Motel Beds and Free HBO

We first stayed at the Motel 6 until we moved to the neighboring EZ-8. I’m not sure if the numbers intend to indicate an upgrade in quality, but they did in our case. My stepfather looked for work wherever he could, eventually landing a job in Arizona. He was gone most of the time, coming back periodically to see me and my mom, and to pay rent. Depression quickly took hold of my mother, though I was too young to diagnose the problem as such. She slept a lot, cried often, and got up only when it was time to eat. Most of our meals came from the next-door Carrows or the Weinerschnitzel across the street, resulting in a love for fast-food and an insatiable craving for bacon that has worsened with the passing of time. I assumed every college male ate a pound of bacon by themselves…in one sitting…a few times a week. It wasn’t until marriage that I learned this was a habit to be ashamed of. Damn it!

Now that I am older – with at least some responsibility – I can faintly imagine the feelings of shame and defeat that must have stirred inside my parents. How can one chapter of a life be defined by acres of land, six bedrooms, and financial freedom, while the next chapter – only a quickly turned page away – be marked by one room, one toilet, and travel shampoo? Everything they worked so hard to build and create was no more. Life on the mountaintop was gone, and there we were, exiled to the wilderness of motel beds and free HBO.

It’s grace that children don’t usually view the world in the way adults do. Where a parent sees hopelessness, a child can find possibility.

The arcade was the first region of the motel over which I extended my reign. It was located in the “laundry room,” though no machines existed aside from Street Fighter and Captain America and the Avengers.  The manager of the EZ-8 let me play for free – an apparent benefit for downgrading from our house to his place – and because only two games were available, it took little effort for my power over them to be realized. Occasionally, other kids stumbled upon this room and I would be waiting for them, my unsuspecting prey. I didn’t know what brought them to the EZ-8, or where they came from, or if they had a house and a normal family, and I didn’t bother with those questions because that part of their story wasn’t important. Or, perhaps I understood that piece of their history to be so fundamental, but drastically different from mine, that I didn’t want to know. Whatever it was that brought them to the “laundry room,” there they were, in my kingdom, and I was prepared to show them the full weight of what that meant.

Welcome to the Wilderness

I didn’t know why we were leaving the big blue house on the hill, but I understood we would never live there again. My mom was already in the car when Trent, my stepfather, handed me the box being used to prop open the front door. It wasn’t heavy so I carried it to the car while he stayed back to lock the door, which took him longer than it should have. Would the door not shut because of the swelling from the rain or did the lock jam again? Was there something we forgot to turn off or an item we forgot to pack? Was he planning out what was next or lost in what was before – grabbing hold of the memories created in the place he built with his own hands? A few minutes passed before he walked back to the car.

There wasn’t enough room in the backseat to fit both me and the box until he moved things around to make space. I hesitated to sit because I wasn’t convinced that I could fit comfortably. If I had been the average weight of a kid my age this wouldn’t have been a problem. But, since growing up in a Mexican family means that for one to be healthy they have to be fat, I figured the corner of the box would stab me in the side. I got in the car and we pulled out of the driveway onto the steep, dirt road that would take us to the main highway. Just before the road ended I looked back at the house and the surrounding hills. I was too young to know how much we were leaving but I knew enough to be sad. That was the place where I could hike whenever I wanted; the place where I learned to shoot guns; the place where I learned to ride motorcycles; the place everyone could see when driving on the freeway or fishing at Fin and Feather Lake. Behind us was the quintessential Lancaster dream, and it was ours no longer.

We made a left at the stop sign and the house was gone. I sat forward, tried to keep still and quiet like those in front, but my assumptions regarding my weight were accurate – the corner of the container was digging into my stomach. She noticed my discomfort and turned around in her seat. Her face was calm though tired from tears. She watched for a moment and smiled. “It’s okay, mijo,” she said in a way that made me believe her, “We won’t be driving long.” I was nine years old when we started living in motels.

Good Morning, Life.

Today, I am going to try and live you, be thankful for you, take advantage of you and not fear you. You have been given as a gift to be enjoyed, not wasted; to be appreciated, not despised.

Giver of life, help me be a good steward of the gift of today.

