Dear Casey Anthony
July 13, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 12 Comments
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Dear Casey Anthony,
I have to say I’m probably the only person in the world who didn’t know about you two weeks ago. That’s not to say I keep myself ill-informed of what’s going on in the world. I don’t. In fact, I think I probably know more than I should.
It’s just that when it comes to murdered children…well, that’s the sort of thing of which I do try to keep myself ill-informed. I have kids, you see. I worry about them and fear for them enough. I figure I really don’t need another reason to do more.
That’s why I ignored you as best I could. Sure, there were a few times when I’d come across a newspaper story or some television commentary. But I turned either the page or the channel. I didn’t want to see you, didn’t want to read about you. No offense intended. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.
But then came the trial and then the verdict, and it was pretty much impossible for anyone to do anything without hearing about you. So I did start to pay attention. I wanted to know what it was about you that had struck such a nerve in so many people, and I wanted to know what that said about us.
I’m neither theologian nor philosopher, just a guy in a hat. I won’t use this space to excoriate you (plenty have done that, right or wrong) or laude our justice system (ditto). I’ll just say this:
I’m not sure why you got all that attention. Ours is a world in which many children such as your own go missing and are found dead. And like you, their accusers are brought in front of judges and juries to be found guilty or innocent. I’ll leave the answers as to why your case became the focus rather than another to those smarter than I. But I do think ours is a society that must be entertained. We may walk straight in our going about, but inside our hearts are hooked downward. We crave the terrible and the depraved, and we found both in you.
We also found in you the culmination of our baser, more selfish selves. What parents in their weakest moments have not fantasized of a life of freedom from their children? Who has not secretly considered any means necessary to exchange a bland existence for one of fame and fortune? I suspect the difference between you and most is that those frail moments remain in our hidden places and yours were cast out into the world.
Much of the anger directed at you is justified. Much of that outrage, I think, is also a kind of fear. In you we see what evil results when we are untethered from responsibility and left to ourselves. We are reminded of the ease by which we can rationalize even the worst acts. We see the depths to which human beings can plumb.
I understand you’ll be free soon, at least the sort of freedom that imprisonment denies. I’ve heard of death threats and relocation plans. I’ve also heard of agents being hired and books being planned. Movies being discussed. And a desire for more children.
I think in the end, that’s what bothers people most. We have an inherent desire for justice, for the guilty to be punished and the innocent redeemed. For many, you are but one piece of evidence among many to prove that desire is an empty one that cannot be filled in this world.
Fair or not, in the end we see that a blameless child has been killed and her mother will now receive the wealth and attention she so coveted. I suppose that’s where we’ll end this. So much has already been said by so many people, and I hate to add to the pile. But I will say this before I go—you are not the first person to be hated in this world, nor the first to perhaps put your own wants before the needs of others in a search for some sort of earthly heaven. But as you step out from behind bars and into the world, you would do well to remember the many who have found that heaven and discovered it to be a hell.
Regards,
Billy
What I was doing when the Rapture didn’t happen
May 23, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 10 Comments
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Saturday, May 22, 5:50 pm.
I could tell you the reason why I’m presently walking the widow Pence’s dog has nothing at all to do with Harold Camping’s promise that the Rapture is mere minutes away, but I’d be lying. The truth is that I’m doing this precisely because we’re all going to die.
You’ve heard of Harold Camping, yes? Me neither. Not until this week, when the Drudge Report got hold of his story. Seems Mr. Camping, who runs some sort of religious broadcasting network in California, fancies himself a bit of a math whiz. He’s crunched the numbers and decided that according to the Bible, Saturday is the beginning of the end. Better hang on folks, he says, because this ain’t gonna be pretty.
This is what I’m thinking about while walking widow Pence’s dog—Buttercup is her name, a white poodle who looks like the business end of the mop I use on the wood floors in the house. She’s a happy dog, unlike her grouchy owner.
The problem with Buttercup in general and the widow Pence in particular began a few Saturdays ago. Ms. Pence had moved into the house down the road and minded her own business. There was no neighborliness about her. Rumor on the street was that she chased away a few neighborhood kids whose kickball had strayed into her front yard. That seemed to be the sum total of her social interaction.
She’s a non-waver too, which does not help her case. Neighbors wave to one another. It’s common courtesy. Ms. Pence was not interested in waving, much less saying hello. She walked Buttercup nightly around the block, their heads both high and pompous and their eyes fixed straight ahead.
So, Saturday a few weeks ago.
Busy day, lots to do, the first of which was to pile a load of trash and brush onto the back of my redneck hoopty truck and haul it all to the dump. I pulled out of the driveway and turned left—why it was left and not right I do not know, I can only assume God decided to teach me something—past the widow Pence’s house.
I assumed the white mass in the middle of the road was a bit of discarded trash whipped there by the wind, but then it moved. Wagged, actually.
Buttercup.
She did not move, merely sat right there where she was and looked at me. I stopped ten feet in front of her, the hoopty’s engine growing, impatient, as if asking me what was going on and hurry up already because we had a lot to do that day.
