Chapter 37 Surrendered to Live Again

The smell of leather is earthy and real, and the consistency of its aroma spans time and fashion and, I suppose, even these socioeconomic gaps of our own making. Most everyone has held or owned something of leather; perhaps to wear, to sit on or walk upon. Maybe to find warmth or just hold between fingers.

And so, I think it's safe to say that its scent, its essence and the very feel of it permeates our collective senses; the skin of a beast conquered once to surrender flesh and grain, to live again -- tanned, conditioned and softened for our comfort and enjoyment. Whether new, slightly used, or tempered with age, it just is what it was, in a simple sort of way.

Maybe because of this, in no small part, the smell of leather always makes me think of something, or more appropriately, a certain Someone -- the very One who came to see me today on my 39th birthday, an unseasonably warm Saturday, to offer me a view from the back of his ride. It seems a birthday should be the best day for this, though, frankly, I need it every day.

His weathered leather jacket was on, of course, and it’s black, as you might expect, with a sweet aroma, like pine and smoke from distant fires. It's soft to the touch, perhaps from time and wind, road and grime, or maybe from hands and the embracing arms they’re attached to, reaching from the back of that seat, hanging on, gripping to him tightly, at times. It's also quite cracked in places, a reminder of its origins, revealing strength and covering all the same. The shoulders of it seem the most tender, as if the cheeks of one such as I and even my uncertain, masculine tears have broken them in -- the very tears that well up out of shame and then release; gratitude and rejoicing. Or maybe it's the oils from my skin, and perhaps yours, mixing and congealing to form our mere humanity, massaging and kneading the hide of another.

And so, that very leather scent wafted itself lightly above him as I climbed on the back of his Harley. We were off to no special place today, he said; perhaps just a jaunt down a side country road, or two, to feel the wind and to breathe in horizons as we passed by hopeful soybean fields, all with anxious soil, one after another.

We didn’t speak for some time. I almost thought we wouldn’t, which would have been alright, I suppose.

But then he said, out of a certain blue, “Happy Birthday, Jeff.”

It seemed odd coming from him, I must admit.

“Thanks.”

And then, I had to ask again, knowing the answer, but still needing to relax.

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” he answered. “I just wanted to take you for a ride on a great day and tell you that I love you. And that’s all, really.”

I didn’t know how to respond, but I blurted out the usual: “I love you too,” because I do, in case you’re wondering. I just have to imagine it and slow down enough to feel it; you know, to make it real for me. I'm not particularly proud of that.

He accelerated and I held on tight, trying to enjoy the ride, but I knew before long that I would need more than these exchanges of affection with the One I trust and follow after.

A few miles of silence passed by and we came to a four way stop, a county road crossing, perhaps designed with the anticipation of more traffic than this. The only sound was the low idle of that Harley engine, and we were the only souls around with ears to hear it. It seems he was riding aimlessly but full of purpose to calm me down, to breathe him and his leather in, to witness the creation of his Father.

But I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Speak to me.” It came out more desperate than I thought it would. “Please -- I just can’t seem to get it right these days.”

Sometimes a birthday accentuates that, if you know what I mean.

The coast was clear, of course, and so he accelerated and I'm pretty sure he said something in response but I couldn’t quite catch it, with my ears, you know, over the rumble (even though deep inside, I felt it).

“What?” I asked, playing dumb.

He turned a little, his right cheek over his shoulder, down by my face and he said it once more:

“You’re right by me.”

I leaned or maybe I reeled back a little. I’m right by him? Well, of course I am. I couldn’t get any closer on the back of this motorcycle if I tried. Or, did he mean I’m right by him?

He leaned into turns, and so did I, just like you’re supposed to, and together we passed by more fields, some with muddy cows, lonely barns and farm houses, over hills and into low lying clouds. I shifted my weight, thinking about what he said, pressing my cheek once more against his shoulder as he protected me from the wind, temperate as it was.

Then it struck me as we turned back toward home that it really didn’t matter which one he meant; whether it was proximity or my perceptions of performance, I was right by him and on this birthday of mine I believe that was the greatest gift, really; one of mostly silence and surrender, a ride to remember and to know that I'm redeemed, purchased at a cost and quite precious to him. And that he’s close too, because he is, closer than anyone ever will be, and he's as beautiful as I imagine him to be, for this essence of him is much like that sweet smell of leather which permeates my senses and I hope yours, as collectively we're reminded of him often -- earthy and consistent and real, his very humanity spanning time and fashion and I suppose other gaps of our own making.

It's true, I was embracing a man who was conquered once, scarred in places to remind me of his origins, surrendered to live again -- not only two thousand years ago -- but right now, for me to cling to and embrace, because he is who he was, in a simple sort of way. And he came to take me for a ride so I could be reminded of that.

And who he is, well, let me just say, it made this birthday the best day.