God As Lucy

It’s been a long time.  Good grief.  Where have you been?

Desolations and consolations.  Mild depression.  Relentless hope.  Confusion and clarity.  Darkness chased by light, sometimes ever so slowly.  Receding despair.  Walking and wandering.  Staring out the window.  Or out over the sea.  And chin-ups.  With the occasional pipe.  But not during the chin-ups.  Bent apple usually, with a bowl of Dunhill 965.  As Gillespie suggested, "make them rollin' hills smoky hills."  Emergence.  Shake it off.  Suck it up.  And none too soon.  Bourbon.  Did I mention relentless hope?

Yes, Lucy.  But no, not Lucille Ball.  And no, not Lucy the Ethiopian hominid.  That other Lucy.  You know, Lucy van Pelt.  Lucy, the sister of Linus.  Lucy, the 5-cent psychiatrist.  Lucy, the lousy right fielder.  Lucy, in the Peanuts comic strip.  

Lucy…    who holds the football for Charlie Brown.

If someone years ago had drilled me on the risk I'm not sure I would have signed up for the "life of faith."  But faith's object in this case seemed reasonable if not compelling to me, so I signed the docs of the heart and off we went.  Oy vey.  But risky, you see, because the exact path of another is not one's own, and though there will likely be similar experiences it appears that the Author of Life rolls a clean sheet of paper into that Smith Corona in the sky and writes a new story each time someone says, "Sure, why not?"  So if you have Good Lord vending machine notions in that head of yours you can slap an "Out of Order" sign on that thing right now and buckle up.  And buck up. Cuz you ain't seen nothin' yet.

So my wife and I moved to California and needed an apartment.  We rolled into Monterey and secured one that same day.  It was while we were still in Washington we had seen this one-bedroom online and fell in love with it.  No doubt someone will snap it up before we get into town.  But they didn't.  We were handed the keys to check it out, and when we walked into the place I immediately said, "I could live here for the rest of my life."  And I meant it.  And we drove back to the management company and signed the papers and it was ours.  Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.  And many graces in our little domicile, including utilities and Direct TV thrown in.  Wow.  Thanks, God.  Nice job coming through for us as you always said you would.  I love this life of faith stuff.

But, you see, we were only halfway there.  Because the plan was to get my in-laws to the Monterey Peninsula as well, so about six months into our adventure Cyndi and I started looking for a rental that the four of us could share going forward.  And fair to say we had some special needs.  Mum and I, she at eighty-two with health issues, and me at fifty-nine always awaiting health issues, weren't keen on lots of steps.  We were also merging two households.  And then there's Bogart, Mum and Dad's lovable, if wistful, black lab who was going to throw his lot in with the whole deal.  Not that he had much choice.  Trouble is, for an area that touts itself as dog-friendly, we discovered that approximately 76.0423758 percent of rentals on the MP are posted "No Pets."  Go figure.  So, anyway, we had some challenges to overcome with these slim pickings, but we knew God was in it.  No problemo. 

Back when I was single.  For a long time.  In the anonymity of the city.  You can be disappointed or have your patience tried or get hammered in some way and it's just you.  You can hide it a bit.  Put an upbeat face on the discouragement.  Disappear into a coffee shop or into a couple of pints.  I'm sure it will all work out.  Generally there's no collateral damage.  Hell, I didn't really want that job anyway.  Probably best I didn't get it.

But then two become one and you're tethered.  Joys and sorrows double.  And the anger ratchets up.  Not so much toward what you experience, but toward that which your tethered one experiences.  And one after another the rentals fell through.  And on top of that, did you know that in this part of the country they have Open Houses for rentals?  I kid you not.  You're competing for the apartment or house, not on price, but on character and references I guess.  And who ever has enough of those?  And we had our hopes firmly planted on the San Carlos Street place.  And then the landlord chose someone else.  And the cozy home on Carpenter…  that guy Bill seems to like us.  Why did he turn us down?  And the yellow house on Serra Ave.  That lady loved us and we could have inked that deal then and there.  So what if the fireplace was the only heating source and the joint had a one-butt kitchen?  I wanted to grab it, but my bride talked me down.  So we had a decent fight over it, and now our moving date is approaching and we got nothin'.