I put the truck into neutral and gunned the engine, thinking that would be enough to scare her out of the middle of the road. No such luck. Tried the horn. Same result. She just sat there with her tongue out, which was likely because she was hot but I nonetheless took for mockery.
I couldn’t pull around her to either side; a boat and a car were blocking the way. So there I sat, my Saturday and my pride in peril because some little pansy dog wouldn’t get out of my way.
I stuck my head out the window. Said, “Hey dummy, get outta my way.”
Nothing.
So I tried louder, “I’m gonna squish you into a fluffy white pancake.”
At which point Buttercup sauntered toward her front yard. Not because of me, mind you. Because of the widow Pence. Who had been standing there watching and listening the whole time.
“You have some nerve, young man,” she said. “How dare you speak that way?”
What followed was not among my brighter moments. In deference to space and time, I’ll skip over that. Suffice it to say that by the time I pulled away, the widow Pence and I did not like each other. At all.
And that’s how it stood between us until this week, when I read about Mr. Harold Camping’s math skills. The truth is that I fully expect this world to chug on as it always has in the next ten minutes. If Jesus doesn’t know when the end is going to come, I doubt some guy with a pencil and a piece of paper does.
But still, the end will come. Sometime.
We don’t know when or where, but it’ll happen for each of us. We’d better be ready. Say the things we need to say, do the things we need to go. Love and make amends.
Which is why I walked over to the widow Pence’s house and apologized. Why I talked her into letting me take Buttercup for a walk. And why she is at this moment two steps in front of me on the leash, no doubt relishing in the snickers I’m getting from the other people on the street.
But that’s okay. Because if my end doesn’t come in the next few minutes, it will eventually. At least I’ll have one less thing on my mind when I go.
The luckiest boy in the world
March 30, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 25 Comments
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I’ve seen the boy a few times when I pick my kids up from school, just a little thing, no taller than my waist. Why he stood out to me among the throng of other elementary-aged children I can’t say, though I suspect his demeanor helped.
No hollering from this boy. No running down the halls, no smile. Not even (as far as I could tell) friends. Just him, walking by his lonesome into the cafeteria every afternoon where parents waited to pick their kids up and spare them from a bus ride home.
The school is home to what is generally known as the poor children in town. There is evidence for this fact—dirty faces, oversized clothes, undersized clothes, and a plethora of emotional problems due to meager home lives. They are good kids in bad situations, unaware they were born with a strike or two against them.
Like the boy. He of the bushy, unkempt hair and the backpack with holes so big everything from pencils to notebooks comes tumbling out. A worn and faded sticker is slapped over one hole. The name JEFF is stenciled there. I wonder if it’s there as a patch or so Jeff can better keep track of his belongings. Or, perhaps, to help remind him of who he is.
Jeff snakes his way through the lunch tables toward his waiting mother. Her smile is not reflected in his face. He looks tired. All the kids do, mine included, but Jeff especially so. He does not hug his mother, simply stands there looking at her feet. She rises from her chair and guides him to the door with her hand. They are gone.
A week later and there is Jeff again, plodding into the cafeteria. I notice his hair hasn’t been combed since the last time I saw him. His eyes keep to the small amount of space just in front of his feet. His backpack is empty. I wonder if that’s because he has no homework or because of the holes. His mother is absent this time, replaced by an older woman I take to be his grandmother. Jeff does not hug her, though she hugs him. Then she guides him to the door with her hand. They are gone.
It was the same three days later except it was neither mother nor grandmother, but a man. His father, I wonder. But then I see the man does not guide Jeff to the door with his hand, he simply gets up and lets Jeff follow. I decide no, perhaps not his father. Perhaps someone else.
That night, I ask my wife about Jeff. She teaches at the school, knows most everyone, but she can’t place him. I ask my kids. They, too, don’t know him.
I’m sitting in the cafeteria the next day, waiting along with thirty or so other parents for the final bell to ring. I notice Jeff’s mother sitting to my right, a few empty seats between us.
I lean over and say hello, which is returned with a smile that seems a bit forced. We spend the next few moments making small talk about the weather and my hat.
I say, “You’re Jeff’s mother, right?”
“Yes.” She looks as if she’s waiting for me to ask something else. I don’t. “He’s a middle child. Middle children have it harder sometimes, I think.”
“I’ve heard that,” I tell her. “So he has two other brothers or sisters?”
“No,” she says. “Well, yes. I suppose, in a way.”
I wonder how a mother could not know how many children she’s had.
“You see, his father and I are divorced. We had three children, including Jeff. His father remarried and has four step-children.”
“Oh. So there’s—”
“—Seven,” she says. “Yes. I talk to Jeff all the time about how great he has it. He stays with me unless I’m working nights. I do that some. He’ll stay with his grandma if I am. And then he goes to his father’s on the weekends. It’s nice. Jeff has three bedrooms. Can you imagine? I tell him he’s the luckiest boy in the world.”
The bell rings. Children everywhere, including mine. Including Jeff. He approaches with is holey backpack and his unkempt hair. I see the clear sunshine in the other children’s eyes and the dark rain in his.
