Billy Coffey's Blog, page 44

Billy Coffey versus the vending machine

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Of course anyone with a modicum of junk food knowledge understands that Snickers is the best candy bar. Of that there can be no argument. And when one's day has been so busy at work that any chance of a proper lunch break is thrown out the window, the vending machine in the next building becomes a kind of promised land, one that flows not with milk and honey, but chocolate and nougat.

Getting there from here, which is a rather modern-looking building on the northern end of a college campus, isn't as easy as it sounds. Because as I said, I was busy. And more than that, I was hungry. I'd been up against it since seven o'clock, and my watch told me that it was a little after two-thirty. My head hurt. My skin felt as though it were beginning to crawl and feed upon itself. My stomach was somersaulting. My insides sounded like a raving pack of hyenas.

I needed a Snickers bar. Bad. In fact, it was quickly becoming apparent that I needed a Snickers bar or I was going to kill someone.

Thankfully, the hectic nature of my day relaxed enough to offer me just enough time to walk to the next building, get what amounted to my breakfast, and get back. I managed to scrounge up just enough change for the machine, not a penny more. I threw on my coat and hat and trudged through a twenty-degree wind chill that seemingly wanted nothing more than to turn me right back around to where I came from. By the time I neared the next building I was literally punching at the breeze in an attempt to fend it off.

I was HUNGRY, people.

The vending machine was on the third story of a building constructed just after the Civil War. No elevators. By the time I reached the third floor landing, I felt as though I'd just summited Everest.

And after all of that, all that work and all that hunger, I fished my seventy-five cents into the slot, chose C2 for my Snickers bar, and watched as the metal spool slowly drew that chocolately goodness toward me only to get hung up on the end.

I watched it as it dangled there, mocking me from the other side of a half-inch piece of Plexiglass, the bar turned sideways so that the S on the package curled into a cruel, sinister grin.

I've told you all of that in the hopes that what I say next will not alter your opinion of me, if indeed it is favorable.

Because I beat the holy snot out of that machine.

Oh yes I did. I rocked it, punched it, kicked it, tilted it, even head butted it. And in the process I came to realize that I was not doing so just because I was hungry (which was a good thing, seeing as how afterward my Snickers was still dangling from the metal spool on the end of C2) or even because I was mad.

No, I was physically assaulting an innocent metal box because I DESERVED that candy bar.

I didn't get my Snickers that day. In fact, I drove home two hours later convinced that someone would find me alongside the road barbequing some innocent dairy farmer's heifer.

It was tough, I tell you. But even tougher than that hunger was the knowledge that I'd done everything right. I'd put the right amount of money in that vending machine, chosen the right letter, picked the right number. I'd followed all the rules.

When you do the right thing and follow all the rules, you shouldn't find your reward dangling on the other side of a piece of hardened plastic. You're supposed to get your reward in hand and embrace the sublime satisfaction of enjoying it. Because that's right. Because that's what's supposed to happen.

And I wonder now as I wondered then about all the others who'd had to learn that same lesson. About the ones who spent their lives working only to have their jobs snatched away or the ones who prayed and had those prayers go unanswered. I wondered about all the love that was given but not given back and all the hope that was lifted up only to come tumbling down.

We're all hungry for something, that's true. But our hunger isn't what defines it. Our hunger doesn't make us who we are.

No, who we are is what we choose to be when that something we hunger for tarries.

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A letter to my daughter

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Dear Babygirl,

I'm looking at the clock on the wall now (you know that clock, the one with the angels you say are like the ones that watch over you), and it says it's almost 1:00. Almost 1:00 on January 18. I know the date means a lot to you—birthdays are like that—but it's the time that I'm holding onto now. Because as I see it, for the next twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds, you'll still be nine years old. When 1:05 rolls around, you'll be ten.

Ten.

Honestly, that's hard for me to wrap my head around. It's a big deal, turning double digits. In the words of your grandfather, you're "Gettin up there." True. But I think you've been gettin up there for a while now, and it just takes days like this for me to really see it. To really see the person you're becoming.

