Secrets

He nearly called you again last night. Can you imagine that, after all this time? He can. He imagines calling you or running into you by chance. Depending on the weather, he imagines you in one of those cotton dresses of yours with the baby-doll sleeves and little flowers on it; or in faded blue jeans and a thick woolen button-up cardigan over a long sleeved t-shirt, drinking chai from a mug, looking through your tortoiseshell glasses at a book of poetry while it rains. He thinks of you with your hair tied back and that characteristic sweet scent on your neck. He imagines you this way when he is on the road, in the grocery store, at his parents' house, at night, alone, and not so alone.

He is wrong, though. You didn't read poetry at all. He had wanted you to read poetry, but you didn't. If pressed, he confesses to an imprecise recollection of what it was you read and, anyway, it wasn't your reading that started this. It was the laughter, the carefree laughter, the three-dimensional Coca-Cola advertisement that you were; the try-anything-once friends, the imperviousness to all that came before you, the chain telephone calls, the in-jokes, the instant music, the sunlight you carried with you, the way he felt when you spoke to his parents, the introductory undergraduate courses, the inevitability of your success, the beach houses, the white lace underwear, the good-graced acceptance of part-time shift work, the apparent absence of expectations, the ever-changing disposable cults of the rural, the family, the eastern, the classical, the modern, the postmodern, the impoverished, the sleekly deregulated, the orgasm, the feminine, the feminist, and then the way you canceled with the air of one making a salad.

You would love the way he sees you. He uses you as a weapon against himself and not merely because you did. He sits in his car at traffic lights on his way out sometimes and tries to estimate how many times he has sat here, waiting at these traffic lights on his way somewhere without you, hoping to meet someone with the capacity to consign you to an anecdote, to be eventually confused with others. He thinks of you when the woman lying next to him thinks he's asleep. It would not surprise you that there are many women. Do you remember you thought him beautiful? You never told him. Or maybe you did. He would’ve taken the liberty of assuming it even if you hadn’t. He was beautiful and is now, some time later, even more so. The times have refined him so that once-boyish good looks have evolved into a clean, smooth charm. Not always though. First thing in the morning or after he's been drinking, the charm disappears. The drinking is not really the problem at the moment though, not right now. Of late it has been no more of a problem with him than it is with your new boyfriend, which is to say, of late the quantity itself is no cause for alarm. But there is a secret need in both men to have their inhibitors inhibited. And don’t be alarmed, this is merely the tip of an older and more fundamental iceberg.

The situation is becoming more and more clear with time. Hindsight is 20/20, but thinking about it makes you laugh at the realness of your own immaturity and how true it is that you don’t grow up until after the fact. The most crucial question is this: “Did I learn something valuable enough to call this a worthwhile experience?”. Making bad choices and growing from them unto wisdom is something totally different than simply making bad choices for a living. 

He has always been good at making bad choices. He grew up watching his parents do it, his older siblings too, and now he carries on the family line of poor decisions and a lack of responsibility for them. You, on the other hand, were raised a little differently. At least you like to think so. Sometimes you make poor choices but you were taught to ‘fess up to your folly and stand the brisk winds that follow. Sometimes you imagine that you feel like he does. Nevertheless, disregard fleeting feeling and you are completely different. He decided his fate long ago. Meanwhile, you stand at a cross road which demands the firm selection of a route. You can wallow and fall into the bleak embrace of those who readily welcome you as a drowning buddy; or you can choose to believe that there is a better, more fulfilling journey, where the only sacrifice is your flesh.

Do you know the simplicity of choice but the frayed feeling you can get when you feel the consequences? Do you believe that everything is married to a purpose? Do you believe that there is a destiny for you that is bigger than you and therefore includes and requires much more than all you are? You should. Because it believes in you.

Imagine being known and loved for exactly who you are. Imagine a world where people saw truth as opposed to what their dehydrated, half starved eyes choose to see. There would be a lot of culture shock, a moment of panic however brief or long, and then a reality of freedom that makes sense. God is funny like that. There is this guy who dwells in unapproachable light; that is the breath of life in everything, and everything that exists is upheld by a single word He speaks. This is the same God who looks at you longingly, those eyes of passion scour your frame and even from a distance, He knows your every curve. He knows the soft scent of your hair, how your eyes light up when you see a park that has swings, or how your brow furrows when you’re concentrating hard. He knows what makes you laugh, what makes you cry, what moves your heart, what makes you fly off the handle in rage, or what makes you green with envy. He knows all the things you hate about yourself and loves each one, like a mother’s thoughtful fingers treasure the dusty old photos in the attic that provide physical evidence of memories that are as fresh to her as the hot tea resting in her lap. He sees the deepest resevoirs of your soul and relates in every aspect. He is most vulnerable with you, and though you may not know it consciously, you are most vulnerable with Him. All He sees is naked truth. The only way that you are perceived is in the light of a transcendent glory who is fascinated by the mirrored beauty He placed within you.

This is why you must know that you are worth something. Not just something. Everything. There is a reality outside of societal reality. There is truth outside of perception. Do you have the audacity to revive the broken seed of hope by paying attention to it?

There are enough rich words within this passage to brew a pot of bold coffee that warms your insides and sparks your imagination. But still, I hope you walk away with more than warm fuzzies and fanciful contemplation. I hope that my weak words give your heart the chance to come alive, to grasp onto the reality of truth and of love that gives you a purpose far greater than you could ever fully comprehend.

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