Dream Interpreter

There's this dream I have sometimes. The woods out behind the first house I ever lived in. I'm wandering through them, but not aimlessly. I know these woods; I'm making my way purposely through them, back to the house, the pond, the driveway. 

There I am now, learning to ride my bike. Dad is behind me. But that's a different memory.

I already know the truth about this dream: I don't know those woods very well. I stayed closer to the house in those early days. I'd come back to explore them in later years, a town-dweller back for a visit.

Maybe I dream about them because they are completely left to the imagination; there's no reality there. I don't know them at all.

___________________________

I miss that place, the country, land that my family called their own. Now,  someone else's name is on the deed - the old barn, the hay loft, the fields of pine trees.

Another dream I'm remembering now. I'm circling the garden; it's big. There are vegetables here, but I can't tell who tends them. There's no sign of Papa; I feel alone out here. Desolate. Haunted, even. But someone is keeping, tending this garden, I can see this.

Now, I'm in it, right there among the tomato vines. I know this place better than the woods but still, not enough. In the later years, I simply passed by, never to go inside. What kept me away? What did I miss?

Everything, I'm afraid.

When what should be, is not

He only sees in cracks, broken glass and fear

But he smiles at what should be.

Pulls out picture books of mountains, flowing rivers,

escapes for his troubled mind;

loves a thing until it breaks.

Shakes his head at what it should be.

Craves adventure - somewhere deep down, wants risk.

Yet risk is the one thing always avoided:

Fear of what could be.

60 years ago, this path was set for him,

set him to constant pleasing, relentless effort

and repeated rejection.

Things aren't what they should be.

He gave it all for this one thing,

this one thing, giving illusion of life to many things.

And here we are to see it all rise up,

this idol of fulfillment, ultimate satisfaction.

There's no one to reject him here on this mountain,

no one to steal and destroy.

But what matters has long been gone,

stolen before realized.

Things are not as they should be;

have mercy, Lord, when he finally arrives.

Life and Death

With every wedding I remember my vows;

with every death, my grief rises from the depths.

The skies were a piercing, but gentle blue. Every head bowed, every eye closed, but I needed to see, needed to watch this blue and let it strike me.

Their life began today, a new life together. Their eyes lost in each other's, hands holding tightly, their minds perhaps constructing, right then and there, the tower of their marriage, standing strong and tall above the rest. Unbreakable, it seems.

And we are powerfully drawn, called into this marriage whether we like it or not. Each story in these brown folding chairs has been woven together in each of their stories. Broken relationships, coffee dates, late night questions - life together.

Now, we're all responsible. By showing up here today, we give our blessing, proclaim our "amen". By hearing their vows, we make our own, vows to walk with them, carry their burdens, love them with grace and truth - and help them learn to love each other.

___________________________

He couldn't even lift his head. He didn't know I was there - or that he as himself was there, for that matter - but we stayed. Mom packed the bags while I posted up at the wheelchair, stroking his arm, his hair, keeping myself busy, really.

Two hours before the ceremony, we cried. And looked at each other. The nurses and assistants were loving, kind, understanding. They, too, stroked his cheek, wiped his eyes, bringing comfort in whatever ways they could.

He is dying.

Meet Brian Mulder

He's tall. He's bearded. He's Canadian by birth, Michigander by relocation. Loves people well, craves adventure, and rides a bike like nobody's business, particularly across the country (no, really).

Meet Brian Mulder.

In less than a week, various residents of the Malcomb House will make the 10-hour trek to Holland, Michigan, home to windmills, cool Dutch last names (like VanDenberg and VanWylen), and of course, Brian.

We met at Service Over Self (SOS) in the summer of 2005, becoming friends over music and heartbreak, sitting in the hallway on occasion, singing sad songs we'd written about ones who'd broken our hearts. Sob. 

We'd lead morning worship - me, Brian, and Matthew Clark - and the rest is history... friends for life. I love and respect Brian, a loyal friend and brother, compassionate and thoughtful about all things in life; he lives life deeply and fully.

In October 2009, Brian and Matthew set out on a month long house show tour. 'Twas good.

Not only is he a songwriter and musician, but once, not so long ago, he rode his bike a long, long way, for a good, good reason.

We'll be playing a house show in Holland on Saturday, December 8 at 8pm; if you're in the area, come on out! We'll play in-the-round, playing several originals from each of us - a taste of everything. For us it will be a joy to play on each other's songs, since we we don't see each other as often as we'd like.

We're still firming up details for the location, so check my website (www.abbyewestpates.com) regularly for updates. You can hear Matthew's music here and Brian's music here.

Brian... it's happening!

A Good Night

We sit in the living room, listening to Anna' favorite Over the Rhine song. Two candles. Homemade salsa. Lamps - never overheads. Housemates. Best friends. Pencil to paper. We're missing some, but they'll be home soon.

A meal of leftovers gives way to dark chocolate brownies and pistachio-almond ice cream. It's so dark already; autumn is here.

Still, we're listening, just listening. Deep chords from the piano. Smooth dobro. She met Jesus in New Orleans, the King in Memphis.

It's good. It's Sunday night.

Early Eve Thunderstorm

Danger. Risk,

in these flashes of

light.

Bellows of thunder.

Feel the tiny pelting

of water drops.

The bark, so far,

is bigger than the bite.

Shouldn't I be inside,

seeking refuge,

a safety?

But I would miss

the breeze,

the kind you know

can only be that

of the mighty storm.

Sticky, unpredictable,

wind blows as it wishes.

Evidence of something

unstoppable,

just over the horizon.

Danger, maybe, but I need

to feel,

to see,

for myself.

The life in the thunderstorm

makes even me come to life.

Autumn Garden

The Autumn garden has a different look. Lots of green tomatoes that began to appear at the end of summer; plentiful herbs that begged to be used; and scary men.

Enjoy.

newbie next to the more mature

chives, gone to seed

thai basil

scary yard man, Matthew Clark