carbonated joy

All the Feels…

This weekend I experienced every possible flavor of feeling.

I felt pain…

Once friendly body parts became strangers this weekend…

My tongue began to feel like a scratchy, ill fitting accessory, like a second hand wool sock. 

My hands became cold and clunky, and they ached. It felt like I was constantly wearing HULK hands that were lined with thumbtacks. 

I felt manly…kinda…

I lost my weird beard a while back, but I’m happy to report that I still have the thirteen scraggly chest hairs that I’ve had most of my adult life. They are hanging in there. 

I felt humbled and hopeful…

I cried warm tears of gratitude as I realized that God is using my crazy story to bring hope and joy to others. What a privilege! 

I felt sorrow…

I cried hot tears of grief as I realized that some dear young friends have suffered an unimaginable loss this weekend. I pray that they would feel unexplainable comfort. 

I felt pure joy…

I got to spend quite a bit of time with my granddaughter, the Moonpie, this weekend. She makes my heart smile, even in the middle of all the other feelings. When I watch her giggle and try new things, I feel fresh wonder. When I try to keep up with her as she stomps around the room, I feel old, yet brand new at the same time. 

I feel grace…

Raw, ridiculous grace. 

It covers and carries me through all of the feelings. 

Grace brings beauty from the ashes, 

but first things have to burn.

And sometimes, that stings.

I feel it. 

All the feels…

Art has been my therapy for a awhile.

I’ve been drawing silly pictures for as long as I can remember.

Ever since I could hold a purple crayon in my chunky fist, I have found solace in scribbling.

The answer for bad days, bullies, and broken hearts has always been to sit down, take a breath and draw a cartoon.

But, a particularly nasty chemo drug that I can’t pronounce has made my fingers wonky and wiggly.
So, right now I can’t draw.
That’s really not cool.

I need some medicinal creativity.
I need songs, images and stories to soothe me.

Art is therapy.
And, sometimes when you can’t make your own craft you can borrow art from others.
It can still be completely therapeutic.
Sometimes, you are healed by art on loan.
Maybe it’s the music or musings of a total stranger, or even, someone who has been dead for decades.

But, sometimes you are embraced by the art of a friend.
That is such a cool and beautiful privilege.

Tonight, We took a little excursion out into the land of the living to a funky little theatre.

I got to go hear some amazing art from some friends and it washed over me like healing waters.
I was incredibly privileged to witness three friends, who I have watched grow from teenage humans with big dreams into fully functional adult artisans.
It’s so ridiculously sweet to witness friends grow into their art and find their voice.
Tonight their voices spoke to me.
It whispered hope, freedom, and fun.

I met all three of them nine years ago this month when we moved to Charlotte.

The first was Cameron “Cheesecake” Floyd, I haven’t heard Cameron for a few years and he has grown so much as an artist. He strapped on a guitar and sung some beautiful original songs. He did an incredible job. His songs were playful and profound (you can be both…at the same time!) He has fantastic stage presence.

The second friend is Ivory Layne. Once upon a time, she was the musical director of our little middle school tribe. Now, she is a phenomenal songwriter, musician, and performer. She makes art that is so completely unique that it defies labels or limits. She hit the stage with her fancy band and made the kind of music that really needs to be shared with the whole world. It is bouncy and honest. It is life giving and you can dance to it!

The third friend was Madalyn Rhyne, who is a master at management, and yes, friends, that IS an art!
She takes care of business for her sister, Ivory. Nine years ago, Madalyn was one of our awesome small group leaders. Today, she crafts moments, she orchestrates events, and she does it with a smile.

I would like to publicly thank the three of them for speaking to me tonight.

I’m so proud of Y’ALL.
I appreciate your art.
It is medicine.

Art is therapy.
If you find that you can’t make it, borrow it!

Stare at a painting by Picasso.
Listen to a Beatles album.
Read some poetry by Maya Angelou.
Notice someone who is turning mundane into masterpiece because they do it with passion.

Let it speak to you.

