How close is the shape itself to the shadow's definition?

I spent one evening quite sad while in Southern Illinois. Some things I can easily put into words, but reflecting on other people's pain and the gross negligence of "Christianity" to deal with these pains--this is hard for me to talk about. I contemplate this as a result of time spent at a small town bar on their trivia contest night. I was asked to go by someone I am close to who plays there regularly.

The place sits in a treeless sea of gravel next to a gas station. A large wood fence surrounds it. Just inside the fence is the "beer garden" which means a concrete slab with a carport over it where a few picnic tables are gathered. A large smoker sits out there, and most nights the beer garden smells heavenly, but not in a floral way...more like a barbecued one. Inside, the bar is old-wood dark. Metal signs and handwritten advertisement hang on the walls. Staples--such as a pool table and a dart board--are present, as well as several tables for groups of 4 or so to sit. Nothing was memorable about the look of the place. If you mentioned Feng shui to the owner here, he might or might not know whether you were talking about sushi. And most of the people matched the decor in that respect for many people were there, but only a few--mostly the young--had tried to "look good." Who dresses up for family anyway, and these people are all "family." In this place, a metal pail of beers in ice passes across the bar one direction, a plastic bag of used baby clothes that should fit the bartender's littlest one soon passes in return. No one bats an eye at the interchange. Everyone knows the bartender's kid's name, anyway.

On this particular trivia night, the regular "barker" just had emergency by-pass surgery, (collective sigh of concern) so everybody say a prayer for him. He's doing fine, but is still in the hospital, so a "sub" calls the questions. Some are easy. (What has more vitamin C? A strawberry or a blueberry? Answer: strawberry.) Others, you must be a local to answer. (The hometown team that won the bass tourney last weekend won with a fish that was which length: 18.03 or 18.30 inches. Not even an educated guess on that one. )

But the trivia game was just so much distraction for what really went on at the table. The couple I was with were suffering. His suffering started earlier in the week when his "f#*#ing Christian" relatives were cheating him again. In fact, I've never heard that particular expletive attached to the word Christian so many times in one setting...not ever before. But this church-busy aunt and uncle of his sounded like they earned the adjective. For one thing, they robbed him of his inheritance. If they'd taken the money part, he wouldn't have minded so much; but they took his father's tool collection, and having that part gone ripped open his soul. His father's tool collection...it was hard enough for him to find connection/approval with that distant man, but if this son could have picked up the tools, he could have imagine he made his father proud when he used them...that is the part his uncle took without offering to share. And why should he share with his nephew when he "screwed" his own daughter?

I heard this story, too. The daughter, a young single mother, rented a house from her Christian parents for 12 years. She invested $10,000 of inheritance from a grandparent in the house. When she asked if she could change the rent to a purchase agreement, especially with the investment she'd made and all, she was told if she could get a bank to loan her the $70,000 for the purchase, she could have the house. Otherwise, she was still a renter in their opinion. They had many rental properties. This house meant nothing to them. Seems like the daughter didn't mean much either.

As for the son in that family, he never married. He makes good money--certainly good enough to satisfy a lady-friend--but every time he tried to bring a girl home, she would invariably fail to satisfy his mother. In the end, he decided it was easier to buy an occasional private lap dance in a nearby college town than to keep serving up committed relationships on his mother's altar of judgment. His roots went too deep in a place where old blood runs thicker than futures. But these people--my are they ever tenacious about sharing their "busy at church" status with their neighbors. These are the stories I heard while the man was throwing around the "f-bomb" in association with their faith. Little wonder.

I didn't stop him. I sat there listening, nodding, sipping my drink while "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw" played over the sound system. He knew that I, too, was a Christian--worked at a Christian school even--but something in him knew that I was completely different. I didn't even have to explain the difference, he knew instinctively, for he followed this tirade about these Machiavellian relatives with a sudden, unexpected revelation of his own aching heart. He shared his fears and dreams, his bashful hopes for acceptance by the people that mattered to him, even as he did things to destroy their good feelings toward him. A tragic chord struck in my soul, because I knew a lot of the gold under the surface would be missed, or at least difficult to mine. He lay his pain at my feet, not looking for "answers" but somehow knowing I'd take his pain to You and that it would be genuine and that You would listen to me. His soul longs to connect with a true God, a noble God, a caring God. Later, his wife called me, sobbing because they'd fought after I left, maybe even the fight that would end everything for them. I understood only about half of what she said as she cried so hard, but I listened long enough to show I was willing to go the distance with her. Her soul longs to connect with a God, too. A trustworthy God. A creative, powerful God.

Neither one of them needed advice, rather they each just needed someone to listen while they gave themselves advice; someone who wouldn't pull their open gaping hearts into a Jerry Springer moment.

It was the climax of what I saw at the pool the day before. But there is more. I read something about taking care of others ahead of yourself, how in doing this, many of these problems can be solved more easily, with less strife. But it has one catch to it: pride. The section of Blue Like Jazz that I read the next day capped it all perfectly. When the author described his offering prayers for friends at the neglect of himself, he said, "It wasn't that I cared about my friends more than myself, it was that I believed I was above the grace of God...It isn't that I want to earn my own way to give something to God, it's that I want to earn my own way so I won't be a charity case."

As a child, I learned what it meant to be a charity case. I wasn't begging food, but I was begging affection. I was begging a type of shelter. I know how shameful that can feel, especially if the one graciously sharing their time, association and therefore reputation with you makes sure others realize that you are their emotional tax write-off. Yet, I must realize that I will never be above certain charities, and accepting this makes me a better resource for others needing to embrace humility and the grace that can follow, the peace and freedom from self that follow.

I need to re-write this. Then again, I may never re-read it. My thoughts are not concise. I'm flailing in the cobweb, for certain, but this I'm certain about: I'm not the person I was when I grew up here. Mostly, I'm not embarrassed to fit my life to what God wants, no matter whether it looks normal and/or attractive to other people or not.

So...I drove home that evening in the twilight, a part of the day old-timers called the gloaming, only that's too restful a word to be useful now. But me, I drove home in the gloaming. I listened to southern gospel, with a banjo and bari-sax lilting along, but I cried anyway. The tears poured down my face. As I drove through the countryside a poem wanted to be, but maybe never would be. Like this:

The evening breeze blew through the window. It seemed to say, "Yes, today was a scorcher. But feel the promise of cool in me now." The sunset was losing its last light, but the stars were still sleeping, so a neighboring field, full of fireflies, reminded, "Hey, do your job up there. It's your time." And as darkness deepened, a small pond reflected a brightness that made the sky say, "Did I once own even that?"

Yes, definitely a poem wants to be.