He looks tired. All the kids do, mine included, but Jeff especially so. He does not hug his mother, simply stands there looking at her feet. She rises from her chair and guides the luckiest boy in the world to the door with her hand.
They are gone.
Please Take One
April 21, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 39 Comments
So, there on a Wednesday during lunch, I wander. And in my wandering I happen to spot a Longaberger basket sitting atop a wooden display of toy soldiers (Toy soldiers, I think to myself. My son would love some toy soldiers).
In the basket is a pile of those long, thick pretzel sticks. The sign above them says PLEASE TAKE ONE.
Given the fact that it’s lunchtime and I’m hungry, that’s exactly what I do. I take one and munch while I walk. Through the Legos, the building blocks, the books, the dolls. Through the Tonka trucks and coloring books and Play Doh.
And I am back to where I started. At the basket of pretzels.
Still unsure of what to buy and still hungry, I decide to restock and take another trip around the store. I reach into the basket for another pretzel. And as I bite it, I see something out of the corner of my eye.
Standing beside the stuffed animals about four feet away is a little boy. Sixish, not much older than my son, and staring. At me. He holds out one fist and raises his index finger.
One, it says.
I wrinkle my eyebrows, unsure of what his attempt at sign language means.
One, again.
“What?” I ask him (which actually came out as “Wamp?” because I hadn’t swallowed yet).
“You took two pretzels,” he says.
“So?”
“You’re only ‘posed to take one.”
“Who are you” I ask, “the pretzel police?”
“It’s what the sign says,” he states, now using his index finger to point. “Mama said the sign says ‘Please take one.”
I look at the sign, then back to him. “No,” I answer, “the sign says ‘Please take one.’ There’s a difference. It’s all a matter of emphasis.”
“What’s empkasis?”
“Never mind,” I say.
“You shouldn’t have taken that pretzel. Mama says God watches us.”
My mind takes a sudden detour to those old Disney movies, where the older, bigger kid was always accompanied by Jiminy Cricket, Mr. Disney’s version of a conscience. I’m starting to think this kid is my Jiminy Cricket. Or maybe just aggravating. I haven’t made up my mind yet.
“Your mama’s right,” I answer, wondering where in the world his mama was. “But since God knows the sign says ‘Please take one,’ I think I’m in the clear.”
“Please. Take. One,” he corrects.
There we stand in the middle of the store, staring down one another like two gunslingers in a Western wondering who would draw first.
PLEASE TAKE ONE. An invitation to me, a rule for him. Which was right? I’m not as sure as I was a few minutes ago.
How do we decide who is right and who is wrong? Easy.
Go ask the owner of the store.
“Excuse me,” I say to the nice lady behind the counter. “I was wondering if you could shed a little light on a problem this youngin’ and I are having.”
She perks up and joins us, happy to have something to do.
“We were wondering about this sign here,” I say. “Is it please take one, or please take one?”
The owner gives us both a strange look. “Well, I’m not sure. No one’s ever asked.”
“It’s preyin’ on our minds, ma’am,” the boy says.
“Preyin’,” I add.
“If you’d like a pretzel,” she says, “please take one. If you’d like another, you can take one, too.”
“Can I have a pretzel?” the boy asks.
Situation resolved, the three of us part ways. Him to his mother, who had been preoccupied with the books, the owner back to the register, and me to finish my shopping.
Funny, I think, how three words led us this far. But I am sure of this: if two people can disagree over something as simple as pretzels, it’s no wonder why we disagree over the important things even more—politics and God, right and wrong, war and peace.
Who’s to know which is right and which is wrong? Or even if there really is a right and wrong? How do we settle our differences, put away our prejudices, and find the truth?
Maybe, I thought, we should all do what that little boy and I ended up doing.
Maybe we should all go the Owner of the store and see what He says.
In aisle three
April 9, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 41 Comments
My wife and I will have been married thirteen years this August, and we dated five years prior to that.
Eighteen years is a long time to be with someone. Time enough, even, to go beyond togetherness to an almost oneness. I’m thirty-six, and I’ve lived almost a third of my life with this lady by my side. I couldn’t face a day without her. No doubt about it.
But I didn’t really start loving her until last Thursday. Seven-thirteen in the p.m., to be exact. In the third aisle of the grocery store, next to the cans of green beans, while reading the newest issue of Men’s Health.
Sounds strange, doesn’t it? That I could say such a thing about my angel, my soul mate and the mother of my children seems a little heartless. But it’s true, and I’ll tell you why:
Going to the grocery store is not a man’s idea of a great night out. Ask any of us. They’re intimidating. You walk in and there’s all this stuff. Food and drink and cleaning supplies are all arranged in some sort of satanic version of the Dewey Decimal system that can only be deciphered with a healthy dose of estrogen. Women instinctually know where everything is in a grocery store are. Aside from the beer and magazines, men do not. Grocery stores scare us in a Twilight Zonish sort of way.
And it’s even scarier with my wife.
Because a trip to the store exposes the differences between us. My wife is methodical and deliberate. I am distracted and hurried. She compares prices and clips coupons and has even been known to barter to get the cheapest price possible. I will pay three hundred dollars for a softball bat, use it for a dozen games, and then buy another. Because that’s how I roll.
