The last thing I’d ever write
November 2, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 90 Comments
The note above was penned by an eighty-five-year-old man named Robert. One day last month, he drove his car down a steep rural road to look at a pond. When he tried to drive back the way he came, the car rolled off the path and became mired in a ravine.
Robert was unable to walk out of his situation due to back problems that left him only able to get around with the help of a walker. He had no food. The only water he had barely filled an 8 ounce bottle. He honked his horn until the car battery was depleted.
Robert sat there, alone in his car, for two days.
With no food, little water, and temperatures in the upper 90s, he realized things didn’t look good. So he grabbed a pen and began writing on the car’s armrest.
Look closely and you can make a bit of it out. The first—and Robert said the most important—was that he make sure everyone knew it was an accident. Robert didn’t want anyone thinking he committed suicide. He wrote that the car’s wheels spun out. He asked that his family give him a closed casket.
About forty hours later, Robert was found. Turns out that final note wasn’t needed after all. As you can imagine, the whole ordeal changed him. Robert has a new outlook on life. He understands its delicateness. He knows every moment is precious.
It’s a good story with a happy ending. But me, I can’t stop thinking about that note.
What would I tell my family? What would I tell you? What would I say if I could never say anything more? Those questions have preyed on my mind since reading Robert’s story. I figured the only way I could start thinking about something else is to go ahead and write my letter.
So here it is, the last thing I’d ever write:
Dear All,
I don’t know how I managed to get myself in this mess. I think a lot of times you can’t see the trouble that’s coming until it’s on you. This is probably one of those times. I guess I should hurry. I never used to think much about time. Suddenly, time seems pretty important.
To my family, I want to say that the very last thing I want to do is leave you behind. You need to know that as much as I’m ready for heaven, I’m thinking the angels will have to drag me there. But don’t worry, I’ll find me a bench somewhere near the gate and wait for each of you.
To my wife, I’m sorry I was never the man I wanted to be. I’m thankful you overlooked that. Take care of the kids. Raise them to believe like you and fight like me.
To my son, there are few things more difficult in life than knowing how to be a man. I’ll give you a quick summary—work hard, laugh much, pray often. Love dignity rather than money. Face your darkness. Let your word be your bond. You’ll do well in life if you cling to those things. Know that I will always be proud of you.
To my daughter, you’ve taught me more about faith than anyone I’ve ever known. Remember this: we seldom have any choice as to the wars we must fight, we can only elect to face them with honor or cowardice.
To my friends, I know it may appear at times that I prefer silence to speech and solitude to company, but you mended the gashes I had rent into my own heart. Whatever goodness is in me was fostered by you.
I ask that you dispose of my remains as you see fit. I have no preference. Whatever flesh and bone is left behind is not me, it is merely an empty house that God has deemed I’ve outgrown.
Do not mourn, laugh.
Do not look back, look forward.
Live intently.
And last, know that all that separates the two of us is but one stroke of heaven’s eternal clock. Life is but a dream. Death is simply when we wake.
Pleasure in the wanting
September 21, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 11 Comments
image courtesy of photobucket.com
Today is the end of what has become a rocky, tiresome, and utterly aggravating road. That’s something I’ll tell you, dear reader, and no one else. Especially my son. Because he is to blame for all of this. And, by extension, so am I.
I’ve always found it fascinating how certain traits in parents are passed on to their children. I’m not talking about things like hair and eye color. I’m talking about attitudes and preconceptions, things that go a long way in defining how they see the world. Good things. Bad things, too.
Take my son, for instance. Folks say he has my looks and my hairline, two things for which I’ve already apologized to him. Like his father, he loves baseball and walking through the woods. And he also has a tendency to fixate on something he wants to the point of near obsession.
It’s this last point that has led us down the rocky, tiresome, and utterly aggravating road.
My son also loves Star Wars (again like his father, once upon a time). Five and a half weeks ago found the two of us in the toy aisle at Target, where we stood face to face with what he described as the single greatest thing ever in the history of the world—a Darth Vader costume. Complete with mask, utility belt, cape, and a genuine imitation lightsaber.
