Esposa Mia

A draft sneaks from under a
Rickety door cooling my feet.
Two empty chairs face me, asking
What my plans tonight are.
I stare.
This room and these rooms
Are empty chambers with out
A soul. The appearance of life;
my flimsy frame is all
It sees.
She’s the home this house needs

Xenophobes and Philanthropists go to Denver

A final good bye kiss was given Naomi as I slid into the 1988 U-haul. The upholstery gave off a cloud of dust when I sat down. All about me was cracked rubber, torn fabric and a scent of an old attic. This would be home for the next day as Byron, Jeremy and I made our way cross country to our new home in Denver, Co. It was 5:30 pm. A darkened sky faded from a lowering sun that we northwesterners imagined loomed over these bleak clouds. The windshield began accumulating droplets of water from a heavy mist migrating through the parking lot. Naomi dissapeared from the mirror as I turned the corner. First stop, PDX Intl. Airport for Byron, then, Vancouver for Jeremy. But as the photo so poignantly states, I anticipated many more stops with plenty of "brakes" for our humor, as the stir-craziness of hours in an "upholstered coffin" might prove detri-mental to our sanity. See? It lingers like cancer.

Custom for any road trip, since high-school, was to get completely distracted with superflous agendas, last minute suprises (faulty brakes, no food, forgot my board etc.) and lack of any direction from where we were going to where we wanted to go. Many trips were discovered as we went. Needless to say, there was some hesitancy to asking my two dearest friends to acompany me. I just couldnt see it any other way though, it had to be this way, perhaps one last time.

Yes. My two greatest freinds. We're older now, two of us married, one ambivalent but being convinced by the other two that he needs to tie it; we have jobs, bills that are being paid, its a more decisive way of living as opposed to the care-free frivolousness of youth. Dont be deceived by this picture, were actually in a debate over the posthumous works of Freud and Lewis. Byron the former, Jer the latter.

Over 1500 miles were to be driven since our final departure at 8:30 pm Saturday night. Oregon, Idaho, Utah, and Wyoming before we actually made it to Colorado. We were all excited for the trip. None of us had driven this far east or seen these states on such a level before. We would alternate drivers. I drove the first leg through most of Oregon. Our conversation varied from the deeper waters of our personal life to nonsense. There were times of silence where I sat absorbing the company. When friendships come to a place where hours can pass with out a word and everyone feels as comfortable and joyous as if we'd been talking, you know you have a gem, refined by time and trial. We had been, too. I can remember a time when I was bitter towards Jer. He had once confessed I was really annoying; he was only being honest. I harbored angor for a long time over that, until, finally, I approached the cross with it and those wounds were healed. Byron and I, although always close and positive, have had our bouts. Once I threw a loaded mouse trap at him while he sat reading in the peace and quiet of a morning...for the hundreth time. It set off, not only itself, but a seething vehemence from my docile friend. He set my fridge on the street corner where, as he remembers, a crack-head came by and hauled it off. I didnt talk to him for nearly two months after that. Theres more, worse things, but those are for us to know and let go of. But as we sat, I reflected over the span of time we've known eachother and the love, commitment and joy that fortifies our friendship.

Our first legitamate stop was in Idaho, at a truck stop. All the other truck stops we'd driven by honking and laughing histerically at the images of crusty worn out men waking up swearing in thier cabs. This time we were the tired ones. We'd driven all night and it was roughly 6am; there was light snow falling through the crisp dry air.

A press-pot of antique Costa Rica was made, bananas and cliff bars were downed and we still felt like the grime that forms under a trucker arm pit.

After jumping back in the truck we jetted towards Utah. Utah. Whoa! UTAH! WHOAA!UUUUUUTTTTAAAAAHHHHHH! Whoaaaaaa! What took place was a revolutuon of the mind.We decided shortly after being in Utah that this is where every consiparcy is born. We listened to the creepiest radio stations ever. Found out that Ewin McGregor is a practicing lawyer there and many other absurd "facts" that led Byron deep into senility where he abducted Jer's common sense along the way. They began chanting some odd mantra and spoke of "the code", "the hand shake" and "the U" with sincere fondness. I pressed my face against the window and stared.

When both Jer and Byron were possesed by the spirit of Joseph Smith, we decided to pull over and breath, take a creative break and regroup our senses.

We continued along, flipping through radio stations, We stopped on one where a man with a soft captivating voice spoke. He spoke of Christ and the veracity of His humanity, the Son of God, by whose blood we were cleansed and on and on he spoke of the gospel. It was all true. I turned to Jer and said, "Watch, Mormon radio". Jer nodded, "it seems too stale, recited". Just then, over the radio we heard these words "...and we thank our heralding leader the closest friend of Christ and His greatest witness, Joseph Smith who was given the greatest testimony or our Lord Christ...". The words echoed in a silent cab. Goosebumps formed on our skin. It is amazing the deceptive quality the Mormons use. As we listened, we heard the gospel recited again, the nuances are linguistical, small clauses, prepositions and articles that are strategically placed to mislead. It was amazing how close it was to the Christian faith. We continued to listen to more creed recitals. The entire faith rests on works. Such a narrow door they make for themselves. Also, absurd politics and "happenings" which presidents and elders had experienced made us ill to think of the amount of lies they have to continually cover up.

