Rdesurrection Stuff

The four of us sat on the beloved back deck as Fran’s thousand shades of green grabbed their blanket of darkness and prepared for sleep. Birds chirped their good-nights to the setting sun and the warm evening took on a coziness that made us all comfortable. Steaks were on the grill, potatoes with butter and cheese were in the warmer and salad-lite was prepared at the special request of one. Patty Griffin’s “1000 Kisses” provided the provided the background music.

We were gathered to share and celebrate our respective spots on the journey of lives that can just go crazy sometimes. Life rolls merrily along seemingly going according to plan and then, it suddenly swerves in directions we never thought possible.

We abruptly find that we are left behind as our lovers go on to find themselves.

Or we know that we have to leave to find ourselves because we’ve given everything away and desperately need

ourselves back again.

We’re frightened to make the first move because that breeds insecurity, fear of change, and the temptation to keep things as they are because it’s too damn scary to envision being … alone.

I had the privilege of bring WAY ahead of the others on these topics. Therefore, I did my best to stay away from them washing the dishes as they found the incredible insights that come in early evening if vodka, white wine and water are involved. Moments of genius are born here.

But, recognizing that I was the senior member on the journey of surviving transitions one broke into my kitchen and drug me outside to participate with them.

I was also the only male. In and of itself, this does not intimidate me. I’ve long been in touch with my feminine side, listening to David Bowie when he was a gender bender, took my son to an Indigo Girls concert where we were the only boys there, and don’t mind crying when I feel like it.

Nevertheless, this was a collection of strong women … hence the steak.

But we sat there as the darkness came. I was listening to them encourage one another, laugh, and challenge themselves to do … better. Then Fran’s thousand shades of green were asleep, the birds had grown quiet, the sun had pulled the blanket of clouds over its head and the moon acted like a street lamp.

But these women glowed.

Three entirely different personalities. Three entirely different looks. Three entirely different women. Individually they glistened. Collectively they glowed.

“Things are always worse at night time,” I was once told and I believed it with everything in me because of who told me.

But last night … things looked better in the dark. They were gorgeous in the night. The lamp shade of the moon

illuminated their beauty.

They took my breath away.

Now I am a child of the sun. I adore the quietness of morning. The birth of a new day representing the chance to start over again … regardless of how much you may screwed yesterday up … the rising sun announces to the world …

“Let’s try again shall we? Try to do a little better this time. Learn from yesterday and try not to do that again.”

I’m very fond of having my prayer time after laughter and coffee at the Breakfast Club these days. I get up, fall through the shower, dress for a later run, climb on my very sober bicycle and peddle to the Club. We laugh, hug and celebrate or curse the rising sun. I’m dispatched to buy cigarettes which I do and deliver back to everyone.

Then I peddle down Tybrisa Street. The ocean glistens at the end and of course only women glisten … Mother Ocean indeed. It is quiet. On the sidewalks on either side are women and men sitting alone … staring either into the sun or the nothingness in front of them. Some smoke taking long thoughtful drags. Others rub their hands between their knees and have the innocence of a child on their face but they are long past childhood. Some stumble … not quite sure if they’ going to … or leaving home.

This is my prayer time. I love these people. I know many of them by name. They see me and give half-hearted waves or with gravely voices whisper, “Morning Rev.” Cigarette butts, plastic cups and beer cans litter the street. The remnants of last night are ugly in the light of the day.

At the end the street just stops and there is the sun rising over the ocean. Resurrection stuff. The dead come back to life. Broken hearts love again.

“Thank you God,” I say out loud.

Then I peddle back the same way that I came.