Her philosophy of shopping closely parallels her philosophy of life: if you take your time and plan accordingly, you can get a lot of what you need, some of what you want, and a little extra of both. I generally take the Navy SEAL approach, whether it be in life or in shopping: hit first, hit hard, and go home.
In other words, my wife and I are opposites. Not in values, maybe. But definitely in personality. And I’ve spent much of the past eighteen years trying to rectify that by convincing her that her way of doing things wasn’t right, so she should be more like me. The logic seemed inescapable. What better way to improve a marriage?
But then we went to the grocery store together and wheeled our shopping cart into the third aisle, where the cans of green beans were stocked. Where we sat for what seemed like an eternity as she looked through her coupons and studied every brand, every size, to find exactly what her family needed.
Normally, I would coax her along. I would start to slowly ease the cart away from her and toward the next item on the list (wherever that was). I would sigh and pace and sigh again, and then I would tell her that we could plant green beans, watch them grow, and pick and snap and cook them in less time than it took for her to make up her mind.
But I didn’t do that. Not that time. I simply reached into the cart for a magazine I was hoping to save for that night, opened it up, and started reading.
I wasn’t going to change my wife. I knew that then. And I also knew that didn’t matter. Because I didn’t marry her for who I wanted her to be, I married her for who she was. And I had the sneaky feeling she had done the same.
I looked at her as she studied her options, flipping a lock of blond hair from her eyes, and I realized, finally, that I loved this woman. Loved her truly. Loved her with a passion and depth that defied words. And it occurred to me that we could stand there in that aisle and look for green beans forever, and it wouldn’t matter.
Just as long as we were together.
For those of you out there who haven’t had the opportunity to hear or see this song, I invite you to do so. It says what all men think about the ladies in their lives but sometimes just can’t find the words to say. I dedicate it now to the woman in my life, and the women in yours…
Happy Easter, everyone. He is risen. Rejoice!
Loving thy neighbor
April 7, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 30 Comments
That’s Pete.
Pete is also as traditional as they come. Church every Sunday and Wednesday, and not a morning goes by without scripture and prayer. The combination of the two has infused in him and his family a bedrock of faith that for years refused to be shaken by anything life could throw at him.
Until the other day. Until my phone rang and he said in his breathless, forty-four-year-old voice, “You gotta get over here. Now.”
Pete was on his front porch when I got there, rocking back and forth in a lawn chair that was not made for rocking, looking thoroughly displeased. He offered me our usual snack—a Coke and a bag of peanuts. I proceeded to dump the latter into the former and take a sip of the salty sweetness.
“What’s up?” I asked him.
“Don’t believe it,” he said. “Don’t believe it, don’t believe it, dontbelieveit.”
“Don’t believe what?” I asked. Another sip.
“Johnson house sold there, across the street,” he said, pointing.
I turned around and followed his finger. Sure enough, the FOR SALE sign on the house across from his had been topped with another that said SOLD. The Johnsons had moved three weeks ago, and everyone figured that the house would be empty for a long while given the economy.
“Great,” I said, facing him again. “You have new neighbors. What’s the problem?”
“Dontbelieveit dontbelieveit dontbelieveit.”
“Pete, you swallow something you weren’t supposed to?” I asked. “You been in the moonshine?”
“Lookie!” he almost shouted, pointing again. “Lookie there and see what the cat done dragged in. Dontbelieveit!”
I turned again. Standing on the front porch of the Johnson house were Pete’s new neighbors. Older lady, slightly younger gal. They were attempting to arrange an assortment of rocking chairs and tables just so and not quite getting it. An aggravating situation for some, though they seemed in bright enough spirits.
“Pete, I don’t—”
“—LOOKIE!”
The older woman, now utterly confused by the configurations of her new porch, simply gave one of the rockers a hard shove into the younger lady. The act of frustration was met with laughter from both, who then proceeded to fall into one another’s arms and share a very long, very deep…kiss.
“Dontbelieveit,” I said.
Pete buried his head in his hands. “Lawd,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was praying or merely dumbfounded. “Lawd Jesus God help me.”
Praying.
“Lawd, why’d You do this to me?” he moaned. “Thissa sort of thing that happens out in Hellywood, Lawd. Not ’cross the street.”
I shook my head in amazement, and the sheer irony of it all made me laugh. Pete, God-and-mama-and-apple-pie Pete, I-love-everybody Pete, had gotten a gay couple for neighbors.
“Huh,” I said. “Ain’t that something.”
“Somethin’?” he retorted, raising his head to look at me. “Don’t you know this ain’t good? Ain’t you read your Bible, boy?”
“Yep,” I said.
“Well, there then,” he answered, as if that explained things.
“You a little homophobic, Pete?” I asked, with a sip of my Coke and a smile.
“Homophobic?” he said. “Homophobic? Boy, I gotta eat a corndog with a knife and fork.”
I snorted out my drink and bent over, wiping it from my mouth and blue jeans.
Pete stared at me, unsure of what had just transpired that would cause me to make such a mess of myself. “What am I gonna do?” he asked. “What. Am. I. Gonna. Do?”