I'll admit it isn't easy, watching you grow. There are times when I want to put my hand atop your head and push down as hard as I can in the hopes you'll stay small forever. Sometimes I think it would be better that way. Sometimes I think that you'd do well to never have to grow up and see this world for what it truly is, that it would be best if you continued to think everyone always got along and everything always turned out right. But I know that can't happen. We're all meant for greater things, you especially, and that means having to go through a little bit of the darkness on the way to the light. No worries there, though. But I'll get to that.

I figure since you're double digits and all, I can maybe say some things you have thus far in your life not been privy to. I remember I was about your age when I realized my father wasn't a super hero. He wasn't really the smartest man in the world, or the strongest, or even the toughest. He was just a man. That's a hard thing for ten-year-old to accept. Harder for me, because I had to find all that out on my own. But since being a parent is all about turning your own mistakes around so that your kids won't have to stumble into those same holes, I'm going to help you out with that. Call it an extra present, one that will go well with the notebooks and pens and books you unwrapped this morning before school.

Ten years ago tomorrow, your mother and I brought you home for the first time. And though you don't know this—and maybe could never believe it—I was scared to death. I didn't know how to be a father. I'd asked around plenty—asked both your grandfathers, asked friends, strangers, preachers, anyone—but usually the only bit of advice I received was a wry smile and something along the lines of, "Don't worry about it. You'll know what to do."

I didn't know what to do.

Which was how I found myself awake all night, creeping over to your bassinet to prod and poke your little body just to make sure you were still breathing.

I've gotten a little better over the years, but you know what? I'm still scared. Scared every day. I don't think that's a bad thing (I think a lot of kids would be better off if their parents were a little more afraid for them), but it's something you need to know. Because I'm not a super hero, either. I'm just a man.

But I'm a man who loves you. And I dare say no other man in the world could ever love you more.

You remember that. Keep it close. Guard it. Because the world is coming, and the world's the kind of thing that will let you stroke it until it purrs and then turn and bite you for no reason. It takes faith to get by in this life, faith and hope and love. You have all of those things. I'll make sure you always do, just like I'll always make sure the monsters aren't under your bed and the ghosts aren't in your closet.

Because that's what good fathers do.

Happy birthday.

Love,

Daddy

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The boldness of youth

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Kid down the road got a new skateboard for Christmas, a bright red one with orange flames, white wheels, and tiny metal blocks underneath that spark when scraped against the pavement. He's been riding around the neighborhood on it every day since. Doesn't matter how cold it is or if the mountains have driven down black, snow-laced clouds. He'll still ride by. Every day after school, and most every day during the weekend.

Of course the skateboard hasn't faired well in the process. The red has now begun to fade, and the orange flames are now a dull ochre. The metal blocks will still spark—I can see them doing so in the early evenings as he rides by—but now they come more as puffs of light than showers of fire. I suppose this is by design. I've heard stakeboarders abhor the new and shiny. The used and scuffed is much more appealing.

I'll watch him. I'll even go so far as to say that once I see him pass my living room window once, I'll pause at that window until he rides by again. It's the way he does it, you see. The way he rides.

He's not flashy. I'm not sure if this is his first board, though I'm inclined to believe it is. He's of the age when the world widens at the seams and expands beyond his home and his block. He can ride now. He can explore. He can race down the slight incline of the hill and feel the wind in his face. It is freedom, and it is good.

It's too bad that one of these days he'll likely get clobbered by a passing vehicle. Again, it's the way he rides—in the middle of the street, through stop signs, jumping curbs, like a miniature Evel Knievel. I don't want you to believe I watch him out of some admiration, some envy. No, I watch him because I'm scared to death for him.

Also, because I used to be him.

Call it a boy thing, though I'm sure girls aren't immune. They play and romp and do all manner of reckless things, all seemingly without care or thought of consequence, all because they are convinced of their immortality. Nothing will happen to them. Nothing can. Because they're going to live forever.

That was me.

