Billy Coffey

storyteller

Compassion in the Cold

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image courtesy of photobucket.com
image courtesy of photobucket.com

I remember standing at an overlook in the mountains on a December night in 2006. I remember it was cold. Very cold. And though it made sense for me just to get back into the truck and turn the heat on, I couldn’t. I had to be outside with the stars and the wind. What I had to do couldn’t be done from inside the truck.

So I went ahead and built the fire. Walked down into the woods, found some rocks, dug a fire pit, and gathered kindling. I got the fire going despite the wind and tossed a few bigger sticks onto the pile. Cedar, I remember. I always liked the smell of burning cedar. And then I leaned back and half smiled and half didn’t, because it was all ready whether I wanted it to be or not.

I reached into my bag and pulled out a thick wad of paper bound by two rubber bands. I turned it over in my hands, watching the firelight dance against it.

Now, I thought…now.

But nothing happened. Whether it was the cold or God or the fabled spirits of the mountain, something had severed the connection between my head and my hands.

Failure seemed too bitter a word, so I decided it was all about letting go. About knowing how to as much as when to. The how was easy. I would burn it. That was the first thought that came to mind a few days before when I got the latest reply. The when, though? Not so easy. I thought for sure it would be that night, but I was having my doubts.

When you spend ten years of your life hanging onto a dream, it takes a lot out of you. You learn to get by on things like faith and hope and tenacity. You try to accustom yourself to blocking out the army of voices both within and without that scream you have no idea what you’re doing and therefore you shouldn’t even bother pretending anymore. It takes strength to endure more than it does talent.

I had the strength. The faith, too. Even had the hope and the tenacity. But something was still missing, and it was a big something. Something that seemed important enough that missing it brought me there in the mountains sitting in front of a fire, ready to incinerate five years of my life.

I was going to burn my manuscript. Release it into the ether once and more all and let its memory float away. I wanted to be done with my dream. I wanted to let go of it so it would let go of me.

I tried once more—

…now—

but I couldn’t, so I simply sat there in the cold and watched the flames dance.

This was not about letting go after all, I decided. No, it really was about failure.

I had pushed myself. Worked and tried and refused to give up, and still after all of that I had nothing to show for my life. It wasn’t that I was too weak to hang on or even too strong to let go. It was that I was stuck in the middle, wavering. A tough place to be. Maybe the toughest. But looking back I think that’s a place we all need to find ourselves at some point, if only so we can find out if our dreams are worthy of the people God calls us to be.

I was thinking about that night one day last week while I was looking over the Fall 2010-Winter 2011 catalog for my publisher, FaithWords. Not only was it pretty darn exciting to see my book on page nine, it was even more so to see they’ve used the cover art for Snow Day as the cover for the catalog. If you’d like, you can see it here.

My point?

My point is that in the end, your dreams are all on you. That means having the faith to see them through.

Having the hope to keep believing.

And it means forgiving yourself when you fail.

The compassion we’re called to show others is the very compassion we’re called to show ourselves. That alone is a source of divine strength.

That alone can move mountains.

I’m proof of that.

This post is part of the blog carnival on Compassion, hosted by Bridget Chumbley. To read more, please visit her site.

The tribe

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image courtesy of photobucket.com
image courtesy of photobucket.com

I can’t remember the name of the tribe, which is mildly ironic given the nature of their story. And it’s quite a story.It amazes me that regardless of how smart we are and how much we can do, we still know so little about the world.

Only 2 percent of the ocean floor has been explored. Species thought long extinct still turn up every once in a while. And just last year, scientists stumbled upon a valley in New Guinea that had gone untouched by man since the dawn of time. There were plants and insects never seen before. And the animals never bothered hiding or running from the explorers. They didn’t have the experience to tell them humans were a potential threat.

But of course it’s not just plants and animals and hidden valleys that are being discovered. People are, too. And that can lead to all sorts of things.

Take, for instance, the tribe I mentioned above.

They were discovered in 1943 in one of the remotest parts of the Amazon jungle. Contact was carefully arranged. Easy at first, nothing too rash. That seems to be rule number one in those situations–don’t overwhelm the tribe.

It didn’t work. Here’s why.

The difference between these particular people and the others that pop up every few years was that their uniqueness was foundational to their belief system. They’d been so cut off from civilization for so long that they were convinced they were the only humans in the world. No one outside of their small tribe existed. And they liked that idea.

