At sunset I was driving just south of a little berg called Wheeler Ridge when the reflected glow of orange-to-red rays of sunlight lit the bottoms of dark gray clouds scattered across the valley sky. This, combined with vivid purple wildflowers which covered the ground – literally in the millions – created an ethereal scene that fooled my senses. The purple ground cover, illuminated by the reflected dusk, had the appearance of actually glowing from within. It was such a striking effect that a number of motorists had pulled off the shoulder of the freeway to take photographs. Not in the frame of mind to haul my camera out and do the same, I’d simply taken it all in as I continued my journey south.

Now descending the southern portion of the Grapevine after having stopped for gas as well as to stretch in the town of Lebec, I was road-weary. As I drove through the Castaic Valley, I listened to a compact disk I’d made the day before. The volume on the van’s CD player was far louder than I’d have had it if someone else were in the car with me. Thoughts of the past decade had been drifting through my mind all day. Hopes for that which lies ahead were, too. This is a bittersweet move in ways. As I’d mentioned in a previous writing, I’m consciously bringing this chapter of my life to a close. It’s sort of like having surgery. In operating on someone’s body, the intent is to restore, to make it well, to fix that which has been broken or is not working properly. The thing is, the surgeon must inflict intentional wounds in order to make things right. Yet healing from surgery is far better than going on – without being whole. I think of the Apostle Paul in Phillipians, chapter 3; I press on – I do not want to finish this life without laying hold of that for which Christ Jesus laid hold of me for. I guess you could say that I’m going through a sort of surgery for the soul. I’m chuckling to myself as I write – thinking, “It’s sort of like ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul’, but a lot more severe.” Yep, I like that, I’ll not edit that line out – it is fitting.

Reaching La Crescenta, a smallish, unincorporated community in Los Angeles County about sixteen miles north-northwest of downtown L.A., I pulled my van into my friend Terry’s driveway. After gathering my things, I stepped out of the van – and into a warm, welcoming hug. I was tired. It had been decided that dinner would be barbecued steaks, it was too late to go out. That sounded lots better to me than getting back into a car and traveling – even if it would be just across town. Terry’s son grilled Rib Eye’s for all of us, they were fabulous. These are familiar surroundings – Terry and her father Lloyd have been close friends for many years. After dinner I hung around and visited for a short while, then said goodnight and headed out. Food in my stomach had sealed my intentions – I needed to get some sleep.

My night was restless. Changes – a lot of them at one time – can cause one to tilt off-balance for a time. I’m doing what I need to do in taking care of myself – mostly through reframing my thoughts when there is more than one perspective to be seen. It is infinitely more difficult to reframe while asleep – I don’t believe it’s actually possible – the mind will go where it needs to go and mine was buzzing with activity as I tried to sleep. Physically, an old billboard climbing injury to my left knee has flared with all of the activity connected to my move. There are few things I like less than being awakened by pain, and my knee bothered me, aching intermittently throughout the night. I finally drifted off around first light, and slept soundly for a couple of hours.

My move is going along well, I’m getting down there. I had to stop yesterday and today in order to sift through a mountain of paperwork for taxes, etc. Having nearly completed the task, it’s time to get back to boxing my remaining stuff. I’ve had a couple of kind offers for help, yet the stuff I have left to pack are largely things which require my personal attention.

Though I believe I’m doing the right thing on a number of levels, I’m doing my best to shake off lingering doubts which annoyingly lurk in the periphery of my mind, my heart. Doubts such as unanswered questions about my future, the fact that I am putting a greater distance between myself and many whom I care deeply for, etc. A habit I’ve been reengaging in with the intent of being single-minded is in the ability to ‘reframe’ my thoughts, to get underneath and to peel back the layers of a thing. It really helps in my coming to a place of peacefully trusting God. I certainly don’t usually start there. The scripture in 2 Corinthians 10:5 comes to mind, “…casting down arguments and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God, bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ.” A good example is when, a number of months ago while in the throes of grief and despair, a woman commented, “I’ve never lost a child, but I had this dog…” I think I may have written about it in a previous post here. Anyway, I was initially shocked. I began to angrily ask myself why she would make such a clueless comment. “Reframe, John, reframe, take these thoughts captive.” I soon realized that her intention was to comfort me, she was trying her best to relate, not to offend. Although she was reaching, she (thankfully) had no real point of reference. I asked God to forgive my assuming the worst – and was able to let it go quickly, before getting too worked up over it.