I once jumped off the roof of the house with an umbrella, thinking it would make a cool parachute. It didn't work. Once I caught the breath that had been knocked out of me by the hard ground, I tried it again.

I once rappelled down a two-story set of stairs using a jump rope attached to a combination lock.

And there was the time when after watching a re-run of Happy Days, I tried jumping over four empty garbage cans on my bike. I managed one and a half.

Why did I do these things? Stupidity is the first thing that comes to mind (I had, and have, that in abundance). But the truth is that I honestly thought nothing could go wrong. Nothing bad would ever happen.

Now I'm older. Now I'm a husband and a father. Now I know the bad things that can and do happen, often without the slightest provocation, and often through no fault of my own. I think as we get older the glow in the world begins to fade and light because dusk. I think we begin to see shadows, that lurking What If. And I think we ponder the worst that can happen so much that the best that can happen goes ignored.

I think sometimes we worry so much about the traffic that we don't allow ourselves to feel the wind in our face and know the freedom to simply be.

Age robs us of more than just our strength and our innocence. It also demands our boldness. If anything, that's something I'd like to reclaim. I'd like to recapture that sense of immortality, even if it is a false one.

I know this: in a few short minutes I expect to see a young boy fly by on his skateboard, and when he does I will instinctively look for an approaching car. But I will also root him on, and I will see the wind in his face.

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Needs, wants and pretty blue pens

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I'm guest posting over at Rachelle Gardner's site today. You can get there from here by clicking here.

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A world worth saving

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Piney Mills may sound like a good enough place to live—one of those neighborhoods that offer a mixture of Cape Cods and ranches and the occasional bricked manor home, all with the stars and bars hanging from a pole, each with mats at the front door that say WELCOME. But it's not like that at all. Piney Mills is instead a sprawling trailer court just outside of town that borders an expanse of national forest that is largely untrodden save for moonshiners, meth dealers, and love-struck teenagers in search of somewhere private to do some heavy petting.

In other words, every town has that one place where you don't go unless you absolutely have to. For my town, Piney Mills is that one place.

It was a favor for a friend that took me there a couple weeks ago. He had a sofa that needed to be moved, I had the truck to move it. It was a minor errand that would take no more than an hour, but I still dreaded the trip. Piney Mills is an underbelly. When you go there, it's best to prepare yourself for the things you'll likely see—the poverty, the want, the neglect, yes. But mostly it's the crass, profane attitudes the people there have adopted, either because of the sorry states of their lives or their bleak prospects of their futures.

I wasn't disappointed in that regard. The decayed (and bullet-ridden, I might add) wooden PINEY MILLS sign at the entrance was guarded by a boy no older than six. He was dressed in jeans that were a size too short and a stained sweatshirt that read AUSTIN 3:16 SAYS I JUST KICKED YOUR ASS that was at least three sizes too big. As I pulled from pavement to gravel, he looked at me and offered a tiny middle finger.

I wound my way along the park's main avenue. Trailers in various states of disrepair offered clues as to what the inhabitants considered important and not. I saw a bevy of duct-taped windows, porches littered with empty beer cases, and pristine satellite dishes clinging to sagging roofs. What few people that mingled about in the cold stared through dead eyes with a mix of resignation and distrust.

The guilt I felt wasn't because my life had been offered more, but that I had to go to a place like that to be reminded of it.

The sofa in question was colored in a microfiber lime green and seemed to weigh as much as the truck that would transport it. My friend and I managed to hook it out of the narrow doorway and into the bed without causing further damage to either. He offered me coffee that I eagerly accepted. We spent the next half hour talking on his front stoop.

There is a rhythm to every place, even a place like Piney Mills. As the minutes wore on and the talk drifted from Christmas to work, the neighborhood awoke to a point where I was tolerated if not accepted. A woman across the street came outside long enough to wave and ask if we needed further help with the sofa. The man in the trailer beside us walked out to fetch his morning paper. He wore a threadbare purple bathrobe and nothing more. That didn't stop him from noticing the errant newspaper that straddled the boundary between his trailer and the next, which he promptly delivered to an expectant and thankful elderly woman next door. Children appeared to play football in the street. For a while, even in that sad place, there was the sound of laughter and fun.

