November 13: Bad Choices, Light Years, "As It Is"

I have a friend who is making bad choices.  She is turning her back on her children and spouse.  She knows what she's doing is selfish and stupid and destructive, but she doesn't care.  Nobody can change her mind, and she is most likely going to end up alone, without anyone to depend on.  Her bridges are burning.  That's what addiction does.

Please lift up this friend in your thoughts.  If you're a praying person, say some prayers for her and her spouse and kids.  Hope seems like a distant star for them.  Light years away.

Sometimes, I'm not really sure about the goodness of God.

A poem that has been haunting Saint Marty all day . . .

As It Is

by:  Dorianne Laux

The man I love hates technology, hates
that he’s forced to use it: telephones
and microfilm, air conditioning,
car radios and the occasional fax.
He wishes he lived in the old world,
sitting on a stump carving a clothespin
or a spoon. He wants to go back, slip
like lint into his great-great-grandfather’s
pocket, reborn as a pilgrim, a peasant,
a dirt farmer hoeing his uneven rows.
He walks when he can, through the hills
behind his house, his dogs panting beside him
like small steam engines. He’s delighted
by the sun’s slow and simple
descent, the complicated machinery
of his own body. I would have loved him
in any era, in any dark age, I would take him
into the twilight and unwind him, slide
my fingers through his hair and pull him
to his knees. As it is, this afternoon, late
in the twentieth century, I sit on a chair
in the kitchen with my keys in my lap, pressing
the black button on the answering machine
over and over, listening to his message,
his voice strung along the wires outside my window
where the birds balance themselves
and stare off into the trees, thinking
even in the farthest future, in the most
distant universe, I would have recognized
this voice, refracted, as it would be, like light
from some small, uncharted star.

October 15: Bad Shoe Sessions, Addict Mind, Stubbornness or Stupidity or Weakness

NOTE:  DETAILS IN THIS POST HAVE BEEN CHANGED.  DON'T TRY TO FIGURE OUT ABOUT WHOM I'M TALKING.  YOU'LL BE WRONG.  THIS POST ISN'T ABOUT GOSSIP.  IT'S ABOUT THE COST OF ADDICTION.

They plunged through heavy walls of sound, mountains of archaic thought, valleys of mood music, bad shoe sessions and footling bats and suddenly heard a girl's voice . . .

Of course, this whole paragraph is about improbability.  Things that don't make sense.  That's what fuels the Heart of Gold spaceship--coincidences that are so outlandish that they create energy.  That energy propels the Heart of Gold to the far reaches of the universe, proving that the Big Bang started out as two tiny pieces of insanity colliding into each other at the start of time.

There are a lot of things I don't understand, like deep-fried pickles and the appeal of Donald Trump.  One of the things that truly puzzles me is the addict mind.  As I've written before, I have a few addicts in my life.  These people constantly make bad decisions.  One of these people spends half her life stoned on pills, and the other half trying to figure out how to get more pills to get stoned again.  Another of these people consistently chooses his addiction over everything else, including his children.  His kids know that they can't depend on him right now, and they have stopped turning to him for help or advice or love.

The other day, I asked one of these addicts to go to a talk being given by a recovering drug addict at a local church.  The talk is not just about drugs, however.  It's about all addictions.  Alcohol.  Pornography.  Sex.  Food.  Gambling.  Anything to which you can form an unhealthy attachment.  It's not going to be a tent revival meeting.  It's simply one guy talking about his journey to recovery.  My addict's response to this invitation:  "I'll go, but it won't make a difference.  I'm too stubborn."

I'm not sure if it's stubbornness or stupidity or weakness.  Maybe all three.  I am sure about one thing, though--you can't force an addict into recovery.  That's a decision that falls squarely on the shoulders of the addict.  What boggles my mind is that my addict doesn't even recognize the damage that's already happened in his life.  Thousands of dollars of debt.  Alienation of his spouse and children.  He's lost things that he will have a hard time regaining--memories with his family, the trust of people he loves.  And he just doesn't seem to care.