Finding out that not only were there other people in the world, there were billions of them, was too much. The trauma of learning they were not unique was so debilitating that the entire tribe almost died out. Even now, sixty-nine years later, only a few remain.

Sad, isn’t it?

I’ll admit the temptation was there for me to think of that tribe as backward and primitive for thinking such a thing. But then I realized they weren’t. When you get right down to it, their beliefs and the truth they couldn’t carry made them more human than a lot of people I know.

Because we all want to be unique.

We all want to think we’re special, needed by God and man for some purpose that will outlast us. We want to be known and remembered. We all know on a certain level that we will pass this way but once, and so we want whatever time we have in this world to matter.

That’s not a primitive notion. That’s a universal one.

I think at some point we’re all like members of that tribe. We have notions of greatness, of doing at most the impossible and at least the improbable. Of blazing a new trail for others to follow. It’s a fire that burns and propels our lives forward.

I will make a difference, we say. People will know I was here.

But then we have a moment like that tribe had, when we realize there are a lot of other people out there who are more talented and just as hungry. People who seem to catch the breaks we don’t and have the success that eludes us. And that notion that we were different and special fades as we’re pulled into the crowd of humanity and told to take our rightful place among the masses.

It’s tough, hanging on to a dream. Tough having to talk yourself into holding the course rather than turning back. Tough having to summon faith amidst all the doubt.

But I know this:

That tribe was right.

We are all unique.

We are all here for a purpose, and it’s a holy purpose. One that cannot be fulfilled by anyone else and depends upon us.

We are more than flesh and blood. More than DNA and RNA and genes and neurons. And this world is more than air and water and earth. Whether we know it or not, whether we accept it or not, our hearts are a battleground between the two opposing forces of light and dark.

One side claims we are extraordinary. The other claims we’re common.

It’s up to us to decide the victor.

The One (Family Favorites Week, Part II)

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I first wrote this for my children, who had grown tired of the usual fare of bedtime stories involving knights and princesses in distress. “Tell us a real story,” they said.

So here it is. Written not just for them, but for you, too. And all I ask in return is that after your bedtime prayers tonight, you think about this and sleep well…

One day God sat upon His heavenly throne and looked down upon all He had made. All the galaxies of all the universes were in His sight. Some were spiral, some flat, some round, but each were wondrous in their size and beauty.
He saw comets whisking about, their tails long and shiny. Suns burst with incredible brilliance. Black holes churned. And He saw the secret places where no eyes but His own ever roamed. Everything turned in a silent celestial dance that many could ponder but only He could understand.

He saw stars of all shapes and sizes—huge red ones, medium yellow ones, small white ones. And around the stars were worlds innumerable. Some hung peacefully in the blackness of space. Others teemed with strange and wondrous life. And God saw that it was all good and wonderful and perfect.

Then the eyes of the Lord settled upon one small galaxy among the millions, then upon one yellow star among the billions, to one pale, blue dot.
Of all the worlds God had created, the blue dot was the most beautiful in His eyes. It was a world of unsurpassed beauty, of churning oceans and majestic mountains, of soaring birds and graceful animals.
But there was something more there. Something far more valuable. For God had made oceans and mountains and creatures on many other worlds and in many other galaxies, but only in this one place, only upon this pale, blue dot, did God fashion beings who carried within them a part of Himself.

Man and Woman, the Lord called them. It was God’s love that gave them life, and it was God’s love that gave them the choice of whether to love Him back. But they chose unwisely. Now, the very ones God had created had forgotten Him. His children had lost their way. And more than that, they had lost their faith.

The pale, blue dot that was once so pure was now nearly ruined. There was war and bloodshed, hate and slavery, pain and suffering. And as the Lord listened, the cries of the people echoed throughout all of heaven. The smile that was upon God’s face began to fade. The cherubim who circled the throne in constant song stopped then, their wings lowered. Slowly they turned to face their Lord, astonished at the sight.
For God, Creator of all, had begun to cry.

Then with a powerful voice He called out, “Michael, come!”

The mighty doors of the throne room opened as Michael the archangel, commander of the armies of heaven, appeared. His clothing shone brighter than the brightest star, and a golden sword hung from his side. As he bowed before the Lord his wings stretched outward, so large and majestic that they seemed to touch the very corners of heaven.

“What is Thy wish, my Lord?” Michael asked.