I realized then that I'd been missing something besides that appreciation for my life's bounty. It was an important lesson, one I think is worth sharing here. It is simply that there is still joy in this world, still beauty. Still good. We might believe those things to be sparse and that might be true, but I don't think so. Even in Piney Mills, that place the local police know well, you can find glimpses of our better selves. You can be reminded that while we are all fallen, dirty, incorrigible people, we are also capable of good and laughter.

I'm going to remember that the next time I turn on the television or pick up a newspaper. I'm going to hang on to that notion the next time my eyes are drawn heavenward and I'm tempted to say Come now, just come on and put an end to all this mess.

Because this world is still worth saving. It's still worth our faith. It's still worth living in.

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On settling and being settled

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The thing about Troy Heatwole is that he's settled. He'll be the first to tell you that. Not outright, mind you. Troy never says anything outright and never has. He prefers instead to take the long way around to the point he's trying to make. So instead of simply saying, "I'm settled," he'll say something like, "I ain't as young as I used to be an' I ain't as smart, but the world's quiet."

And really, who doesn't long for a quiet world?

Not that life doesn't pose any challenges. Troy's like all of us in that he has bills to pay and ends to meet. That's not what I'm talking about when I say he's settled. What I'm talking about is that Troy not only knows his place in the world, he's accepted it with all the happiness and peace one could ask. There is no striving in him, no longing, no unmet expectations. Just a nice, peaceful quiet.

I say this because I want to say that I envy Troy Heatwole. Not so much for what he possesses (which isn't much aside from a small cabin in the woods, a battered Ford truck, and a coon dog named Bo), but for what he has. There's a difference between those things. What you possess can be taken from you. What you have can't. And Troy possesses a settled life. I do not.

But that's not really what I'm getting at, either. I suppose I'm taking a page out of Troy's book—I'm taking the long way around to the point I'm trying to make. How else could I bring myself to admit that I'm envious of a man whose life, settled or not and quiet or not, revolves around cleaning and draining septic tanks?

Oh yes, that's right. Troy's the septic man.

It isn't that he loves his job. He does, however, find a purpose in it. Because just as Troy once told me that "Even the Lawd woulda had trouble lovin to do what I do," he also said that, "Dis here world's fulla crap, an' somebody's gotta clean it all up." Wise words, those. Kind of makes you think.

I pass Troy on the road often. Our workdays tend to end around the same time and converge at a stoplight just outside of town. He usually gets the green while I'm stuck at the red. He blows by in his big pumper truck, windows down and long stringy hair waving in the breeze. And smiling, always smiling, because Troy has a quiet life and he's settled.

Me, I'm not.

That's not a big deal, I guess, assuming you're not closing in on 40 and you don't have a family and a mortgage. All of which describes me. If I'm ever going to be settled, this should be the time when I should get started. But I can't. Even though I've been blessed with much, I can't escape the feeling there's more out there I should be shooting for. There are other lands to travel and other things to do and other Me's to be. I want to settle and yet I feel I shouldn't settle for less than I should.

That, in a nutshell, is why I'm envious of Troy the septic man. He has no need to ponder such things. He's found his life. He doesn't have to wander anymore.

But there are times when he passes me at the stoplight after a long day and I see his hair waving and his face smiling and I think differently. I think that maybe I have it all backwards. Maybe we should all be craving to be a little more than what we are. Maybe we should all be wanting to grow a little more each day.

Deep down we all want to be settled, but that may be more a trap than a treasure.

Maybe only as far as we're unsettled is there any hope for us.

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New Years with the Devil

He came to me on New Years Eve as I stood outside gazing up at the stars—not so much a person (and not so much a light, as the Book says he can appear), but as a shadow in my own thoughts. He stood with me there beneath the moon and Venus and Orion, saying nothing at first, letting me speak because he can do no damage unless invited first.

"What are you doing here?" I asked him.

And he answered that he was roaming throughout the earth, going back and forth on it.