I thought about that. What was Pete going to do? Fume and pout, I supposed. For a little while, anyway. But then Jesus would come calling. The Jesus Pete loved and Who loved him more, Who said that hate was never really any good for anything other than eating up your own insides. He would come calling and tell Peter that it’s easy to love those who are like you, that everyone does that. But that love Jesus wanted from Peter was the hard love, the kind that’s not easy.
It’s okay to not like what they do, Jesus would say, because He didn’t like it either. But Jesus also loved those two women, and He wanted Pete to do the same. Because Pete had faith, and because that faith just might be the closest thing to Jesus those two women ever see.
“Just wait,” I told him. “It’ll come to you.”
We stared across the street. The two women resumed their rocking chair arranging, then stared at us.
They waved.
We waved back.
Dear Alex, Part II
February 17, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 8 Comments
(This is the second part of my last post. If you need a little refresher, here it is.)
I walked back to the hotel room and out onto the balcony, where my wife was waiting for me. I explained to her what had happened. For the next two hours, we scoured the crowd below for a glimpse of either Alex or Lauren.
We spent the rest of that day on the beach reading and cooling off in the surf. But Alex was never far removed from my thoughts. Around lunchtime I offered to go get a couple of slices of pizza, which was mostly just a ruse to get back up on the boardwalk and keep looking. I asked the lifeguard there if she knew either of them. Their names did not sound familiar to her. I tried describing them, but that didn’t help. Apparently Virginia Beach was full of muscular men with tattoos and beautiful women who wore sun dresses.
Guilt set in. I could not help but think I had failed him. I couldn’t accept that it was merely by chance that I happened to be standing at that particular spot at that precise time. I had believed for years that God had sent angels into my life from time to time, but that day was the first time I ever thought that maybe God had wanted to use me as an angel for someone else. And I had failed. Miserably.
As the day wore on, I began to piece together what I could have said to Alex. Should have said, really. I wrote it down in fragments at first, bits and pieces of random thoughts and observations. I wrote, then rewrote, then rewrote again, until I had what amounted to a letter. A letter, of course, with no recipient.
But I wrote it anyway with the faith that sometimes you just never know. Maybe, just maybe, Alex is out there somewhere. And if he is, this is for him…
Dear Alex,
I hope that somehow, sometime, this letter reaches you. I know it probably won’t. In fact, I’m writing this more for my comfort than yours. But life can be funny, and sometimes even the most improbable things have a way of surprising us.
You walked away from me this morning before I had the chance to tell you what I was thinking. I can’t blame you. I imagine I was just standing there looking like an idiot. I promise you, I was trying to find the words. But something kept me from saying anything.
I suppose it was for the best. Maybe you didn’t need any words. Not then. When people are hurting, the last thing they want is advice. I don’t think you needed words as much as you needed time—time to fall apart, gather yourself up, and move on. I’m sure you’re not there yet, but I’m also sure you will be.
Don’t feel embarrassed because of the way you handled yourself this morning. Such situations tend to bring out the worst in people. You did, however, ask some serious questions, and you deserve some answers. I’ve seen my share of love, both the good kind and the bad, and though I am neither philosopher nor poet, I’ve been around the block enough to know where everything is.
For thousands of years the wisest and brightest of us have pondered the very questions you now face. What is love? Why does it sometimes hurt so badly? And why, if it hurts so badly, do we always go back for more? Despite their vast knowledge and unparalleled wisdom, they haven’t come up with much in the way of answers. In the end, those people were just as lost as you and I.
No one can say what love is all about. It’s beyond words and description. You can hint, you can analogize, but you won’t get it quite right. I never understood why it had to be that way. Now I think I do. It has something to do with the fact that we’re all describing love, but we can’t seem to agree on exactly what love is.
Are you sure it was love you felt for Lauren? I don’t mean to call you a liar, nor do I want to seem as if I am belittling your feelings for her. But from the few things you said, I had to wonder.
You asked me if I knew how beautiful she was. I did. You were right, she was beautiful. But that was really all you seemed to dwell on, wasn’t it? You never mentioned her kindness, her charm, her intelligence or humor. I cannot believe that the only lovely features she possessed were those on the outside. Maybe I’m over analyzing. But you made it seem as if you weren’t going to miss her nearly as much as you were going to miss her body. And that is exactly the point I’m trying to make. It didn’t sound to me like you were in love, Alex. It sounded like you were in lust. You don’t fall in love through the eyes; you fall in love through the heart.
You no doubt felt something, and that, I suppose, is good enough at first. I remember you telling Lauren that you professed your love to her every day. With words, I believe you said. And that is, of course, a good habit to adopt. But words are not nearly enough.
Love is the most overused word in the English language. We can say we love anything: chocolate or a shirt or a pet or a picture. We love cars, houses, movies, even certain days of the week. Is it any wonder, then, that when we say we love someone, the true meaning of those words becomes lost? If I say I love steak and then say I love my children, what have I really said? Sure, it might simply be a matter of semantics, but that’s why love cannot be fully communicated in words alone.