And when we got that rejection on the San Carlos place I later walked into our bedroom and found my dear one crying.  We had hoped for that house so much.  And we were carrying this thing for Cyndi's parents as well, not just for ourselves, so the pressure was on.  And the memory of "God providing" our one-bedroom place in a snap was fading.  Where are the graces now?  And the woman I love is in tears, shouldering another burden of disappointment.  It was all becoming heavy and pointless.  And about now I'm telling God where he can stick his faithfulness.  He had held the football for us repeatedly, and pulled it away each time.  A God who plays games with our emotions and hopes, all with a view toward showing us how much he loves us I guess.  Encouraging us and training us, like a good dad.  Nice job, God.  Thanks for the memories.  I'll pass.

And we called the moving company to let them know we'd likely have to push our date back, because that's what you do in life when you have to adjust for God's incompetence.  Looks like it really is up to us now, so let's try to hang in there.  No more football.  No more faith games.  No more nonsense.  Adios.

And then there was Hilde.  I came in the door one day and Cyndi had seen a listing online and called the lady and had a nice chat.  And there was going to be an open house on Saturday so, sure, why not...   let's go.  So we pulled together our little portfolio and showed up at Bill and Hilde's as early as we could.  And it turns out a bunch of folks had beaten us to the punch, so we got the very last copy of the twelve application forms Hilde had printed out.  And I wanted to slap the lady who was there ahead of us, in her fancy outfit and stylish hat, who was occupying all of Hilde's time.  That rude rhymes with rich.  So we had just a brief conversation with Bill and Hilde before they had to shut down the open house.  And we handed them our application and went home.  Like we're going to live in Pebble Beach.

Then Beverly called me.  Bev is a dear old Harvard friend who we listed as a reference on the rental app.  Bev said, "I got a call from Hilde.  She said she had a "gut feeling" she should choose you and Cyndi for the house.  I told her she should go with that gut feeling.”

And we got it.  And the house is three minutes from my job.  And a short walk to the Pacific Ocean.  And there are seals and birds and sea otters that wrap themselves in kelp so they don’t float away while napping.  And the sunsets explode and the waves roll in with an unyielding majesty.  And Cyndi and I have the upstairs.  And Mum and Dad have a comfortable downstairs with a fireplace.  There’s lots of square footage and we’re not on top of each other.  And our moving date was only one day off what we had originally planned.  And the street has the same name as the area they lived in years ago and loved.  And very few steps.  And two households fit.  And the folks don’t have to drive far to shop.  And they found a bakery they love.  And the price is no more than we would have paid nearly anywhere else on the Peninsula.  And maybe less.  And there’s a patio and a little landscaped backyard where Bogart can roam and poop, not necessarily in that order.  And beautiful Cypress trees and Monterey Pines.  And stars overhead.  Twenty-one graces at last count.  And now we drive past the houses we didn’t get and note the challenges we would have faced living in those homes.

And my wife has always said, “As long as we don’t live in a gated community next to a golf course.”  So the joke’s on her.

Let me kick that football one more time.  

Good grief, indeed.

My Toilet Runneth Over

Ok, so I lived around Harvard Square for thirty years and bounced through several apartments over that time, and not just because I was staying one step ahead of the constabulary.  Those were some good years, so let me deflect your course with some life-changing details…

First, my buddy Dave and I had the apartment on Beacon Street in Somerville (SUMmuh-vull **), right across from Star Market and the laundromat.  He had encamped there before I showed up, and through a series of coincidental or God events we made contact, I jumped into his car and said “hey”, and we hit it off immediately.  We lived on cornmeal pancakes, linguini with clam sauce, and generic green beans.  And we washed our dishes in the shower until the kitchen faucet got fixed.  (Remember…  you repair a faucet with O-rings, not O-varies.  We’ll cover that another time…)  And early in the mornings when we ventured out we would look for cheap entertainment in the form of unsuspecting pedestrian commuters.  Because as Dave’s car, Danny Datsun, was warming up you could accelerate down the street, shove in the clutch at the peak RPM, and produce the most exquisite of backfires.  I mean, it was like you’d been shot.  And those pedestrians would squirt their pants.  I kid you not.  God, it was great to be twenty-something and alive.