Jer evoking the spirit...

Wyoming. Why Oming? Because thats all you want to do in this forlorn god-forsaken desolate inhumane state. Flat. Cold. Dusty. Angry. Thats about all I have to say about Wyoming.

There was a cool snow storm coming over the rockies, however.

At about 10 pm we finally made it to our new home. We unloaded then went right to sleep. My first impressions of the apartment were not so bright. I laid in bed wondering - again - if I had made the right decision. I fell asleep before I got to the answer. The next morning I was awakened by sunlight dripping through the blinds of our bedroom window. I could hear Byron and Jer snoring and ocassionally thrashing about the sleeping bags. "Yes", a slient reassurance settled into my heart from the night before. I got up and began making some coffee, soon I was joined by the other two.

As soon as we had finished unpacking the truck it began to snow. It snowed hard for close to an hour. It was so fitting. I am so snow deprived. All three of us soaked it up.

We spent the day wandering around DT Denver. We harrased the politicians at the Capitol building and ate some darn expensive -but good- food at the famous Pizza Calore.

The hours were dwindling away and it was soon time for them to go home. I tried to talk them into staying one more night, pulling the lonely husband with out his wife trick: nothing. I even threatened to drown my sorrows in beer; they're only concern was that it be a quality micro-brew. Needless to say we were on the road to the airport in no time. It was a sad drive for me. The weight of living here began to take its toll on me. Naomi has some time to spend with her kin before she flies out, and still, it will be difficult. This was it for me. And it too was very difficult. We pulled up to thier terminal and I was hoping they would miss thier flight, but Byron assured me they wouldn't. So I drove off, and as I passed them I snapped one last photo...

Its difficult to see, I know, its not even much of a photo artistically. It was on whim. Point and shoot. Yet, it still captured everything I want in a photo of my greatest friends. Byrons goofy contorted face and Jers compassionate one. Both were how they would prefer leaving me. Byrons humor has been medicine for the most fatel ills, and Jers compassion has been like wings God uses to lift a weary soul. So this is it. Im here, waiting for my most dear friend and lover, Naomi, and they are there, at home, living life. Things wont change so much, we will still live for Christ, eachother and the pleasures that both give. Until I see them next, farewell and good ridance you swine!

Denver ho!

JASON: Bits of styrophome, bubble wrap and cardboard lay strewn accross the floor of an empty apartment. We're moving today. Another empty apartment sits in Denver, void, waiting our arrival. The last item to pack up is this computer. We had'nt written anything on here about our move; no reason, just occupied with other things. There is not much to say either, since any one reading this knows our reasons for moving. This is simply an account of our endeavor. This is Jason, signing off.
NAOMI: We are sad to say goodbye to all that we leave behind...family, friends, memories. But we are excited for the adventures that await us ahead.

Swift as a River

"...vapor hung, straining against the heat of a new day, slowly dissipating as the river rolled in small swells below. Frost clung to the smooth rocks on the bank. My nostrils burned. Vibrant colored leaved fluttered above. Out in the river, water thigh high eddying between his legs, Andreas flung his line into a well shaded pool near the rivers edge. A docile nook rested from the tumult of a surging river beneath over hanging foliage. A rotted stump whose woody entrails pertruded out of russet colored sod and clay, dipped into the water. He stood still, poised, hand on reel. I had cast my line nearly half an hour ago. The neon-pink bobber oscillated with each roll of the swift river. It stood out sharply against the palid water, white with minerals. My pole stood propped between two large rocks just below me, close enough to snatch in a moment. I watched the end twitch like a hyper active reflex. My thoughts wandered onto my kids. I pulled my watch out of the tackle box: 7:56 am. "Julian would love it out here", i mused, picturing his raven hair flitting in the light breeze, a grin stretching his lips taut against his small ivory teeth. The surrounding hills reflected the morning light. It resembled the copper coins that sat just below the rushing water of the fountain in the grotto, flickering metalic green upon tarnished orange.
A small tumbler sat on our coffee table, the ice half melted into the whisky, condensation formed on its sides; my forehead. The Kolingaards - Andreas and Becky- had been over for several hours now, the kids tucked into bed long ago. My head rung with drowsiness and liquor; the incessant talking of our wives resonated like rocks in a can. "6 am then?" Andreas asked across from me, sunk into our sofa. His long wirey legs bent akwardly, knees open with hands plopped between, clutching his tumbler anxiously. Raising my eyebrows I nodded. "Lets go Becky, we have an early morning, Micky and I. He'd called me Micky for years. It was affectionate, I understood, yet still hated the sound of it when itr rolled off his dutch tongue. Becky gestured to collect the dirty plates, yellow grease dribbled in long streaks against the white porcelean. "Oh Becky, please. Miguel and I will grab that. You two go now." My jaded, skeptical mind spoke: No one offers expecting to be taken up on it. She knew we'd excuse her anyways.
That night in bed, Marie in a semi-coma from exhaustion, I laid, mind on elusive Brook trout, Dolly Varden, Brown, Kokanie, Rainbow. These worked upstream against the current of my mind, just below lucid waters. Deeper, some layers beneath, a more elusive breed swam, the ones I really wanted to land, see, handle. My gut churned. Ive applied for so many jobs now, not one bite. Like fishing, finding a job was a matter of appropriate bait and skill linked with timing and location. This move was proving more difficult than I expected. There just werent any bites..."