“I gotta have that, Dad,” he said.
“Sure is nice.” I looked at the price tag. “How much money do you have?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out three quarters, a rubber ball, and three Legos.
“Don’t think that’ll do it,” I told him.
My son knew that. Reality is rarely comforting, however, so he spent the next few days sulking. All of his other costumes—and his has dozens—paled in comparison. His life would not be complete until he could walk through the house as Darth Vader, doing that deep, throaty breathing and intimidating us all with the dark side of the Force. His paltry (to him) allowance meant he’d have to wait months to save enough money, and by then the costume would be gone. It was hopeless.
But then my son remembered his report card and his standing deal with his grandfather. Good grades equaled good money, much more than what I’d give him for cleaning his room and taking out the trash. The problem was that he had five weeks to wait.
And let me tell you, that was a long five weeks. A rocky, tiresome, and utterly aggravating five weeks.
He marked the days off his calendar. Asked me to float him a loan. Stared at a picture of the costume he found on the internet, then stared at me with puppy-dog eyes. He moaned and whined. He yelled and pouted. He even said he dreamed he’d finally bought it. My son obsessed over that costume for five weeks, and he just about broke me in the process.
Then came today.
Report card day.
His marks were good, which meant a quick trip to the grandparents between the end of supper and the toy aisle at Target. Two hours later, it was all mercifully over. I peeked at my son through the rearview mirror on the way home. He was cradling his prize. You should have seen the smile on his face.
It stayed there for a while.
As I write this, my son’s beside me on the sofa. He’s dressed to the nine’s—mask, cape, belt. Lightsaber. He’s slumped in the corner watching a rerun of Phineas & Ferb. During the last commercial, he said, “Did you see that new Lego set they had at Target? That would be awesome.”
I figure I have another six weeks or so to hear that. Yet another rocky, tiresome, and utterly aggravating road.
I suppose I’ll comfort myself with the hope that he’s learning a valuable lesson through all this. One that we all should learn at some point.
Because there are a lot of things in our lives like my son’s Darth Vader costume—things that are wonderful before we attain it and nothing special afterward.
Where you belong
July 20, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 15 Comments
Last January, satellite pictures of the Amazon rain forest revealed the presence of a hidden community living in three clearings in the Javari Valley, which lies near the Brazil/Peru border. Subsequent flight expeditions over the region confirmed about 200 people lived in the tiny village. Not a big deal, really. Despite notions to the contrary, the Amazon is home to many communities. What set this community apart, however, was that it had never been seen before. Scientists had stumbled upon a tribe of people unknown to the world.
I confess to a geeky side. News stories such as that one rock my world. Imagine that in an age of telescopes that can see into the farthest reaches of the universe and submarines that can reach the very depths of the ocean, there are still entire cultures that have somehow managed to remain hidden in the untrodden places of our fair planet. Cut off from civilization, blissfully ignorant of things like debt ceilings and Charlie Sheen and Jersey Shore. It’s a storyline straight out of Indiana Jones.
It’s enough to make me giddy.
It’s also enough to make me wonder what happiness they must enjoy. Imagine being able to live life unfettered by nasty things like time and career. You rise with the sun, venture into the jungle to either kill or dig up some breakfast, and eat it in a hammock surrounded by your family and friends. Repeat again for lunch and dinner. Maybe weave a basket or have a dance. Watch the kids play with critters and pets. Make sure the fire has plenty of wood. Go check the crops, then maybe visit your buddy who lives in the next hut to shoot the breeze and engage in a bit of gossip. Watch the sun go down. Go to bed. Do it all again the next day.
No taxes to pay or commutes to endure. No 401k to watch as it shrinks into oblivion. And who cares about gas prices when you’ve never even seen a car? No, the busy world you’ve never seen simply passes you by and leaves you alone. No muss, no fuss, just a hammock and the jungle around you.
I’ll be honest, I envy those people. They don’t know how good they have it.