It took me all of five minutes to tell my first girlfriend that I loved her. It took almost a year after I started dating my wife. Why? Because between those two were many others who showed me that words aren’t enough, and that what I thought was love really wasn’t.
I’ve known a lot of Laurens, Alex. I’ve given my heart away, just like you. And just like you I’ve had it handed right back. I swore each time that I would never allow myself to fall in love again. That vow usually lasted about a month, at which time my heart would meet another’s and the dance would begin anew.
Why would I continually subject myself to this torture? Easy. I wanted someone to love, and I wanted someone to love me back. There’s nothing wrong with that. Most of us couldn’t imagine not having someone to share our lives and our hearts and our dreams with. The hurt that comes from losing someone we love can be unbearable. But the hurt that comes from closing ourselves off from the world is much worse. Pain isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Numbness is.
We are meant to love and to share, and if we do not allow ourselves the opportunity to do so, we become less than we should. Any time not spent on love is time that is wasted. Why? Because the more we are able to love, the more we are able to do. We can lose anything else in life—hope, desire, even faith—but when we lose our love, that is when we truly die.
I don’t think the love you had for Lauren was the love you are looking for. Your feelings for her were like the waves we watched crashing onto the shore. It was a love of action, of ups and downs, of surging forth and falling back, here one moment and gone the next. Such love is wonderful and exhilarating, but it is also frail and passing. The love that matters is like the waters we saw farther out—calm and deep and abiding. Eternal. That is the love of wonder.
Even though you might feel like you’re all alone in the world right now, you aren’t. A broken heart is like the common cold. We all know there isn’t a cure, we all know someone who’s suffered through one, and we all know that despite whatever precautions we take, sooner or later we’ll have to suffer through one too.
We are the only creatures who sometimes hurt our own loved ones for no other reason than just because we feel like it. Falling in love comes with a price. It means fully giving all of yourself, warts and scars and all. That’s the only way it can be. If it isn’t head over heels, it isn’t enough. And we give all of this to someone who is bound to one day at least disappoint us and at worst make us wonder if we can ever love the same again.
Is it, then, worth all the risk?
Every time.
Dear Alex, Part I
February 15, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 5 Comments
As much as we are able, we should be there for others when their world comes crashing down around them. Be there with a kind word or a steady hand. It’s a task we are given as Christians. We are God’s representatives.
That’s why after all these years Alex still bothers me. Because I wasn’t there for him. Not with a kind word or a steady hand. Not even as God’s representative. And though I’m sure he’s fine now, that doesn’t make my failure easier to bear.
Since Valentine’s Day is still fresh in our memories, I thought I’d share Alex’s story. And since that story requires a little more telling than usual, I’ll give half now and half Wednesday.
Deal? Great. So here goes…
June, 1997
I was standing on the boardwalk at Virginia Beach, watching the sun rise over a mini rush hour of pedestrians. Joggers and walkers and rollerbladers paraded past me in varying degrees of speed and strain, all in search of the elusive prize of thinner thighs and flatter stomachs.
My gaze settled upon a couple near the pier. Handsome man and striking woman, early twenties, strolling hand in hand. Their eyes remained low and just a few feet forward, as if that point marked the boundary of their own private world. I smiled. They were a J Crew ad lost in a Nike commercial.
I politely turned away as they neared and stared out at the ocean. The two love birds maneuvered through the crowd to right beside me.
The three of us exchanged hellos. As I didn’t like the feeling of being a passerby into their magical kingdom of love, I was ready to leave. But just when I began to back away, something unexpected happened. The lady sighed, then looked to her lover and uttered the four words that invariably spelled the death of romance and the end of all that is good and true.
“Alex, we have to talk.”
How many times had I heard that? Said that? Enough to know that it rarely involves we at all. And very little talk.
We have to talk. Translation: I have to talk. You have to listen. And this won’t be good.
From the look on his face, Alex was familiar with the standard interpretation. He looked like he had just taken a punch to the kidneys.
I eased back to my position beside them. The public breakup is a classic. Breaking someone’s heart is easier when done amidst people. There’s less chance of things getting messy. And since I was pretty sure things would get messy, I figured maybe I should stick around.
“So let’s talk,” he snorted, then cut me a glance. “But let’s talk back at my place.”
“Alex, I care about you,” she began, taking a small step away from him.
This poor guy’s definitely getting the boot, I thought.
“And you know I would never do anything to hurt you.”
Except rip your heart out and spike it like a football in front of this total stranger.
“But I really think it would be best–”
If we spent some time alone
“–if we spent some time alone.”
She looked up at him, waiting for his response. So did I.
“Lauren,” he said. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, baby,” Lauren answered, rubbing his arm. “It’s me. All me.”
It’s me. Translation: It’s you.
Alex looked to me again. The three feet or so of space between us might as well have been three inches. I feigned interest in a ship far on the horizon, pretending I couldn’t hear.
“But we’re great together,” he said.
“We just need a break,” she said. “I need some space, that’s all.”
I need some space. Translation: I can’t stand being within a mile of you.
“But I love you,” Alex said. “I love you with all my heart. I tell you every day.”