And I don't understand this.  My addict knows his choices are bad.  Knows that he's throwing away his marriage and his kids.  Yet, it just doesn't seem to matter to him.  He is hell-bent on self-destruction, and, as a friend, I have to sit back and watch him do it.

I know that the only thing in life that I have control over is my own actions.  One of my best friends
constantly reminds me of this.  However, it's really difficult coming to terms with the fact that I have to watch someone for whom I care about deeply simply disappear into his addiction.  Possibly forever.  His choice.  Not mine.

If my addict reads this post, I hope he knows that his kids are hurting.  That his young daughter thinks she's less important than his addiction.  (She told her mother this one night.)  I hope, somehow, these words rock him a little bit.  He's a good person, making terrible choices, over and over and over.  But it's never too late to make things right.  He just has to have the courage to admit that he's out of control and needs help.  That's the first step.

At the moment, however, this seems not impossible.  Just improbable.

Saint Marty prays for this improbability tonight.  His Heart of Gold is running out of fuel.

July 2: Sacrifice Bound, Dedication, Young and Headstrong

I am a sacrifice bound with cords to the horns of the world's rock altar, waiting for worms.  I take a deep breath, I open my eyes.  Looking, I see there are worms in the horns of the altar like live maggots in amber, there are shells of worms in the rock and moths flapping at my eyes.  A wind from noplace rises.  A sense of the real exults me; the cords loose; I walk on my way.

I think Dillard is talking about dedication in this passage.  We all go through life with blinders on.  Most of us don't think about how our actions may affect our neighbors, town, county, state, country, world, universe.  When I throw away a rotten nectarine, I don't think about the people living in landfills in Mexico, struggling to find food.  If we did think like this, maybe we would dedicate our lives more toward the work of God.  Make every day a sacrifice on an altar.

The problem is that we all make bad choices.  Every day.  I have someone very close to me who has made a bad choice right now.  It's a choice that I think, in the long run, will hurt her quite a bit.  But I can't really explain this to her.  She's young and headstrong.  She doesn't really think much about the future.  It's all about the present.  I'm more of a long-distance thinker.  (That way of thinking has its own pitfalls, as well.  It can tend to paralyze me at times, making it hard to make decisions.)

Bad choices are learning opportunities, I know.  All of the apostles made bad choices at one time or another.  Peter turned his back on Christ.  John ran away when the soldiers arrested Him.  Judas . . . well, you know.  Life isn't so much about the mistakes; it's about what we do with those mistakes, how we move forward.

As I said in an earlier post this week, I try to remember that I am the Christ in people's lives.  That's my job as a Christian.  That should be my goal, my dedication.  To sacrifice my life for the sake of others.  That's what Jesus did.  Ideally, it's what we all should do.  The world would be a much better place if everyone thought and acted like this.  We don't, however.  I don't, for sure, because I'm human.  And selfish.  And flawed.   Just like the young person in my life.

We all make mistakes.  That's the story of humanity.  Yet, we can all change.  Change our minds.   Our lives.  The world.  Make sacrifices.  Walk on our ways.

Saint Marty will try to remember this today.  And tomorrow.  And the next day. 

It's all about love . . .

December 11: Love isn't a Choice

In conjunction with my last post, I want to say a little more.

I have a lot of love in my life.  But love isn't a choice.  I didn't choose the people I love.  My wife and kids and family.  Love chose me.  That is the one thing that carries me through difficult times.  Without love, I'd have done a George Bailey a long time ago--found a bridge and taken a swim in the middle of a snowstorm.

I guess I just wanted you all to know that, even though, at the moment, I may feel like I've made some bad choices, love has saved me again and again.  It's going to save me tonight.  I'm going to bed in a few minutes.  Before I climb under the covers, I'll go into my kids' room and kiss them goodnight.  Then I'll lie down next to my wife, who accepts me even with all my faults.

Saint Marty has been graced with love, and love doesn't make mistakes.

OK, maybe love makes mistakes every once in a while