“Michael,” God answered, “the time has come. Go forth and bring to me the soul unlike all others. Bring to me The One.”

At those words the cherubim again burst into joyful song, for they knew all of heaven had waited for this moment since time itself began. Michael’s smile was lit with the radiance of a hundred suns. “As you wish, my Lord,” he said, drawing his massive sword in salute.

Michael left the presence of God and searched throughout heaven. He walked along the golden streets and by the crystal sea until, finally, he had found whom God had requested, whom God had called The One. The two of them journeyed back to the throne and bowed before the Lord.

“My child,” God said, “do you see the pale, blue dot below you?”

“Yes, Father,” replied The One.

“No world is more precious to Me. And none of the souls I have ever created are more loved by My heart than those whom you see walking upon it. And yet they have forgotten how to live. They have forgotten that they share one Father, and so they quarrel and hate. Their words maim the heart and their actions destroy the soul. They think not of their neighbors, but only of themselves. Yet My love for them is such that I will not forsake them. They have cried out for My help, and I will answer them. I will send them you.

“You must go and take their form. You will grow to walk among them, and you are to help them remember how I would have them live. Teach them to love one another. Show them that they can have joy. And above all, tell them that the life I have given them is not a curse, but a blessing. Their lives upon the pale, blue dot are short and their days are few. Tell them that they must never take their days for granted, but use their time to ease the burdens of others. Tell them not to worry. Tell them not to fear. Tell them that the Lord watches over them, and that His love is great.

“Take care, My child, and be strong. You will be tempted to speak as they speak and live as they live. Resist those things. Remember instead that the pale, blue dot is not your true home. Your true home is here, with Me. Be gentle with others. See in them yourself. See in them Me. Grow in wisdom.
“Let the light I have put in you shine forth and do not forget your purpose, for you will suffer greatly. You will feel the pains of loss, and you will journey to the depths of sadness and despair. These things you must experience, for they are shared by all. Only turn to Me, your Father. I will comfort you in your anguish, I will laugh with you in your joy, and I will bless you abundantly.

“Go now, My child, and make haste, for you are the answer to their prayers. Do not forget Me. Remain strong and courageous, and remember that I look down upon you always.”

With that the precious soul rose up and stood upon the edge of heaven. All the angels gathered there in silence as Michael took The One by the hand and together descended to the tiny, blue dot…

***
How does the story end? I can’t say. I don’t know.

Because, you see, the story is still happening.
Because you are The One.

And right now, this minute, all the angels stand upon the edge of heaven, and watch…

Dyin’ Right

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Four days ago:

I am standing in the middle of the woods, arms raised in surrender. Surrounding me are two Apache scouts who have warned me in no uncertain terms that one step further into their territory will be the last step I ever take. They mean it, too.

This is the sort of situation I often find myself in. Sad. Also true.

It began with a walk through the woods near my home. Evening. Sun setting and birds chirping, though that did little to ease my discomfort. Something was wrong, which was bad, but I didn’t know what exactly, which was worse. There are times when life becomes more of a trial and less of a joy, and I was mired in one of those times. How or why didn’t matter at the moment. All I wanted to know was what I was doing wrong and how I could make it right again.

So I took a walk.

It didn’t take long, however, before I got the sneaky sensation that I was being followed. Two sets of footfalls shadowed me from behind, muffled by the trees. Too noisy to be animals. But if not, what?

Then: “AAARRRRUUUUUGGGGHH!!!!”

Sprinting out from the trees toward me came two boys dressed in redneck chic—camouflage pants, black T-shirts, and boots—whooping and hollering and waving plastic knives as they charged. My mind raced, trying to figure out what was happening, but all it could do was replay all one hundred and nine minutes of Deliverance. Complete with dueling banjos, of course.

They circled me then stopped, bent over with their hands on their knees and exhausted from the long run. Leather belts were cinched across their foreheads with discarded bird feathers sticking up in the back, giving the appearance of multihued cowlicks. Their faces were painted with what I could only imagine was lipstick. Someone’s mother was not going to be happy.

That’s when I understood. I had been taken captive by Geronimo and Cochise.

“Hold it, White Man,” says the older boy, waving his knife in front of me.

“Yeah,” echoes the younger, who has dropped his knife to catch his breath. “Don’t (wheeze) move.”

I raise my hands. “Easy now,” I say. “I don’t want no trouble with Injuns.”

The boys smile, then quickly returned to character.

