The Threshold

Standing at the window, I tasted the lost love of my father with fear in my throat. I wasn’t afraid of falling from the sky but fearful of the repeated failure to leave my hometown. Pressing my face against the cold glass of the terminal, I saw how fragile life was. Bouncing raindrops forced my eyes to blink like the slow rhythm of the yellow caution light on the runway. Rain hitting the glass tapped out memories as my eyes tried to focus on the plane. Flashes of hospital-bed recoveries and painful recuperations were some of the worst recalls. The defeats, setbacks, a chosen lifestyle of a rebellious artist swirled faster and faster in my early morning funnel of hope. I was still swallowing the lost love of my father with the too-familiar fear of things gone badly.

In the icy glass reflection of the raindrops was the wheelchair where Granny sat weeping. Her stroke-twisted face let the tears loose. I knelt next to her, and we hugged and wept. We both knew that would be our last time together. We spent many long hours as she nursed me through the years of recovery from serious accidents. Without her, my life would have been much worse. Likewise my mother, who bore the worries of the world once again, had concern for her second son. Ma had seen me live through my hard times. Ma and Granny were my nurses and benefactors, who lovingly cared for me through the years of my near-broken back and the head concussion. They watched how I could not stop my dreaming, and we all watched how time tore me up. There Ma stood, seeing me leaving her and her mother dying slowly. A year and a half earlier, she was at my dad’s side in the hospital before his death. She lost him to drink and finally cancer, but never stopped loving him. I took after my dad. I was the black sheep of the family, whom she loved and cared for beyond measure.

Ken paced with me, eyeing the clock and the frozen rain hitting the glass as we considered the weather conditions. His suggestion that I could always wait and book another flight fell on deaf ears. He had no idea what my life was about; we never had heart-to-heart talks. He never asked questions or had any interest in my writing. He could not understand my artistic drive or necessity to leave. How could he? We were on the fringes of each other’s lives. We each had our own worlds to live in. Without a steady job, wife, and baby, I was invisible to him. We were related bone to bone, blood to blood, but we didn’t relate.

On the one hand, my life was a lonely searchlight of laughter, booze, women, drugs, and songs, looking with hope. On the other hand, living was at times extreme pain and not so much fun for me. I felt like I had lived two long lives with all my body aches. I spent thousands of nights sitting alone, writing my dreams in a diary, my emotions forming lyrics. Remembering the past and recording the present was like a medicine that worked wonders for me.

Then the good news came, and the doors were opened. People shuffled around hugging and kissing, saying good-bye, waving farewell as the boarding began. Holding my family with hugs and kisses was so important to me. I was emotional, and I knew I was leaving a source of strength. Looking into Granny’s eyes for the last time broke me. I turned and walked out the door with tears into the windy freezing rain. I welcomed the ice on my face as I looked up into the dark sky leaning into the wind. I knew I would miss that Northeast weather I loved. I was fortunate in that I loved and was loved. I sat on the plane surrounded by freezing darkness, stiffly relaxing under the dim lights. The pilot said the small plane would be going into a very strong wind for Philadelphia. We would be shaking and bumping, but once we were flying high enough, we would smooth out. Being on the plane and rolling down the runway made me the happiest guy in New York. Seeing green lights, rocketing past caution, I sat in the seat of opportunity, aiming to cross a continent of hope. Closing my eyes, I rested and smiled like a little kid. Within me, a surprise came like opening a gift. At last I was leaving the collected mess of mistakes and dues paid. I held my diary and closed my eyes for a small thank you prayer thinking of Aunt Jean’s words: “God works in mysterious ways.”

*****

If

How does a man stop, being a boy,
How can I live a life to enjoy?
If there is a miff, will I stand still?
Should I lash out and know the thrill?

If is in the middle of a serious riddle called l-if-e,
If is before me, If is what will be.
Will I know for sure what will be?
If is in the middle of a serious riddle called l-if-e.

Lost in choices of bad and good,
Climbing a ladder, I should and could.
If there is a cliff, will life hang on?
Will Mighty God, send me beyond?

If is in the middle of a serious riddle called l-if-e,
If is before me, If is what will be.
Will I know for sure what will be?
If is in the middle of a serious riddle called l-if-e.

Take the If out of life, you still have to guess.
Put the If in your life, will it spell more or less?
Take the If out of life, will you have happiness?

Life could be a breeze, slow before fast,
Sun on a lake, then it’s overcast.
If there is a riff, will I fall and die?
Who but Lord Jesus, can justify?