Then it was on to a room-for-service apartment for a year in the home of my boss and good friend, Dean of Freshmen, Hank Moses (may he rest in peace).  That apartment was sweet.  It was upstairs in a beautiful 3-story Greek Revival on Dunster Street, right in Harvard Square, and it had an interior spiral staircase that emptied into the main kitchen downstairs through a very nondescript wooden door.  Hence, my lengthy moniker, The Guy Who Lives in the Cupboard.

Are you with me?  Then, on to the flat on Harvard Street.  Some good times there with Rick and George, so thanks for the memories fellas.  That was another “guy” apartment complex, but it was also close to Harvard Square and was perfectly fine, as long as you didn’t mind 70’s multi-colored striped carpeting in the hallway and the sixty-four mystery smells.  And you never knew who you were going to meet in a laundry room in this Ivy League town.  Bob, for example.  To this day one of my best friends.  Now a State Department attorney, who at the moment is taking care of business with a stint in the White House.  Wanna see my POTUS ball markers?  (“I beg your pardon?”…).

And I think George forgave me when I suddenly bolted from that apartment to grab one that came up through Harvard Housing, for which I’d been on a wait list a long time.  It was just around the corner on Ware Street, and was a marvelous spacious studio that I lived in for ten years.  And because it was Harvard owned there was no last month’s rent or deposit up front.  Just pay your first month’s rent and off we go.  And yes, “I’m sorry Mr. Wigdahl, but that will be…    $205.”  I swear.  Ahh, the days of Cambridge rent control.  And my daily commute of fifty yards.  Bliss.

But the citizens of the Commonwealth had the good or poor sense to vote out rent control in 1997, so my studio edged up toward market rate.  Time to go.  So one night I had dinner with my buddy Pete.  I laid out the situation and he responded (and I paraphrase), “Wig, why are you being such a moron?  I’ve got a spare bedroom at Blakeslee Street.  Why don’t you just move in?”  So there it was, another complicated life decision — Done.  And good stories there with Pete.  That house was and is a rickety old structure, but if you occasionally added water to the boiler you could fetch up some steam into the radiators, and we had our spaghetti and microwaved frozen veggies, so don’t cry for us.  And get this…     who lived across the street?  Well, I’ll tell you who lived across the street.  John Malkovich lived across the street, that’s who.  And get oudda here, I am not making this up.  “And what on earth is John Malkovich doing living across the street from you in West Cambridge?”  Well that’s another excellent major life question for which I have no decent answer.  I never spoke to him, but truth be told I actually saw him carrying bags of groceries home from Formaggio’s.  And I don’t know how you view that, but in my world that makes me famous.

(Maybe now you’d like to get up and grab a beer or make some tea or just opt for something more productive?  Perhaps you should take out the trash, or clean your lint filter, or stare out the window for a bit?)

During my Being John Malkovich days I had also stepped away from working at Harvard and money had gotten tight.  Let it be known that I have my dear friend and roommate Pete to thank for getting me through that desert stretch.  And then I was grateful to be offered a job again at the Big H, which had been a wonderful world of employment for me for eighteen years.  So, now I’m back after a couple years away, and I’m working in the Admissions Office.  Sitting at my desk.  And the receptionist calls me.  “Jim, there is a Jeffrey _____ on the phone for you.”  This friend proceeded to take me out to lunch that day and then over the next couple months altered my life with two extraordinarily generous gifts that allowed me to buy a place of my own.  I will be forever grateful to Jeffrey.  A bona fide scholar.  True gentleman.  Man of mystery.  Sporting angelic roles.

So I bought the micro-condo on Mass Ave in Porter Square.  All 314 square feet of it.  It was a gift from God, and I loved it from the moment I walked into it.  It became my refuge, my private world, my hideaway, my man cave.  And to it I would retreat to rest and recharge, and from it I would daily slip back out again and up the stairs and onto Mass Ave and into the mix.

Since by the way, it was a Garden Level unit.  Which of course meant there was no garden, but at least it was in the basement.  And yes, it had windows.  And they offered a panoramic view of a paved alley, passersby from the knees down, a white cinder block building next door, and the recycling bins for our building.  Into which empty wine bottles could be dropped very early in the morning or very late at night to assist one in establishing what time it might actually be as one is slapped back into consciousness.  I loved it.  And it was mine.  All mine…          On top of that, a couple years into this I was able to make a huge hit on my mortgage because of yet another monetary gift from the estate of my uncle.  Uncle Gene resembled and had the mannerisms of Johnny Carson, and though at times there was a great sadness about him he was one of the most generous people I will ever know.