Regardless of how much I long to chuck it all, fly to the Amazon, and apply for admission into the tribe, it won’t happen. The Brazilian government has a strict policy regarding uncontacted tribes. They are not to be bothered.
But just in case I would get that chance, I could see myself trekking down some forgotten jungle path and coming across the tribal chief, who would invite me to his hut for a little food and a lot of talk. And more than likely, he’d look at me and laugh.
“What are you doing here?” he’d ask. “What, you think WE have it good? Really? Tell you what, you try growing all your food in the jungle. Doesn’t always work, you know. And it’s not like you can just run down to the Food Lion for some chips and dip if the animals and the weather take your crops. Which happens, like, ALL the time.
“You can go hunting. Lots of animals in the jungle to eat. Of course, most of them will just as soon eat YOU. Try stepping on a snake or a spider or running across a panther. Tell me how that goes for you. And you better hope you don’t run into anyone from the tribe down the river, because they’ll just as soon kill you as let you pass.
“Can’t go to the hospital, either. We don’t have one here. We have a doctor of course, and he’s a real smart guy, but in the end the only thing he can do is pray to the gods and give you some plants to eat. Plants don’t cure everything, you know. And the gods…well, let’s just say they do their thing and we do ours. We don’t understand them, we just try to keep them happy.
“Sure, you can stay. You’ll probably live a few more years, most of us make it to 50 or so before we’re so worn out that we drop. That’s assuming you don’t get bitten or eaten or killed, though. Actually, why don’t you just run on back home where you belong.”
At which point I probably would.
And I would take with me this lesson: Life is tough. Doesn’t matter who you are or where you are. We’re all looking for something better, we’re all stressed, we’re all struggling for a little hope.
In a world that seems determined to point out our differences, those are similarities we will always share.
You only go around once
April 4, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 21 Comments
image courtesy of photobucket.com
A favorite saying of my mother: “You only go ’round this life once.”
Drilled into my head since I was a boy. It was a warning, though one I never truly heeded because it was only partially understood. “You only go ’round this life once” was sort of like my father’s “You can’t see the forest for the trees.” Catchy, but vague.
I’m going to be thirty-nine this summer, which is just close enough to forty to get me worrying. Not that I fret too much about the grinding of the wheels of time. Forty doesn’t mean as much as it used to. In fact, I’ve read that forty is the new thirty. That’s supposed to make me feel better, I suppose. And it does. But still…
It’s fair to say that forty can be considered a good halfway point in most people’s lives. That’s about the point where a lot of us look back over our shoulders and realize there’s a whole lot behind us, then look ahead and swear we can see a speck of something on the horizon. And though death’s great sting isn’t as great as I once thought it to be, I still feel like there’s a lot left for me to do.
And lately I’ve come to realize the gravity of the fact I only go ’round this life once. Time, now, is the issue. Much more now than it’s ever been.
But it’s not just the time I have left to do things I’ve always wanted to do, it’s the time I have left to fix the things I’ve broken. I’ve broken a lot of things in my life. Done things I shouldn’t, said things I shouldn’t. I look back on a lot of my past not in reverie, but in regret. So much so that I now find myself at this magical midpoint thinking a do-over of my first forty years would be nice.
I think about all the time I’ve wasted. Not just wasted by watching television or daydreaming on the front porch, but wasted by worry and fear. Often I realize I have lived vast parcels of my life in reverse and upside down—the things that really should have bothered me never did, and the things that really bothered me were things that didn’t shouldn’t have bothered me at all.
I still act like this. A lot.
But now I’m beginning to realize I shouldn’t, that life is too short and too precious to be mindful of tiny irritations and bothersome fears. The first half of one’s life is viewed through the lens of ourselves—our needs, our wants, our desires. The second half is viewed through the lens of eternity. That’s when we begin to see that as big as this world can seem, it’s really the smallest thing we will ever experience.
I wish I could have figured all of this out earlier. Time and experience have a way of teaching us what we’ve always ignored, though. I spend a lot of my day with people who say if there was a God, He would do something about all of the pain in the world. I tell them I stumble over that sometimes too, but that I also understand if it weren’t for the pains in my own life, I wouldn’t know anything.