"You still do that?"

Oh yes, he answered, oh yes indeed, I have done so for ages and will for ages more. Nothing gives me greater pleasure.

"Not many people believe in you anymore," I told him. "You know that, right?"

He was well aware of that. In fact, he surprised me by saying that was what he wanted. It made things easier, he said, when it came to his work.

"Guess this is a pretty rough time of the year for you, huh?" I smiled as I said that, not because it was funny but because it was true. "You must hate Christmas more than the ACLU."

True, he said. Christmas and Easter were not his favorite things. And he confessed that it was not so much the joy and peace that bothered him as it was the hope. He said he hated hope most of all. But tonight was New Years, and there was no better time for him.

"Why's that?"

Really? he asked, and in my mind I saw him shake his head in wonder. You really don't know? Why, think about it. How many people this moment are huddled together in bars and at parties with drinks in their hands? How many right now are making their resolutions (he told me he loved resolutions almost as much as our nonbelief) and promising themselves they will do better this time around? As if things could change so easily just with the turning of the calendar!

He chuckled then, and there was a chill in his laugh that even the December wind could not match.

How many people out there want nothing more than to put this year behind them? he asked me. How many want to drink those memories away? And how many think this next year will be everything this year wasn't? I'll change, they say. I'll do better. But in the end it never works, and do you know why?

"Why?"

Because change hurts. Because change won't come until it hurts more to stay the same than it does to become something different. And that's where I win. People will endure a plain life even if they want something more, because a plain life is a painless one.

He said something else to me then. It was soft and swallowed by the wind, but I think he said that he will always win so long as we believe we are ordinary. I'm almost positive that's what he said.

He left me then under the stars. Midnight came and went, bringing with it another year—365 days that promise the same hope and fear and longing that every year before it has held.

I hope he doesn't come back, even though I know he will. He comes to us all sooner or later, whether we believe in him or not.

This I know: the hope I long for and the change I want in myself won't come as easy as the turning of a calendar page. It will be hard for me. For you, too. It will often hurt and sometimes seem impossible. But I think that's how it should be.

None of us should want a plain life.

Because none of us are ordinary.

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Down time

The decorations are still up, but the big day we've all been shopping and preparing for has come and gone. My son has amassed a Lego collection that just might rival Lego Land, and my daughter has enough books to last most kids her age until at least early summer. She'll probably have them read by Valentine's Day.

Gifts have been given and received, festive meals prepared and enjoyed.

Now what?

Now I'm planning to take advantage of a gift which has become increasingly rare for me–down time. Time to spend building Lego fortresses and holding impromptu book club discussions, but mostly just time to be enjoyed with my family.

I'll be back with you all next week. Until then, I hope you all had a blessed Christmas. See you soon.

Best,

Billy

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Dear Santa

A few days ago, the local newspaper dedicated a few of their pages to children's letters to Santa. It's been a tradition with the News-Leader ever since I can remember, and I applaud them for it. Not only are the letters informative and at times very touching, they also bring back a little nostalgia. I was six when my letter to Santa appeared in the newspaper. I knew then I wanted to be a writer when I grew up.

If you look at these letters every year, and I do, you realize some things. First, toys have changed over the years. Footballs and baseball gloves have been replaced by i-Pods and Playstations. Things are a lot more electronic now. Still, there are presents that defy time and reach across generations. I was happy to see that both doll babies and Legos were still in high demand.

But though the toys have changed, the children haven't. Say what you want about test scores being lower than they were twenty years ago or kids being more lethargic than they once were. Kids are still kids, and always will be. This is a good thing.

And you realize this, too: these letters to Santa could well be prayers to God. They are full of longings and wishes, pleas and hope, all directed to someone they know can help them. And the sorts of things these kids ask for aren't really all that different than mine.

Things like faith in the midst of doubt. Take Jackson, for instance:

"Are you real, Santa? Or are you a phony? People say you are, some say not. I don't know if you are, but when I'm older I'm going to find out…I hope your real that's my belief…But one thing I want to do, to make proof that Santa's real. So I can keep my belief."

