Only Sleeping

Only Sleeping

(“Abraham, when hope was dead within him, went on hoping in faith…” Romans 4:18a)

He had crossed the country too many times to do it again,
his feet were tired, his head was framed by every new start he
made by faith.

He traveled north when he was young to finally learn to
sell skis,
pray a little,
preach a little,
and wonder at the slow-motion snow that hung in the trees.

And, traveling south only six months in, He traded in denim and
polyester mid 70s; alone and waiting for his bride. She waited for him
while he tried to pick up electromagnetic signals from God. They wed
and fled their reception to catch Carol Burnett. He never loved anyone more,
nor deserved anyone less.

A year later, figuring God knew his language, he convinced his bride that
east was the direction
of faith this time. Oklahoma, where women never wear pants to church,
and mixed bathing is forbidden. Girls first, then boys, would take their turns
at the church camp swimming holes. He traded in suits and silk, but soon,
without deserving the position or the place, he pastored teens all the time,
and built a place where kids never wore out their welcome and
toilet paper dotted the trees.
But he had to leave. Exposed by darkness, he left the practice,
and traveled west once again.

Soundwaves are full of time and faith. Amplitude and frequency
sometimes surround a heart so ungraciously that not much matters
except tuning in to the jazz station that makes you dance, or the blues that
makes you cry. I didn’t know why hope was so divided from faith.

Yet the faith rose above the muck, and still in the Golden State,
he traded in music and youth; an assistant to a Shepherd, and a
frightened young man with a mystic’s heart. Love would dart
in and out
even when his faith was too heavy to float. He always hoped faith
would ease and erase the secret longings that lashed his thoughts
to little but fear.

He honed his craft; Christmas, Easter and Midsummer Mania. Teens and grandmas
were his closest friends. Only in an unguarded moment would he express
his inhibitions about policy, polity, severity and faith. He hardly admitted
he rarely lived up to his own expectations or hope for relief. But
the electromagnetic call drew him Northeast this time. 

Why would anyone
follow God (or any other being) to the frigid plains of North Dakota? But there,
among the Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara he found his home. He danced
every round dance,
nearly danced the jingle dress,
and prayed as Little Shell started his favorite Pow Wow of the year.
He adopted moms and sisters, brothers made him their brother. He golfed with
Musky and could never match his tan. Days were filled with joy; books lined
his schedule from first to last. Nights called him urgently; an overdose, a spirit,
a break-in. An infant’s
death. He should have stayed longer. He should have made it his home.
Whether he mistook the signals or God had other plans; he moved on
with Fort Berthold a living memorial in his heart.

Though North Dakota filled two decades, his feet slipped on the ice
more than once.
And two churches later, a hundred families later, a circle of confusion and
ferocious love swept him away like the outer winds of a hurricane. Never
had he loved a state, felt his place, felt at home, or laid cornerstones
like the way North Dakota named him among their own.

But the wires get crossed, and we trip over the cables on the pavement. West
invited us back, and into its grand Pacific North we landed on the banks of the
Columbia. From the church’s steps the seals were heard, barking for more scraps
from the fishermen. Children danced, children asked if there was potluck,
children sang inappropriate tunes, children brought the poor seeker’s heart back
to life again.

Where are you, faith, when the world explodes inside our head? Was it the long journey,
the constant tripping, the stumbling downstairs or the frightening stares of people I knew
must know what I knew about me? Or was God just done with me? Or was God at all?
A dozen years we loved a river village, over a decade the pain invaded and broke into
my brain like a hundred icy spikes on some days, and like a molten helmet of lead
on others. Never a day without fear. Never a day without my ears ringing and the
tv shouting, the dog barking and the board meetings slowing to a crawl. I could
not bear the slightest intrusion of sound, but I longed for effusive offers from
friends who heard, who knew, who learned and might bring me a coffee or
a cake or a hug or a teddy bear or a kiss on the forehead or a whole hour unspoken
and
unearned.

But the pain won.

And now we have traveled Southeast again. Texas, dry and long. A year without
a purpose. A year without a friend. A year without someone to make it right again.
Hope against hope sounds more like a handball hitting the wall. A year of walking
circles, a year of waking in pain, a year of begging for someone to hear me, truly hear me
again.

And for all I know (because I do not know, and have no idea), faith may show up when you’re
dreaming in your sleep,
or it may seep through the walls you thought were your prison,
or it may be one simple human who has no idea
what a smile can mean.

So, if you see me lying on the street devoid of faith as you know it,
still and unmoving, my mouth and face covered by the rain,
please do not worry, please do not disturb me,
and understand:
I’m only sleeping.