That part, at least, I’ve gotten right.
But there is much I haven’t.
It seems a bit pessimistic to be looking ahead at my coming years with the express purpose not to screw them up as badly as I managed the previous ones. That’s what I’m going to do, though. And I’m going to try and love more and worry less. I’m going to try to have faith instead of fear. And I’m going to make the attempt to smile as much in the pain as in the happiness.
Because my mother was right, you only go ’round this life once.
But if you do it right, once is all you’ll need.
Life is a gift to be treasured.
***
This post is part of the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival: Treasure hosted by my friend Peter Pollock. For most posts about Treasure, please visit him at PeterPollock.com
Allison
March 7, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 24 Comments
The dedication page from my first novel, Snow Day
I had life figured out by the time I was seventeen. My future was planned, crystal clear and meant to be.
I was the starting second baseman on my high school team and had already received interest from several colleges and even one professional team. I was going to play baseball forever. I had to. Because the kid who roamed the halls of my high school and drove his truck around town wasn’t me. Not the real me, anyway. No, the real me was the guy on the ball field. It was the only place where I ever really felt I belonged.
School was an irritant. Most high school seniors try to stretch out that last year as far as they can, enjoying every moment. Not me. I wanted to get out. I had a life to start living.
Not that high school was hard, mind you. I had the prototypical jock schedule of classes—math, history, English, and four study halls. Brutal. On day my English teacher decided I needed to do something besides sit around all day, so she pulled some strings and got me a job writing a weekly column for the local newspaper. Write about anything, she said. Just make it good.
Oh. Joy.
I obliged, partly because I had to but mostly because she was my favorite teacher. Every Tuesday evening, I would sit down with a pad of paper and write between innings of the Braves games on television. It was busy work, nothing else. Just something to pass the time.
Then everything fell apart.
I blew out my shoulder three weeks later. Trips to doctors and specialists resulted in a shared consensus that though I could kinda/sorta play baseball again, I’d never play the way I had.
It’s tough being seventeen and knowing that every dream you’d ever had was gone. Tough knowing that your entire life lay in front of you, but it wasn’t going to be the life you wanted. Tough.
Too tough.
So one night I got into my truck, drove into the mountains, and found the highest rock I could so I could jump off.
Almost did it, too. I got to two-and-a-half on my count to three when a voice popped into my head and said, “You’re not really afraid of dying, are you?”
No. Not at all.
“Then you’re afraid of living.”
Whether that voice was God’s or my own still escapes me. But I sat for a long while on that rock, thinking. Then I got back into my truck, drove home, and wrote my column. Really wrote. About how things sometimes don’t turn out the way they’re supposed to and how sometimes life can be more night than day. About how, in the end, we all just have to keep on.
That was the night I learned to strip myself bare on the page, to risk exposing fears and worries and doubts. To quit pretending I was someone I wasn’t. It was the biggest act of courage I’d ever displayed.
Three days later, a letter was sent to the high school with my name on the front. Thank you, it said. “I’m having a really tough time right now, and a few days ago I thought I just couldn’t take it anymore. I was going to end it. Then I read your article and, well, I’m still here. So thank you. You rescued me.”
It wasn’t signed, and there was no return address on the envelope. I didn’t know who sent it, but I did know this: God didn’t want me to play baseball. He wanted me to write.
At the mall, a month later. I was picking up my girlfriend from work and decided to walk down to the bookstore. Approaching me was a teenage girl in jeans and a leather jacket. I nodded as she passed, and then she called my name.
“Allison,” she said. “My name’s Allison. I’m the one who wrote you that letter.”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what she wanted me to say. So I asked if she was all right, to which she replied she was, to which I replied that it was nice to meet her. I was so shy, so backward, so unnerved, that I simply nodded again and walked away.
I have had many bad moments in my life. That one? Top three.
I never saw Allison again. I do, however, still spend many a day wishing that I would have. Just once more. Just to say I’m was sorry for not saying more. To tell her to keep hanging in there and she’s not alone.