I'm right there with you, Jackson. "I believe, help my unbelief," said the man to Jesus. And so say we all.

There is also the nagging sense that I'm not measuring up. "I hope you think I have been good this year," says Sarah. A sentiment echoed by a lot of other kids in a lot of other letters. Some are more honest: "Sometimes I'm good, but sometimes I'm bad," wrote Kevin. Aren't we all? Which is the point, I think. We're not good enough to deserve all the things we ask, and yet there they are, under the tree every year. Why? Because Santa knows even though we're not so good sometimes, we're still worth much. To kids, this sort of thing is called love. To adults, it's called grace.

Of course, prayers are not all about me. There are plenty of other people who need help, too. They range from the small ("I wish you can help my mom get the tree out of the attic," writes Megan) to the big ("All I want is my six teeth and my papa to feel better. I want my Meme to get to Maryland fine, and my family together for the holidays"–Jasmine).

And then there are the prayers that are said out of pain ("My daddy back. My daddy leave and we lonely have mommy, me and my dog"–Brittney).

There are also the ones said out of pure love ("I know this is going to be a bad Christmas for some kids. so I want you to give my presents to the kids who won't be getting anything this year. God bless everyone!"–ZayVon).



I'm not sure if all those letters were answered the way the kids wanted them. That's okay. Not all of our prayers get answered that way, either. But even if they weren't, I feel pretty confident that all those kids will be writing letters again next year. Santa always come through in the end.

God, too.

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Behold

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So. Things have been a little tough around here lately, and for a variety of reasons. Seems to be that way for a lot of folks this year. Times are tough out there, no doubt about it.

I've never understood how anyone could be melancholy during Christmas. To feel a heaviness amidst such beauty seems impossible, and to possess a measure of fear while surrounded by so much joy seems tragic. Such people have always been alien to me. I understand them better now.

The Nativity story is a popular one in our house these days; the kids have fallen into the habit of reciting the first verses of Luke 2 each night before bed. One of my favorite parts of the Bible, Luke 2. It is a fantastic retelling of fact—of shepherds and angels and a big miracle in a tiny baby. Last night as I listened, heart heavy and sadness there, what struck me was the tenth verse:

"But the angel said unto them, 'Fear not; for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be for all people.'"

I imagined those shepherds—alone that night in darkness, guarding their flocks, trying to keep the wolves away. It was likely a tough time for them then, just as it is now for us. It was a life of work and of scraping by, of dealing with loss and hardship. And fear, especially fear. They were trying to keep the wolves away, after all. Maybe that's why so many of us are afraid, too.

I think it's fear that lies deep inside our troubles. Fear that the bad things will get worse, that the black hole we're in will get deeper, and that whatever joy is left for us in this world will be carried away by a cold wind that will leave us shivering.

For a tiny group of shepherds one night long ago, help came in the form of an angel with Good News to tell. But before that News was given came four words that were even more needed, at least for that group of sheep herders in the Bethlehem countryside:

"Fear not; for behold…"

If there is a magic to all the Christmases that have followed that first one (and I have no doubt there is), then the secret to that magic lies in one word—behold.

My problem was that I was familiar with that word but didn't really know what to behold something truly entailed. My dictionary put it this way:

"To perceive through use of the mental faculty; comprehend."

In other words, to behold something means not merely to see it, but to ponder it. To seek to understand it.

Our worries and cares shrink not only our hearts and minds, but our vision as well. The more we look upon what we fear, the less we can see of what can comfort. I think that's why beholding is so important. It involves interest. It requires attention. It demands participation. It means that for one moment we chance a small step outside of ourselves to gaze upon larger things.

So let us—you and I—do just that this Christmas. Let's take a moment to ponder and wonder and try to comprehend. In that even our sadness will be coated with a sheen of joy, and the angels will proclaim even in our darkness. For the reason we celebrate this time, this Holy Child, is because by His presence the sadness we feel in this life was rendered temporary, and by Him we know that fairer lands await.

Do not be afraid. Behold.

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