Thursday, February 27, 2020

who are you

Early in the gospel of John a question is asked by one man to another.  
Who are you?


Not, what is your first name or your title?  Not, what do you do for a living?  Not, where are you from?


Two men in a landscape whose paths have crossed want to know the essence of the other.  


Words are there, and the sentences can be stitched.  But they might break if spoken too loud.  They are the thoughts you have your whole lifetime to whisper to your truest of friends.


Friday, January 24, 2020

anchor

Out the backseat window of the minivan my son could not make out the horizon because of the fog.  He threw up for 5 hours well into Arkansas.  


Motion sickness.  Sick of moving.  Stricken by inner unease.  
It's a miserable state that obliterates the joy of travel and overtakes the victim.  


It becomes a search for visual anchoring.  

Years of traveling and learning how to roll with the unpredictable shaped my vision and expectations of parenthood.  I was going to steer my family like a migratory caravan.  


 But it's as if my son has opened a new horizon to me, an exotic one that is closer to home.


A good friend commissioned this painting with a snapshot of his two boys from 20 years ago.  It's now above their fireplace.

What's above your fireplace?