And to tell her she rescued me, too.
***
This post is part of the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival: Future hosted by my friend Peter Pollock. To check out more posts on this topic, please visit his website, PeterPollock.com
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.
Allison
January 11, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 17 Comments
I was tagged last week by Sarah and had to come up with six random or weird things about myself. Some were both random and weird (glad to know that I’m not alone in my fear of clowns). My mentioning of the girl whose life I saved drew much more response via comments and emails than I thought it would. A few of you suggested that I expound upon that a little. So I will, with a little background…
I had everything figured out at seventeen. My future was planned, crystal clear and meant to be. I was the starting second baseman on my high school team, had already gotten letters from several colleges and had been scouted by the Milwaukee Brewers.
I was going to play baseball forever. I had to. Because the person who roamed the halls of Stuarts Draft High School and drove his truck around town wasn’t me. Not the real me. No, the real me was the guy on the ball field. It was the only place where I ever really felt I belonged.
School was an irritant. Most high school seniors try to stretch that last year out as far as they can, enjoying every moment. Not me. I wanted out. I had a life to get living.
Not that high school was hard. I had the prototypical jock schedule of classes–Math, History, English Composition, and four study halls. Brutal. Then one day Mrs. Houser, my English Composition teacher, decided that I needed to do something, so she pulled some strings and got me a job: writing a weekly column for the local newspaper. Write about anything, she said. Just make it good.
Oh. Joy.
I obliged, partly because I had to but mostly because Mrs. Houser was my favorite teacher. Every Tuesday evening I would sit down with a pad of paper and watch reruns of Gilligan’s Island, writing during commercials. It was busy work. Something to pass the time. Nothing more.
Then my world fell apart.
We were playing at Fort Defiance High School when someone hit a ground ball to my right. I backhanded it and threw off balance to first base for the out.
And my shoulder exploded.
Four trips to doctors and specialists resulted in a shared consensus: I would never played again.
It’s tough being seventeen and knowing that every dream you ever had was gone. Tough knowing that your entire life lay in front of you, just not the life you wanted. Tough.
Too tough.
So one night I got in my truck, drove into the mountains, and found the highest rock I could so I could jump off.
Almost did it, too. I got to two and a half on my count to three when a voice popped into my head and said, “You’re really not afraid of dying, are you?”
No. Not at all.
Then you’re afraid of living.
Whether that voice was God’s or my own still escapes me. But I sat for a long while on that rock, thinking. Then I got back into my truck, drove home, and wrote my column. Really wrote. About how things sometimes don’t turn out the way they’re supposed to and how sometimes life can be more night than day. And how, in the end, we have to keep on. We just have to. That was the night I learned to strip myself bare on the page, to risk exposing fears and worries and doubts. To quit pretending I was someone I wasn’t. It was the biggest act of courage I think I ever displayed.
Three days later, a letter was sent to the high school with my name on the front. Thank you, it said. “I’m having a really tough time right now, and a few days ago I thought I just couldn’t take anymore. I was going to end it. Then I read your article and, well, I’m still here. So thank you. You rescued me.“
It wasn’t signed, and there was no return address on the envelope. I didn’t know who sent it, but I did know this: God didn’t want me to play baseball. He wanted me to write.
***
At the mall, a month later. I was picking my girlfriend up from work and decided to walk to the bookstore. Approaching me was a teenage girl in jeans and a leather jacket. I nodded as she passed, and then she called my name.
“Allison,” she said. “My name’s Allison. I’m the one who wrote you that letter.”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what she wanted me to say. So I asked her if she was all right, to which she replied that she was, to which I replied that it was nice to meet her. I was so shy, so backward, so unnerved, that I simply nodded again and walked away.
I have had many bad moments in my life. That one? Top three.
I never saw Allison again. I do, however, still spend many a day wishing that I would have. Just one more time. Just to tell her I was sorry for not saying more. To tell her to keep hanging in there and that she’s not alone.
And to tell her that she rescued me, too.
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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