“What-um are you doin’ on our lands, White Man?” Geronimo asks.

What to tell him? That I’m in an existential rut and trying to get out? No. Children are happily ignorant of such things.

So I say, “Fine, then. The truth is I’m a cowboy, and some Indians stole my horse and burned down my cabin. I’m out here looking for them.”

More smiles.

“We did it! We did it!” shouts Cochise, who then proceeds to jump up and down and scream “WOO-WOO-WOO!” in an impromptu victory dance. Apache style.

“Looks like we have a fight on our hands, then,” I say.

They pounce the next instant. Plastic blades shimmer in the setting sun, piercing my shirt and jeans. I feel every thrust and slash, tickled to the point of crying.

Victorious, the warriors dance around me, waving their knives in the air and calling the spirits of their forefathers to take notice of their deeds. To them, the Bad White Man has been vanquished. To me, standing there with my arms crossed, I just want them gone so I can get back to the business of figuring out my problem.

Halfway through, they stop their celebration. Delight has turned to disappointment.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you?” asks Geronimo.

“Yeah,” wonders Cochise. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” I ask. “I don’t get it.”

“You’re just standing there,” Geronimo explains.

“Like an idiot,” Cochise explains further.

“So?”

“So?” answers Geronimo. “So you’re doin’ it wrong.”

“I’m doing what wrong?”

He sighs the way an adult sighs when trying to explain something very simple to a very simple child.

“Dyin’. Don’t you see? You’re not dyin’ right.”

His words are like magic, the voice of angels.

Not dyin’ right, my brain says. Is that it? Is that your problem? Is that what’s happened to you? Have you gotten life all turned around, thinking that the things you need to do and say don’t need to be done today because there’s always tomorrow? Stop wasting your life! Can’t you see? You’re not living. No one is living. We’re all dying. Every day, every moment is one step closer to your last. Quit sitting around waiting for things to happen. Make them happen. Embrace your days. Ravish them. Don’t worry about living right. Worry about dying right.

Yes. YES!

“You’re right,” I say to them. “Let’s do it again.”

They smile and attack, I laugh and defend. We brawl and battle and wail. Each thrust of their knives brings joyful laughter from the three of us. Finally, I lunge into the nearest bush, clutching my mortal wounds, and then collapse with a flourish into the arms of heaven.

It was a glorious death.

Eleanor’s Story

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If the UPS man hadn’t delivered a package to her that day, I would never have stopped to say hello. Funny how that happens sometimes, isn’t it? How those little, inconsequential things that happen to us every day are really big things in disguise.

When you see a UPS man, you get out of his way. This is for your own safety. UPS men (and women, of course) are in a hurry. They have to be. They have a truck full of packages that must be delivered before their day can be considered done. No exceptions.

So when on a morning walk I spotted a UPS man delivering a package to a lady in the neighborhood, and when I saw him actually stop and talk to said lady in a conversation, I paid attention.

Older woman, smartly dressed. She smiled and laughed and touched his arm in a motherly sort of way, and he nodded and smiled and tipped his cap as he left.

Funny thing about that house: I didn’t recall ever noticing it. Our neighborhood, though rural and against the mountain, is still a pretty big place. Very likely a few hundred houses in all. I supposed that with so many homes, misplacing one or two in my memory was bound to happen.

My kids did not trick-or-treat there. I was sure of that. And I was equally sure there were no Christmas decorations there last December. I would remember.

I passed by just as the UPS man paused at his truck to type something into his electronic clipboard.

“How ya doin’?” I called.

“Good,” he answered. “You?”

“Good. Busy today?”

He laughed. “Always busy, my man. Especially here.”

“Oh yeah?”“Oh yeah. I’m here every day.”

So began a rather lengthy conversation about the unseen woman in the unseen house. Eleanor, whom I had neither met nor seen in all my years in the neighborhood. Which was, according to the UPS man, a forgivable offense. No one else had really met or seen her either.

She was alone. No family. No children. She spent her life inside for the most part, venturing out for groceries rarely and only when the needs outweighed the trip. She wasn’t a recluse, he said. She was just shy and didn’t want to be a bother.

“Nothing wrong with that, right?” he asked.

“Not a thing.”

He turned and stared at the house. I did likewise. A corner of the living room curtain waved, as if someone was peeking out.