It’s Too Dark Out There

It’s about 5:45, I’m sitting on the Metro and I’m almost home. Bodies fill the train car – the homeless with their leaky, can-filled trashcans; the teenagers with their young, screaming children; the professionals with their literature; the salesmen with their boxes of candy and terribly printed Obama t-shirts. They chant, “yes you can” down the rows reminding us that, despite what we say, we really do want to adorn the over-pixilated face of our nation’s president. My eye is drawn to a lady standing across from me. I’m not sure if it’s the weight or phlegm issue that’s more disturbing. She sneezes, wipes her nose with her fingers and grabs a hold of a rail so that when the train stops she won’t fall. It doesn’t work. She stumbles back, sneezes again, wipes her nose with her fingers and grabs a hold of the rail. It’s like she’s dancing, following some rhythm in her head – sneeze, wipe, grab, stumble back, sneeze, wipe, grab, stumble back and so on. It is all quite amusing until the thought runs through my head that this woman has the swine flu and that at this very moment, I am getting infected.

I’m serious about this.

I am a hypochondriac and generally fearful of most things. Early in my marriage I was sure, on more than one occasion, I had salmonella poisoning. I didn’t have health insurance either, which added to the paranoia. About six months ago there were many nights when I thought I was having a heart attack. Of course I would share this with people but they wouldn’t do more than look at me with the “here we go again” face. I expected this unconcerned reaction and thus responded, “No, seriously, I get these pains in my chests, my heart starts racing fast and I have shortness of breath; webmd.com says these are symptomatic of heart disease.” Still, they look at me unconvinced. I hope they’re right.

And yes, if you’re wondering, I do know that panic attacks share similar symptoms with heart attacks. That’s beside the point. I would still go to bed uncertain I would see the morning.

People also scare me. I didn’t know this until I started utilizing public transportation. Nearly every time I get on the train I assume there’s a terrorist, thief and psychotic sharing the train car with me (all at the same time). I hold tightly onto my bags, watch everyone who enters and judge accordingly, “That ethnic guy, total terrorist. The lazy-eye-guy behind me whose breath I can feel on my neck – and there are a lot of lazy-eyed-neck-breathers who ride the Metro – absolute psychotic; at any moment he is going to stab (or maybe lick) my neck.” By the way, I’m deathly afraid of getting stabbed which is why I sit where I do, right near the doors where I have a good view of the whole car and where no one can sit behind or beside me. Only once have I regretted this seat preference.

The train car was so crowded and they were so large (an apparent theme on the metro) that the lower halves of their bodies would occasionally braise my right shoulder. I was frustrated but also impressed that such a couple could sustain a make-out session for the past two station stops. Eventually, this overweight make out couple turned their kissing into some sort of scheme; they would come up for air, look down at me, talk in Spanish (which I should understand but don’t), giggle, then make out again. After a few rotations of this pattern I was convinced that they were actually trying to make me feel uncomfortable. They succeeded.

Overweight Make Out Couple: 1
Helpless Daniel With Eyes Closed: 0.

The making out turned into touching, which turned into the man trying to unclothe his girlfriend, literally. He stuck his hand down her shirt and tried to scoop out her breast like one does when they take a bowling ball from its case.

Overweight Make Out Couple: 2
Helpless Daniel With Eyes Closed: 0.

Insert silent prayer: “Please don’t let that woman’s breast touch my ear.”

Currently, my anxiety is mostly reserved for the future – that dark, enigmatic space which holds too many opportunities for disaster. I suppose the opposite is true as well – that the future can be exciting, holding great potential for success (whatever the “h” that is anyway). Here’s the thing: I don’t see it that way; I focus on the negative. I’m afraid I will have nothing valuable to offer those around me. I’m afraid of letting myself and other people down. I’m afraid I’ll be stuck in an unsatisfying job for the rest of my life that has very little impact on the world. I’m afraid that the two aforementioned fears will lead me to make selfish, vocational decisions with adverse effects on my family and friends. I’m afraid of becoming fat and getting made fun of for it. I’m afraid of becoming an a-hole, d-head and/or d-bag. I’m afraid of losing those close to me. I’m afraid of, well, life I guess.

And so, as I do with my bags on the train, I grab on tight to the present, resisting change and avoiding risk.

I’m afraid doing just that might be a big mistake.

Why Tell Your Story?