I find myself the grateful beneficiary of the choices of others. 

It’s been like that all my life.

My parents, teachers, heroes, and friends.

They all made choices that built me. 

and so…

I find myself the grateful beneficiary of the choices of others.

This really dawned on me the other morning…

Once upon a time in Ohio, a young man decided to become a doctor and to study Oncology.

I presently find myself the unbelievably grateful beneficiary of that decision.

I asked my Doctor about that this week, as I sat in an exam room on a bench with crinkly paper. 

I wanted to know the story behind the decision that now is part of my story.

He sat down and told me and Diana a beautiful real story of hope and a choice to be a helper.

I needed to know. 

My question was simple, How did your story become part of mine?

I’m so very thankful for his choice and for his story. 

Whether we realize it or not, we are all beneficiaries of the choices of others.

AND…

Others can be the beneficiaries of our choices.

That is the way that life is supposed to work. 

Our stories are meant to intersect and become part of a bigger story. 

We are shaped by the stories of others.

Sometimes we are saved by the stories of others. 

There are no solo stories. Even the Lone Ranger had Tonto. 

The longer we live the wider our story becomes, not because of our achievement or attributes, but because we become absorbed into the stories of others. 

Our choices help script the stories of others, and their choices script ours. 

Story also means that the loved ones who we have lost are never really lost.

The parents, teachers, heroes, and friends. 

We carry their stories. 

We continue their stories. 

I find myself the grateful beneficiary of the story of another man.

I’m so very thankful. 

I remember the first (and only) time that I tried to use nunchucks. 

Nunchucks are a traditional martial arts weapon consisting of two sticks connected at one end by a short chain or rope. My best friend and next door neighbor had gotten some at the State Fair. Me, him and some other friends gathered in his barn to try them out. 

We were twelve year olds who had seen one Bruce Lee movie, we figured that made us experts. 

What could go wrong?

A few of the other guys went first. They unleashed some impressive moves. One guy totally dismembered a bail of hay…it was brutal. 

Then…

it…

was…

my turn. 

I enthusiastically grabbed the sticks and tried to make a celebratory manly grunt that sounded more like a basketball deflating.

It was an unparalleled exhibition of adolescent awkwardness resulting from a complete lack of coordination and training. 

It started out promising because I had paid attention to the Bruce Lee movie and I assumed the intimidating pre-fight pose. I had a scowl on my face that clearly communicated that I meant business.

Then I started moving…

That is when things went horribly wrong.

I was wildly swinging the wooden nunchucks around, I pounded myself in the face and pinged myself in the nether regions. I was very successfully beating the crap out of myself. 

I couldn’t stop because my buddies were watching.

THEN, I couldn’t stop because of the momentum of the out of control weapon in my hand. 

My gracious friends averted their eyes and acted like they didn’t notice the carnage.

FINALLY the martial madness stopped and I dropped the nunchucks.

It was a knockout. 

By the end, I had little purple bruises all over my head and body. It looked like I had been punched repeatedly in the face by small children with tiny fists. 

That was fun to explain to my Dad. 

Last night was rough, it kinda felt like I was laying in bed using nunchucks for the first time.

There were lots of random aches and pains, my arms, legs, and nether regions were taking an invisible beating. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise, I have a war going on inside of me. The life giving poison is pounding and pinging the belly bully. 

This is not an exhibition.

This is real life. 

We are dealing with the repercussions of Round two. This round is different than the last, my body is a little more tired.

I feel pretty punch drunk.

And while the battle raged last night, my throat was raw and everything tasted like I’d been sucking on a rag used to clean ashtrays at a midwestern bus stop. That was a super pleasant bonus! 

Here’s the thing I’ve learned about night fights…

Morning always comes.

You get to drop the nunchucks and walk away, probably with some weird bruises.

You walk away wiser, stronger, more aware. 

I’m waiting for the knockout…

The final knockout when the belly bully is beaten into oblivion and the bell rings. 

It’s coming!

It’s the weekend after round two and I’m feeling musical.