“But she’s lonely. Real lonely. I drop off something for her most every day. She gets these catalogs in the mail, see. Every catalog you can think of. She’ll call and order stuff all day long.”

“Guess everyone needs a hobby,” I offered.

“Ain’t a hobby,” he said. “Like I said, she’s lonely. She orders stuff just to have someone to talk to. Knows all those operators by name, mostly. Talks about ‘em like they’re her family. Which I guess they kinda are.”

“Shut up,” I said.

“Seriously. Told me so herself. I guess they don’t mind. They get her money, she gets some company. She started talking to me because I always delivered the stuff. I always hustle on my other stops because I know she’ll want to sit and talk a while.”

The curtain moved again.

“Gotta go, my man. Take it easy, huh?”

“Yeah,” I answered, still looking at the house. “You, too.”

He left. I stood. Staring at the house.

The curtain moved again.

I could imagine Eleanor in her living room, scared to death and wondering what the strange man by the driveway was doing. She probably had the phone in her hand, ready to call for help. Not 911, though. Given what I’d learned, it was more likely Pottery Barn.

I always considered the forgotten among us to be confined to some faraway city street, huddled beneath park benches or in soup kitchens. That many resided here in my peaceful town was unthinkable. That one resided just down the road from me was heartbreaking.

I walked up the driveway and rang her doorbell. The curtain moved again. There was silence.

Then the door opened.

***

Eleanor passed on recently. I can say that we had many a good visit with one another. I can also say, however, that loneliness is one of those things that doesn’t disappear at once. It takes time. Time she didn’t have.

If I have one consolation, it’s that I’ve learned the company she lacked in this life was found in the next.

Because according to the nurses at the hospital, her last words were these:“I see angels everywhere.”

(photo courtesy of photobucket)

Pick Your Cause

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The college where I work is a great place filled with great people. The campus is beautiful, the professors excellent, and the staff both accommodating and friendly.

But it is still a college. And as it is such, my work environment harbors the sort of modern, liberal predilections that a more traditional person like me can’t seem to understand sometimes. Some days, many days, I am both generally exasperated and specifically confused by what I see.

A few weeks ago the college held what is annually billed as Pick Your Cause Week. Each day brought exhibits, lectures, and a wealth of information concerning a particular organization or subject. This year children of alcoholics, muscular dystrophy, women’s cancers, domestic violence, and the poor were chosen.

Though there are some things here at work that I find questionable and a few I find just plain strange, I like this. I like it a lot. We should all have a Pick Your Cause Week.

I find it sadly ironic that in this age of computers and satellite television, when the smallest event that happens in the smallest corner of the smallest country on the other side of the world can be instantly beamed right into our living rooms, we’ve really never been so separated from one another.

The media blitzes us with a constant barrage of suffering and need. We see footage of disaster and crime and hear stories of loss and despair. And though we try every day to nourish whatever hope we have and coax it to grow, there is the daily reminder that our world seems to be teetering on the edge of a very dark abyss and there is nothing that can pull it back onto solid ground.

It all can be just a little too much to bear. For me, anyway.

So I do what a good Christian should. I pray. But I’ve found that I often use prayer as an excuse, a poor example of doing something. As much as I pray for this world and all the people in it, I find that I do little else about it. And while those prayers are vital, they shouldn’t be the final solution. Asking God to help the world and asking Him to equip me to help the world are two different things. I don’t often get that.

I have a tendency to shrink the world. Shrink it so its dimensions extend no further than the small part I happen to occupy. Shrink it to only that which affects me. My world is my family and my town and my work. Whatever else that happens outside of my world that is sad and regrettable and unfortunate affects me emotionally. But it is also none of my business. I try to ignore it. I don’t hope it will go away because I don’t think it ever will, I just try to stay out of its way and hope it doesn’t find me or the ones I care about.

All of that is of course the silliest thing any Christian should ever believe, and yet I do. And so do a lot of us. We all at some point fall for the great lie that there is nothing we can do about the state of things, and in doing so we risk developing a mindset that is perhaps as unchristian as we can get:

We don’t care what happens so long as it doesn’t happen to us.

That is why a Cause is so important. We are all called to spend our time and energy toward something that will continue on long after we leave this world. It is our purpose, our mission. No matter who we are or what we do or where our talents lie, we are all here for the same reason: to make things better.

To heal the wounded. Clothe the naked. Feed the poor. To offer help to the helpless and hope to the hopeless.

And the light of God to the darkness.

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