My journey to blogging began with this conviction: we all have stories to tell. In 2008 I read a lot of books by the author, Frederick Buechner. He has written a number of fiction books, as well as, an array of memoirs. If you have never read Buechner he is definitely worth your time. In his book, Telling Secrets, he says this:

“Maybe nothing is more important than that we keep track, you and I, of these stories of who we are and where we have come from and the people we have met along the way because it is precisely through these stories in all their particularity, as I have long believed and often said, that God makes himself known to each of us most powerfully and personally. If this is true, it means that to lose track of our stories is to be profoundly impoverished not only humanly but also spiritually.“

It has been this statement, among others, that has lead me to actually go through with blogging and storytelling. In other words, I have a story to tell and it is worth telling. Before people write me off as some arrogant nut who needs people’s affirmation to live with himself, let me explain. I believe my story is worth sharing not because my story is simply my story (if I believed this I would be following quite nicely on the heels of many in our culture where the individual with his or her truth trumps all else). Rather, I believe my story matters for the same reason yours does, mainly, that our stories are connected to God’s story and when we share our stories we tell of God’s work in the world. So, please tell your story and listen to the narratives of others for when we engage in such an act we are reminded that the world reaches far beyond our lives, and that God, although seemingly silent, is usually up to something.

Now Is A Good Time To Start

This is my first blog post ever. I decided to join the whole blog world and begin posting thoughts, essays, and reviews of movies and music. If you think this is pretentious, you’re probably right. In fact, that is why I have refrained from blogging for the past few years. I was so afraid that people would think that I’m some arrogant person if I did this. However, I have come to believe that it’s okay to want people to read the things I write. And, even if it’s not okay to want that, fearing what others might think is a terrible reason not to do something. It’s not that I think I have any great wisdom to offer or things to teach people. Rather, I think that sharing thoughts and having others respond and react to them will be more of a learning experience for me. So, here I am wanting to blog and I thought what better day to start than New Year’s Day?

In the days to come I will write more specifically about what I hope this blog will be and the motivation behind it. Until then, here is a prayer that I wrote for a New Year’s Eve service at our church. It is an attempt at honest reflection of the last year of my life. 

 

Lord, a myriad of memories and feelings surface as I attempt to reflect on this past year.

 

I remember the excitement that came as the new year began.

I imagined how I could be different. I looked forward to creating new habits. I anticipated future accomplishments.

And God, I was certain this year would be different.

I became convinced my future was something to look forward to.

 

I remember the joy that came with the birth of a child.

Her smiles made me smile. Her laughter made me laugh. Her presence brought contentment.

And life was put into perspective.

I became convinced that YOU, God,  were good.

 

I remember the confusion that came with the news that I would lose my job.

My job was dissolving. My identity was collapsing. I was unsure of what to do next.

And my future became unclear.

I became convinced that YOU, God,  had forgotten about me.

 

I remember the frustration and insecurity that came with looking for work.

I filled out applications. I sent in resumes. I went to interviews.

But no one thought I was a good fit for their projects.

I became  convinced that YOU, God,  had no use for me in this world.

 

I remember the loneliness that came with your silence.

I prayed for your guidance. I begged for your presence. I waited for your response.

But there was nothing.

I became convinced YOU, God,  had abandoned me.

 

I remember the pain that came with going through another birthday, another meal, and another Christmas without my wife’s father.

He died four years ago. The feeling of loss remains. The tears continue.

But there has been healing.

I became convinced that YOU, God, have walked with us through this shadow of death.

 

I remember the comfort that came with your presence.

Through friends you showed concern. Through marriage you reminded me of your  forgiveness. Through relationships you revealed your faithfulness

And I began to see you.

I became convinced that YOU, God,  remembered me.

 

I remember the peace that came with believing in your promises.

You say that you love me. You say that I am your child. You say that I have something to offer the world.

And I began to believe.

I became convinced that YOU, God, had heard the cries and longings of my heart.

 

FInally, Lord, I remember the hope that comes with remembering.

You  have reminded me that you can take our honest laments. You have shown me that you are present even in the darkness. You have convinced me that you hear our cries and make newness possible.

And therefore I look forward to the future.

Not because I am convinced it will be full of blessing instead of pain or life instead of death.

Rather, I look forward to the future because I am convinced that whatever it holds YOU, God, will hear me and be present with me. Amen.