“A Week of Years”

It’s been a week of years since I saw you last.

An eternity on some days, a mere blink on others. Two thousand five hundred fifty-seven days since your passing, seven years and a day since we said farewell, the needs of life pulling me away from your side one day too soon.

You weren’t perfect. You had your demons and your darkness like all men.

There were those years where not much passed between us, falsely secure that time wasn’t our foe.
But time kept slipping, slipping toward a future without you, without my dad.

Like you, I am far from perfect, and fall far short of the man you were.

But I love and miss you…

I wish I had stayed to see you cross the river.

The Falling Year

December 31st, we meet again.

For the artistic person, there is a continual need to create, whether song, story, canvas or bust. Whether you see the world through a camera or the lens of other giftings, nights like this one are made for final expression.

Some say that art is a viewpoint or commentary by the artist on the surrounding world. Others of a more spiritual leaning see art as a form of prophecy, seeing things unseen and how our “now” could or should be. Certainly the prophets of old possessed passion and truth expressed in a variety of creative ways.

Passion didn’t keep those prophets alive. Thankfully modern critics only act like they are out for blood. But I digress…

2016 has been an interesting one, to be sure. Here at the end, the tendency is to hang a label on the year soon to be was. I discovered my personal 2016 hashtag months and months earlier.

Welcome to “the Falling Year.”

This was a year of falling. I watched as music, once central to my very core, fell away to a more distant remove more by necessity than choice, with the needs of the many outweighing the needs of dreams.

For me, it felt like a falling year for faith. I saw the religious more concerned with temporal influence than spiritual, all set to a backbeat of hatred and vitriol. Sadly, this song seems hellbent on singing across the bar line well into the new year.

But this new year is coming soon, even as I do my one finger pecking. Soon these few words will be flung into the ether, and whether my entry is commentary or prophecy will soon be moot. I honestly think they are neither.

Sometimes the spark of creativity just wants to flicker if not burn.

Maybe I just wanted to look through my lens and see a world beyond the falling year.

HNY,

GV

“The Blue Metal Door”

The color blue is my favorite.

But there’s a door a shade of blue somewhere between the grey of today’s sky and the drained blue of a failed passion. Door 166 leads to a strange purgatory of sorts, a narrow and cold space between poor choices and the illusion of freedom.

I hate this door and this room and this non-color blue.

I would summon a prayer of thanks, but the lie would burn my throat.

A day will come where thanks will be a color somewhere between the clear sky and the deep blue sea, and the only hint of grey will be the clouds above the horizon.

How long, O Lord? How long…?

Sing Away, Gone

Today is December 1st. The holiday season is once more upon us, a time for prayers of peace and goodwill to all. Nights fall sooner, but the lights of Christmas shine all the more brightly. The aroma of trees and candles and delicious baked treats fill the air, and the sounds of favorite songs complete the sensory experience. “O Holy Night” has been a long time favorite of mine.

Since the age of thirteen, music has had me in thrall, with the past decade finding music at the center of most everything I did. Psalm 150:6 clearly states “let everything with breath, Praise the Lord.” Surely this admonition sings best during the season of Advent.

But times change. This past year I’ve seen music fall away from my day to day, with the very hope and desire and dream of music becoming as ephemeral as the stuff of dreams itself. Today begins a season for me that is the antithesis of joy and praise. The world has not ended and no lives have been lost…

Let me interrupt my own musings. I have no illusion as to who may or may not read these words I publish. In fact, there is a particular freedom in knowing that I speak aloud to no one.

I said ‘the world has not ended and no lives have been lost.’ But that’s not entirely true. Much of who I have been my entire life is gone. I have no idea when or if the things that made me who I was will ever return. It is a stranger that types these words and stares back at me from the mirror.

Sorry for dramatic words, but no one has forced you to read them. The pain of loss and failure is real, folks.

Some will chastise, saying that as Christians we should find joy and hope in every circumstance. That may be true. Faith still burns inside, but it’s a small flame that flickers and sputters against these cold winds. I truly think it is a disservice to the faith we profess not to let our hearts ring true, whether in times of triumph and joy, or loss and grief.

So how, during days of loss, do I praise the Lord?

Christ promised that those who grieve and mourn will find comfort and peace. So, for me to grieve and mourn and bear witness to His promise is through song.

So how to proclaim when music recedes into the distance?

I lament…

Lord, let these days run by
And hurry to the end
I’ve had my fill of daylight
Time for darkness to descend
It’s a longing to be over
Like a race run too long
And grace sits blind and helpless
As law condemns the wrong

Sing away
Sing away, gone
Sing away
But don’t sing too long

“Less”

It is a hard and terrible thing to be misunderstood, and harder still to lack the skill and courage to make your true self known.

Sad to gain this insight after all the years, now feeling helpless and clueless and utterly less.

So what to do when the fire is all but extinguished and there are no more stories and melody and rhyme?

The world turns
The heart still yearns
For the love we are unlearning

Cameron’s Start

The day has finally come. Even as I type these words, you have arrived at Independence High School for your final instructions. In a couple of hours, you’ll make the long walk, shake a hand or three, and receive your diploma. Tassels will move and caps thrown toward the sky. We’ll be cheering and crying with love and pride for you.

And then it’ll be over. You’ll have graduated to the next level, taken a step into what life holds for you. It will be time to commence.

You’ll hear much today about life and plans and goals and dreams. Some of it will be cliche but a nugget or two will stick with you. All of it is good.

All I have to say is you’ve planned and prepared and now it’s just more doing until the next phase or level or whatever you want to call it. That’s just life.

Plans can change. Dreams can be attained or not. Much will happen after your cap falls from the sky and comes down to earth.

Remember to trust your heart.

I love you. I’m proud of you. Life is waiting for you.

Dad

A Day Will Come…?

Remembering lost words…

“A Day Will Come…?”

It has been weeks or years
Since last I held music in my arms
Cradling the wood against me
Feeling the bite of steel in flesh
Caressed by a minor key
And lost in the magic of tone and rhythm
The tools of my trade are locked away
Safe in the prison of their cases
Free from broken chords
And halting melodies of despair or hope
Will a day come when I reopen the book of spells
Trying to remember lost chords
So now the rocks must cry out
And sing the songs of gladness

“Cold Today”

It’s cold outside today.

An overriding grey hugs the tree line and neutralizes the sun and shadows.
It’s not a crisp and invigorating cold;
It’s a bitter and numbing iciness that leaves a hollow in your bones and turns your heart lonely.

Fire doesn’t seem to get past your skin in this kind of cold.
It’s enough to make the lost want to be found…
Even if just to feel warmth again
Even just the memory of it.