“I know you do, Sweetheart,” Lauren said. “I love you, too.”
I was as confused as Alex at that one, and I almost said something. But he said it for me.
“Well if I love you and you love me, why are we having this conversation?”
“I can’t get bogged down in a relationship right now. If you really love me, you’ll understand. If you really love me, you’ll let me go.”
She snatched her hand from his arm and turned to leave in one fluid motion. Alex remained still, paralyzed by the suddenness of her rejection. Five minutes before, they were inseparable. Now they would likely never be together again.
Our eyes remained on Lauren as she faded into the crowd. Shoulders slouched, he turned to face the world without her.
We both stared out to sea. No words passed between us. Twenty minutes later, I was again ready to leave. The moment of shock was over, and though I knew that for Alex the worst was yet to come, I also knew I couldn’t do much about it.
As I turned to leave, I heard “Dude?”
I turned back around to make sure I was the one he was speaking to. I was.
“This is love?” he asked. “This?! If love’s supposed to be this great big wonderful thing, why does it make absolutely no sense at all?”
I slowly exhaled. My mouth opened to answer him, but Alex wasn’t finished.
“Does love have to feel this bad? If it does, is it really worth it? I don’t even know what just happened to me.” He turned back to the guardrail, punched it with a fist, and winced.
I didn’t know what my responsibilities were in such a situation, so I just reclaimed my position beside him.
“I love her, man. I swear I love her more than anything. Did you see how beautiful she was? So perfect? Did you see that? She was a ten, dude. Oh man, she was so hot. And she was mine.”
I tried to speak again, but he cut me off. His words were coming faster, and I could barely understand some of them.
“Ohman, I can’t believe this is happening to me. What we had was loveatfirstsight. That’s like a miracle, right? I mean we’re meant to be. I know that. HowcanI find another woman like her? Huh? How?”
He paused and stared at me. This was my chance to say something wise and profound. I considered everything he had said, everything I had seen, and tumbled it around in my mind. He waited. Finally, I opened my mouth. Then I closed it. And shrugged.
“Dude, you got nothin’ for me?”
I didn’t. But I couldn’t say that. So we stood there staring at each other for a long moment. Then Alex started mocking me and most of my immediate family in colorful terms and stormed out of sight.
Always a Story
February 10, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 21 Comments
My post last week about an incident at the mall garnered some interesting reactions, at least to me. I figured a lot of you would wonder what in the world was going on with this poor woman who refused to let me hold the door for her. And a lot of you did. But just as many wondered how I could have possibly kept hold of myself. How could I have not either burst out laughing when she fell or given her the good cussing she maybe deserved?
Truth is, I might have been calm and cool on the outside she she tripped and went splat!, but I was jumping up and down and cheering on the inside. I’m not proud of that, mind you, but I can’t deny it either.
But what kept that told-ya-so mentality from bubbling up to the surface was a story a friend of mine named John shared one day. One I’d like to share with you.
A brilliant man, John. He has two PhDs, is about to get his first book published, and is currently the head of the Christian Counseling program at Liberty University. He was also the best Sunday school teacher I ever had.
John told me that one night while he was in college, he had dinner at a local restaurant with one of his psychology professors. Their waitress was a young, twenty-something lady named Anna, who seemed to have a bit of a personality problem and could have used a refresher course in customer relations.
She was rude and offensive and vulgar. She forgot up their order twice and, when she finally got it right, rewarded John and his professor by unceremoniously dropping their plates on the table with a loud thud and walking away. They nearly died of thirst because she never returned to offer more drinks. And when she finally resurfaced forty minutes later, she greeted them with a curt “Ya’ll done?”
With a “Yes, ma’am” from the professor, she scribbled their bill onto a receipt, pushed it to the middle of the table, and walked away. Two specials, two drinks, two cups of coffee—fifteen dollars and forty cents.
“I have the tip,” the professor said. He took a ten out of his wallet and placed it between the salt and pepper shakers.
John flinched. Ten dollars? This had to be a mistake. He was going to give Anna a ten dollar tip? For what? Yelling and cussing and throwing food at them? A dollar and a half would have been plenty, the accustomed 10 percent. And that was for good service. But this wise and learned man was going to give her almost ten times that?
“Excuse me, Professor,” John said. “You just sat a ten down.”
“Yes, I did,” the professor answered.
“Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask why?”
“Maybe,” the professor said. “Later.”
The two walked up to the cash register, paid for their meal, and left. Just as they were getting into the professor’s car, though, the door to the restaurant opened and out ran Anna. Crying.
“I’m so sorry,” she said through her tears. “I know I was awful to the two of you. I’ve just had such a bad day. My kid’s got the flu, I just found out my mother has cancer, and my husband left me two days ago. I just can’t take it anymore. And then I saw your tip just sitting there, and I…I just had to thank you. You don’t know what this means.”
The professor smiled. “It’s quite all right, Miss,” he said. “Things may look bad now, but I promise you they’ll get better. You just need a little faith.”
She nodded and smiled back, then turned around to go back inside. John stared at his professor, who watched as the doors closed around her.
