders.

It is warm in that place and true and right and good; and I am home.

Feeling you, I make the choice to not let go.


My lover left me for the weekend, traveling north with her girlfriends toward all things Canadian. She deserted me, merely a man, to contain four mischievous, flaxen haired cherubs by day -- and by night, to wrestle unseen demons and their unknown numbers, all of whom clanged loudly a cymbal of dependency and loneliness in my ears.

And so, turning and tossing the first night, I wandered to that place where sleeplessness stirs up shadows and I stumbled into a lair where, in fact, I was lost and dark consumed my distance.

“Ignite some flame,” I most certainly begged to nothing.

“Come quickly now and cheat the night,” as if, anyone could even do that, my pathetic, poetic intentions notwithstanding.

Sure enough, drifting away, the night did surrender and morning eventually came, imparting its autumn, sun-filled grandeur and divulging some peaceful assuredness and promise of goodwill.

So, ever mindful of my own sleepless shortcomings, those four fair haired and nearly fallen angels found security in the care of their grandmother, for a moment, as I rode eastwardly upon my imaginary Harley on this Saturday, to join real men; a dozen or so of them who were working hard upon the Rialto’s roof, on their own time, with their nail guns and table saws and tool belts, and really, all things quite testosteronish and foreign to me.

I climbed dark stairwells and rocks unsure, up two ladders to greet them, out into the open, vivid air, precariously walking over hastily bridged rafters and treacherous spaces.

Quite shortly thereafter, as you can imagine, I wore my hard hat awkwardly and found my smooth, writer boy office hands were no match for this rough hewn arena. I soon became satisfied to be but a gladiator's gopher; to fetch some folly as I warded off my fear of gravity.

The next day, confident of my own private masculinity, now as a pizza boy, I delivered dinner to these brave souls as the sun set all around them, providing a purple and pomegranate sky. As they ate, with sure footing below me, I gained more assurance and bellied up to a stable rock of a corner and peered down upon Calhoun and Pontiac, staring vertigo straight in the eye as it hailed me to some conscious surrender.

Larry joined me there, wearing his Superman t-shirt, reminding me in no small measure that he is, in fact, a super man. All the same, he's had some very rough days recently, suffice it to say, where dark has certainly consumed his distance. But he quietly pointed my gaze outward, and there, just above tree lines to the north and further east, three crosses, of equal height on their steeples rose to conquer the horizon, beyond this feeble earth with its granite fixtures. Larry had been there alone, early this glorious Sunday, and as he prepared for a long day atop this now benevolent behemoth, the sun rose -- majestically heralding their silhouette, for his very own church service.

There they were, as a heavenly windfall to a wandering and perpetual novel. Only from this height, this clearing, high atop this grand theater could these crosses be seen. Too low, and their equality would be forever lost in the skyline; too high, and peering down, they would blend into the obscurity of concrete and metal. Three crosses hovering there at the same pinnacle, rising from different churches with different beliefs, I can only assume, miles apart from each other as the crow flies -- but, there they were, as if some architects and designers of decades gone by saw fit to measure and compare and be of the same mind; to display some ethereal assurance to Larry and to me and now you that church is all about a level field, to experience here or there or anywhere, each one not meant to be above the other, but for herself, one Bride, so beautiful and elevated for her Groom to rise and meet her.

We stood there with the wind whipping up its postponement of winter, with the knowledge that this life will surely find us alone, now and most certainly again, wandering near that place where we hope to be found, so tired there, amidst treacherous spaces and bridged rafters, shivering and leaning with vertigo, longing to be held, close and unyielding.

Of course it's cold there, but His whisper is ever true. So we follow.

We follow a promise that this reconstructed roof upon which we stand will cover a new kind of church; an exodus of the lost and lonely who are finding their way, in need of leading just as we are, and perhaps we'll all find it together in a place where the wind will calm, where it will be warm and true and right and good.

And so, as I watched this light creep slowly in and around me, I did surrender there, with His grip upon me, and a clearing of all that swayed. The promise of three crosses, level in my view, held firm, for he has cheated the night, once and for all.

I was home, making the choice to not let go.


(But still wanting Kristie to come back.)