Beneath the Locust Tree

...Making my way back to the path I continued forward. The sun now stood at a degree where it covered all the land unhindered. It warmed my face and back. Sweat formed on my neck and under my chin, biting when the wind would press its self upon the moisture. Entering back into the woods, now on the other side of the meadow, the forest changed dramatically. Mostly deciduous trees now, with white papery bark of birch and the moldy green rigid surface of locust trees, dripping dew from throny branches. Bony arms weaved together upwards creating a translucent tapestry with strata of yellow and lime green leaves. Long branches that outstretched from thin gnarly trunks bore beards of heavy dank moss, oddly shaped fungi in drab tawny, brick-red, and mauve clung to their woody waists. The stream bounced over fallen trees, zig-zagging in and out of open spaces, ebbing against clay walls, lapping at low hanging branches. This forest seemed more alive, an energy filled the air. My legs picked up naturally with the atmosphere, now in a jolly gait. The smell was fresh, like mint, and balmy on the skin. The path had widened now into a road. Grass grew in the middle, and on both sides, soppy dirt gave beneath my sneakers, squishing loudly.
A small hill rose before me, my mind on other things, on Jerry, his bubbling voice, the odd initials on the tree, that tire. What about that tire? What children swung on it? As I continued along, at once my body reacted to something. I stopped. All the muscles in my face cramped, my legs stiffened almost sending me full lam into the mud.

TAK…CHOCK…CHOCK…TAK…KACHUNK.

The noise berated my head, echoing, almost knocking me over. The sound came from just over the hill. I stood. Silent. My heart raced, my eyes watered and mouth drying fast.

CHOK…TAK….TAK…

I knew that sound. It pained me somehow. Chopping wood all day, all summer.

The Compelling Majesty of His Power

"The love of Christ compels us..." (2 Corinthians 5:14)

Paul said that he was overpowered, subdued, and held as in vise by "the love of Christ." Very few of us really know what it means to be held in the grip of the love of God. We tend so often to be controlled simply by our own experience. The one thing that gripped and held Paul, to the exclusion of everything else, was the love of God. "The love of Christ compels us..." When you hear that coming from the life of a man or woman it is unmistakable. You will know that the Spirit of God is completely unhindered in that person's life.
When we are born again by the Spirit of God, our testimony is based soley on what God has done for us, and rightly so. But that will change and be removed forever once you "receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you..." (Acts 1:8). Only then will you begin to realize what Jesus can do--that is basic and understood--but "witness to me..." We will accept everything that happens as if it were happening to Him, whether we receive praise or blame, persecution or reward. No one is able to take this stand for Jesus Christ who is not totally complelled by themajesty of His power. It is the only thing that matters, and yet it is strange that it's the last thing we as Christian workers realize. Paul said that he was gripped by the love of God and that is why he acted as he did. People could perceive hi as mad or sane--he did not care. There was only one thing he lived for--to persuade people of the coming judgment of God and to tell them of "the love of Christ." This total surrender to "the love of Christ" 'is the only thing that will bear fruit in your life. And it will always leave the mark of God's holiness and His power, never drawing attention to your personal holiness.
~Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest

I Naomi ask myself, is it the love of Christ that motivates my every action, my every thought, every word I speak to my husband, to my friends, to those I don't know, every breath I take, how I spend my time, my money?...am I so compelled by Christ's love for me and for humanity that I can't get enought of Him, that I am in His Word daily, that I speak of Jesus and His mighty deeds every chance I get? So much that my heart, like Jesus', breaks at the thought that my next door neighbor, or the man on the street corner begging for money or food may not know the peace of God and his love and forgiveness? Am I any different? No, I am not. Only that Jesus' righteousness is what covers my black heart of sin. The love of Christ compels me...Jesus may it be so.

And your ears shall hear a word behind you...

"...saying, 'This is the way, walk in it,' when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left."

Isaiah 30:21

"Who is wise and understanding among you? By his good conduct let him show his works in the meekness of wisdom. But if you have bitter jeaslousy and selfish-ambition in your hearts, do not boast and be false to the truth. This is not the wisdom that comes down from above, but is earthly, unspiritual demonic. For where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there will be disorder and every vile practice. But wisdowm from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy and good fruits, impartial and sincere. And a harvest of righteousness is sown in peace by those who make peace...Come now, you who say, 'today or tomorrow we will go into such and such a town and spend a year there and trade and make a profit' - yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. Instead you ought to say 'if the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that'. As it is, you boast in your arogance. All such boasting is evil."

James 3:13-18, 4:13-17.