“Remember this, John,” he said. “We are all working our way through our own story. We pass people by every day of our lives. We talk to them, nod and say hello, and we have no idea the sorts of struggles they are enduring or what pains they bear. We are all hurting in our own unique way. We have all been wounded by something. Never forget that.”
John hasn’t. And since the day I heard that story, I haven’t either. Because we all may share one world, but we each live in our own. One made bright or dim by our own faith or doubt, joy or despair.
At The Mall
February 5, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 21 Comments
“Leave me alone, you freakin’ nut!”
A young lady at the mall. To me. Spoken in an angry and sneering voice that stops everyone else coming and going through the doors. People are spectacle-driven at their core. And this is quickly becoming a spectacle.
My crime, it seems, is that I looked back when I pushed open the swinging doors to the parking lot. Rounding the corner behind me came a blur of a woman. Boots, jeans, and a sweatshirt that announced her attendance at the University of Virginia. Huffing and puffing and mumbling to herself, she had the appearance of someone very late for something very important. Three giant Gap bags, a pink-striped Victoria’s Secret box, a cup of coffee, a soft pretzel, and a purse were all haphazardly arranged in her arms. She steamrolled toward me while trying to look at the expensive watch on her left arm.
So I exited, stepped to my right, and held the door open with my left hand.
She charged ahead, still trying to check the time and still not quite doing it. Then she glanced up long enough to get a bearing on the door. Which, thanks to me, was already open.
“Excuse me?” she said.
I smiled. She didn’t.
“I got the door,” I said. “Come on out.”
“Don’t you hold that door for me,” she said, eyes bulging. “I am perfectly capable of opening the door without the assistance of anyone else.”
First thought—huh? Second thought—I should have stayed at home.
“I’m sure you can, ma’am,” I said. “But I just thought—”
“I don’t care what you thought! What is this, Big Strong Guy rescues puny woman? Well I don’t need your help, Big Strong Guy. I just need you to get out of my way!”
“Ma’am, I didn’t mean any—”
That was when I was cut off by the “freakin’ nut” comment. Plus a few others I really don’t care to elaborate upon.
Which brings us to the present moment. This lady’s rant has escalated in decibels and language enough to become a very effective attention magnet. Most everyone using the doors pauses to watch the scene. Not that I can blame them. I would stop and watch, too.
“LET GO OF THAT DOOR LET IT GO NOW!!” she screams.
I stand my ground. Partly out of the deep ethical conviction that is at the root of every good Southern gentleman, but mostly because I have decided that no yuppie college liberal with a chip on her shoulder is going to tell me what to do.
“I ain’t gonna do it,” I say.
So she yells more. About not being a helpless child. About self-reliance and women’s liberation and archaic traditions. She screams and spits like Hitler behind a podium. And as is usually the case with people who shout at me, my eyes glaze and her voice fades into a muffled, incomprehensible voice. Not unlike the “Waa waa waa” used by Charlie Brown’s teacher.
“…and don’t you ever think otherwise, do you understand me?”
No. Not really. But I can’t tell her I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t want to get hollered at again. Besides, I’m getting a little tired from holding that door.
So I take a deep breath and say, as humbly as I can, “Ma’am, I am truly sorry for offending you. You’re right. You can handle this. Please forgive me.”
She starts her rebuttal, but I close the door in mid-sentence. The faces of the men in the crowd around me show a slight sense of disappointment, either because they want to see me wait her out or they want to see me get slapped. The faces of the women are mixed, as if they somehow know there can be no winner here.
Satisfied that she has just won a pivotal battle in the war of equality, the woman adjusts herself, turns around, and pushes the door open with her hip.
Halfway through, she trips.
Shopping bags and coffee and pretzel and purse scatter in all directions, and she hits the concrete with a loud thud.
Silence all around.
The woman sits on the cold concrete, momentarily confused in a heap of freshly stained Gap T shirts and a rather attractive nightgown.
The crowd is stunned at the irony.
And me? I’m barely managing to keep a straight face. Nice? No. Honest? Yes.
Then my Christian guilt kicks in. I should help her up, I think. Jesus would help her up. It’d be a turn-the-other-cheek kind of thing.
But as I take a step toward her, I am met by laser beams shooting from her eyes.
Then again, I’m not Jesus.
And from the looks of it, none of the other folks still milling around are Jesus, either.
The sudden realization of just how stupid she looks makes the woman jump up, grab her purchases, and scurry off into the parking lot. The crowd begins to disperse, some heading to their cars and others into the mall. One man opens the door for his wife, who laughs as she walks through.
My faith says that I have to love this woman. Whether I want to or not. And I don’t want to. Not at the moment, anyway. But still, the love Jesus says we should all have for everyone isn’t the sort that is a noun. It’s a verb. It means doing. Loving others is more than forgiving stumbles or remembering birthdays. It means caring. And also allowing yourself to be cared for.
Author of Snow Day and Paper Angels (November 2011), both by FaithWords. But don't let that fool you. I'm just as confused as anyone.
And that is fine with me, because the great thing about wandering around in the fog is that you never know what you might run into.
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