So, here I am in my condo.  And I’m “all set.”  I have plans.  I’m going to work at Harvard for X more years, pay off the condo entirely, and then settle in to the life of a North Cambridge bachelor in complete control of his time, his money, his talents, his priorities, his travels, and maybe even his health.  I’ll be able to come and go as I please, connect with friends easily because of my open calendar, and picture perfectly what I’m sure will be “God’s Will” for me for the rest of my life.  At last by my reasonable calculations I had achieved my managed environment and secured my tidy ambitions.

Then I went to Colorado for a reunion of friends.  And there I reconnected with Cyndi.  And two months later we were married.  And we moved into the garden level condo after I had purged it of basically everything I owned to make room for this new life.  And we used a Crate and Barrel box as our first dinner table.  And my bride made it the most beautiful and cozy nest you can imagine.  And we watched movies and Foyle’s War on a laptop in bed and ate Peppermint Patties.  And I would leave every morning for my job at Harvard, and my dear one would walk down to Starbucks to work on her memoir of Betty.  And we made a newlywed life in that little place.  And marrying Cyndi was the best decision I had ever arrived at in fifty-two years of life on earth.  And we were very happy.  And then the toilet flooded.

I don’t know if there had ever been this kind of flood in Cambridge.  There was some bizarre confluence of elements, and maybe the moon was in the seventh house or something, I dunno.  But the rain just hammered the area, and we were told the manhole covers in Harvard Square were rising up as the sewers were heaving under the load, and the Taza Chocolate factory in Somerville was flooded too, just so you know.

And we were making dinner in the micro-condo.  Remember, we were in the basement…       and there was this sound from the bathroom.  The sound you would make if you were made of porcelain and were about to puke.  So I ran in there and made eye contact with the toilet just as it called out, “I think I’m going to be sick!”  Then I grabbed a saucepan (not the one holding our dinner) and positioned myself as I had been trained…(?).  And suddenly the toilet bowl started to fill with water.  In a hurry.  I mean, like it had dreamed its whole life of becoming a geyser.  So before the water could start pouring out onto our floor I started bailing with the saucepan and pitching the water into the bathtub, hoping that the flood would play out before I managed to fill the tub.  And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

Ivy, our next door neighbor, had water all over her carpet.  And the woman down the hall who had just purchased that unit would show up a few days later to discover that her brand new condo had flooded and all of the floor boards had warped.  I’m not sure she could even open the door into the place.  Lots of damage everywhere.  Except in our unit.  We were lucky.  We were home when it happened.  And we were spared.

And I never thought of that condo in the same way ever again.

Maybe Providence allows our settled routines and our securities and our perfect habitats to be touched toward a greater good — an assist in not returning to the familiar and comfortable.  Because, you see, at times I wanted to go back.  I wanted to go back to being “all set.”  I wanted to go back from marriage to my crisp, clean solo existence.  There was that particular elasticity — I launched out into our marriage adventure, but often wanted to snap back into the contours of those gentle rolling slopes of bachelor life.  I didn’t like that marriage was wonderful but also at times a lot of work.  And great, now everything conspired to complicate my life in all the ways I had not bargained for.  Because marriage ruined my self-constructed utopian world, even as it set me on a road of great discovery, slow as I may have been to realize it.  Of course I always knew precisely the rationale for what God was doing in my life at any given moment (ha)…   but this boot camp wasn’t on the itinerary.  Certainly not on my radar.

My wife Cyndi is an extraordinary woman of substance and grace.  Her own life shaped by provision and loss.  Beautiful inside and out.  One in a million.  And I love her madly.  And yet, even many years into our marriage I still look back on the micro-condo with a yearning.  It was a gift to me, if also an idyllic expression of the contained life.  I just didn’t know its future, being now also a symbol of the former.  And I’ve been able to release it into the past.  Because since the flood many things have changed.  Including the size of my God.

I had polished my little subterranean citadel.  My fortress of limited engagement with the world.  Presumably living on God's terms, but strangely and increasingly on my own.  What I imagined as expanding intention became in fact a shrinking into a self-defined space.  And what I thought to be a center for moving out into the world was becoming instead for me a walled city to keep that same world out. 

