A Perfect Time for a Perfect Storm

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been… too long since my last confession.

I confess I am envy and covet those whose lives seem freer than my own. I know they must have difficulties of their own, but outwardly, how do they do what they do? Why do I feel punished for doing what I believed at one time to be the right thing?

I confess that I have doubts; doubts in the paths I have chosen, and the paths Your will, through serendipity, have chosen for me. In this time of multiple crises, have mercy on me. I do not ask to be delivered from the folly of my own decisions or my failures to decide, only that you steel me with a resolve beyond what I have exhibited so far, at least to get through this month.

Why did I commit to doing this show? I’m sure it’ll work out, it’ll be a quality show, but it just comes at a time when I simply cannot commit the mental energies it deserves. My sons are only part of it, but coupled with a big to-do at work, and needing to move out of our home in the next two weeks… I thought I was doing the right thing.

I thought I was doing the right thing, agreeing to move into this new house, despite my reservations about it. The structural features I can amend, but it’s another few miles away from everything. A cul de sac with kids my own kids’ ages is wonderful, but what happens when these children reach their Age of Reckoning, when it will suddenly matter that we’re not one of them?

And what of these neighbors, which I gather to be rather fundamentalist in their path to seek You? I recently realized this is the same township that a few years ago essentially drove out a woman one might have termed “fallen” in another time and place. I am not perfect in tolerance, and so I’m afraid such intolerance will test it beyond what it can stand. You have sent me examples, and they have similarly endured, but you know I’m a coward, deathly afraid of having to stand up to popular opinion.

This is where I need your strength, to fight the urge to close myself off, and yet hold fast to the truths Jesus taught.

Another example to live by. And die by. It was at the hands of religious fanatics, seeped in their traditions and laws, that Jesus was humiliated and killed. This is scary, but perhaps scarier still is continuing to live in their midst.

I feel alone, more than ever. One, no, I don’t relate too deeply with a lot of people I’m in contact with, and moving out to points far out west isn’t helping. I rarely see anyone I do relate to, and now with this added distance… whomever I do see likely won’t find as many opportunities to visit.

Thank you, though, for the good time in San Francisco. I haven’t laughed that hard in so
long, it was almost embarrassing, I felt I had to apologize to Mickey and Amos for being, perhaps, that one houseguest that makes the neighbors say, "WTF?!” But it was good. The bon homme… the setting… the wine. Lord, how good it felt at the reception, knowing the proprietors of the restaurant weren’t going to lose their license because one of their patrons (me) imbibed perhaps three, maybe four (I quit counting when I walked through the door) more glasses of wine more than the recommended daily allowance.

And I admit the male ego didn’t suffer any when Mickey’s sister actually seemed… relieved? encouraged? (oh, just let me have my delusions!) when he revealed that I’m one of his straight friends.

It just felt right to be able to laugh out loud like I almost never seem to do, anymore. Laughter, like liquor here in Utah, sometimes seems regulated. It’s planned, rehearsed, and once in a while courteous when one is laughing with someone. Too much control, like everyone is afraid of getting caught in a natural state.

Anyway, Mickey asked me why I was living in Utah. I really didn’t have a good answer, just like I really don’t know why I’m making this move.

I really don’t know why I’m doing what I'm doing.