As I look back and imagine it, I do fear as well what may have occurred if I had remained single and never left that place.  I picture increasingly frequent disappearances into the garden level unit.  As I stepped off Mass Ave and fell below the street I would be funneled down into my little stronghold, only to be tethered by bits and bytes to 13-inch virtual realities rinsed with cheap Cabernet.  An invitation to privacy and dissolution and implosion.  And if I had stayed there I might have RSVP’d yes.  After all, who would know?  Have you noticed that we are most fully ourselves when no one else is around?  Scary, huh?

I’m persuaded that there was a God trajectory to my long single life, even as it was wonderfully interrupted at mid-life.  But segments of those years were also reflective of the modern American single man in his 40s/50s/60s, who has so long been at the helm of his solo life that Love’s project must be to pry his fingers from the ship’s wheel so he can go sit in the front of the boat, and wonder at sunsets, and dolphins that surf the bow wave, and taste the spray, and peer into the abyss, and feel his craft plying the waters toward where he freely would not have allowed it.  A fresh story.  A new historical novel written and illustrated in the reverse negative images of his settled course.  A new voyage, now perfectly unpredictable.  And I submit to you that this is a marvelous thing.

So, watch your step my friend.  Love lurks.  And floods alter the landscape.

And beware the sizable God who messes with the size of your God.


**  For your information, you can never claim to have a Boston accent until you can convincingly offer, “I cahn’t take a bahth in hahf an houah.”  So get started…

Question Fifteen

Isn't it exciting to know that in the end the stakes could be very high?

How is it that in popular thinking we always take a step up in the next life?  A curious assumption that we’ll come back as an Olympian, a film star, or the doctor who finds a cure for everything.  How come it’s never an option that I’ll come back as a retriever or a rodent?  But I’m not going to think about it.  At least not right now.  I’m young and vigorous.  And maybe even immortal on my own terms.

And then there’s the whole problem that in the end the natural world might view its own eschatology as Christocentric.  And where does that leave us?  But we know that couldn’t be true if we don’t want it to be true.  This talk of Yeshua being the Logos and the Lion, the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end.  And the Cross, the crux of a spinning universe.

But even more interesting at the moment, what about our security of ambivalence in such things?  Why does a man not press into it?  Why doesn’t he sell everything he has to investigate last things for the world and last things for himself?  What’s he waiting for, his ninety-ninth birthday or a terminal illness?  And even then will he probe to discern if there is a God who might be saying something to him?  On a scale of one to ten, how hard can a man’s heart become in these things?  Or is it purely a matter of the mind, coming to terms with the expiration date on his animal life, as he attempts to suppress the musings of his spirit and his hopes for more?  How exactly did he gain this permission to establish his own ultimate outcome, to say nothing of his casual anticipation of it?

Do you listen to the conversations around you, and to the words that come out of your own mouth?  Have you noticed how often our focus is “he” or “she” or “they”, followed by our litany of offenses borne?  Or how much of conversation is dominated by the lifeless, the meaningless, and the pointless?  Extremely white bread in a world starving for whole grain content.  We rush quietly to the end of our lives, putting up little fuss that no one has challenged our beige convictions and our spiritual inertia.  What if it turns out that our choices in this life actually matter in a next?

And if so, what am I to make of the hard sayings of Jesus?  This stuff about the end of all things.  I mean, I liked Jesus a lot when he was talking about loving everybody.  Not judging other people or throwing the first rock, doing unto others as I would have them do to me.  Good, acceptable, inclusive teachings about playing well with others and helping the less fortunate.  What’s not to like about an agreeable Jesus?  Can we get him on our corporate payroll and our softball team?

If only he had kept his big mouth shut on hell.  And on the divisiveness of his own person.  Why would Jesus even ask, “Who do you say that I am?”, as though he imagines himself to be the focus of his teaching rather than those virtues to which he would have us aspire?  Enough of that.  This talk of sorting people out in the end.  Wide roads versus narrow roads with not many travelers.  Sheep and goats.  That he himself would be the judge of all people, holding the keys of Death and of Hades.  The one whose return coincides with the end and the beginning of all things.  And depending on one’s trajectory in life, is it simply our greatest hope that what he has promised will never come to pass?