I’m re-framing a lot today, and doing my best to remember the things presently weighing me down are earthly cares.

I’m also realizing as I write that I have had a couple of *blocks* in returning to my packing. There sits on one of my couches a couple of small bags. They have been in the same spot for more than a month, because they are a precious few of Jessica’s personal belongings. Inside the bags are an old personalized “CHEEZY” license plate, a number of photos, some of her most prized pieces of jewelry, and a couple of gifts I’d bought for her – all of which I value – I just had no idea I’d be inheriting them. Now I’m beginning to cry – no need to reframe when it comes to remembering my girl. I also have a beautiful forest green cloth satchel in my bedroom, a gift from a friend, which contains the urn that held Jess’ remains. It is the same one I carried from Arizona in September, then Matt took to Gualala when he cast them into the sea. I’ve opened it once since our family made the trip in November – only to see the dust covered, copper-colored urn inside, still in the burgundy satin cloth I’d reverently, lovingly wrapped around it. The satchel has remained unopened since.

Okay, a short break and the tears have stopped, I actually feel better. Catharsis, related to just letting the tears fall, is my guess. I find a cathartic release through both music and writing as well. In adjusting my focus, I believe it’s time to pack these things. I’ll not store them – they shall go where I go. Part of closing this chapter of my life is in closing the figurative door, as much as I am able, to the intense sadness and heartache which has accompanied Jessica’s death. In less than a month, it will be a year since she passed. I will remember her on that day in my new digs. That’s one of the reasons I decided to move on sooner than later. I’ve known from the beginning that I could not, would not, stay in the emotionally spent, depressed and just plain downtrodden mindset I’ve been in. Yet the balance for me is, it’s my opinion that each grieves in a distinct manner – and I have been careful to not pin myself down with laying expectations upon myself that I have not had the emotional reserve to fulfill. I find the pain is and will be there, yet my memories are changing from replaying that horrible day over and over a million times in graphic detail, as well as replaying thoughts of the night before as described to me, when she collapsed in Matt’s arms – to remembering Jessica in life.

Anyway, figuring that I’d originally paid three or four bucks apiece for them and did not want to waste money, I nabbed the old boxes from my closet. Then I folded, taped and assembled each one, proceeding afterward to load ‘em up with my earthly treasures. The first problem which arose was figuring out a safe way to stack the danged things. With dented corners, torn tops, and rounded sides, this was no easy task. But, with the help of more heavy duty packaging tape than I thought I’d need, I managed, sort of. The next steps in the process proved to be a bit more of a challenge. I live in a huge old Victorian house which has been converted to eight small apartments. Fortunately my apartment is on the ground floor, close to the main entry door. Unfortunately, outside the main entry door there remains a small flight of concrete stairs which one must traverse in order to get to street level. I’m a big fan of full disclosure – those who know me well would tell you that I’m not the most coordinated guy in town, which I’ve found both amusing and perplexing because of the unforgiving nature of the work I did for nearly twenty-five years in climbing and painting large – often very high – billboards. My klutziness is mainly due to my being ‘in my head’ a lot, and not paying close enough attention to what’s going on around me. Such was not the case when I was a teenager – back then I was just plain clumsy. My siblings will readily tell you of how everyone would grab breakable drinking glasses, dishware, etc. whenever I was about to get up from the dinner table.

So, the next step was to get the boxed goods from my apartment to my truck. Easy, right? One would think so. The first thing I noticed about the now full, roundish boxes with the afore-mentioned dents, tears, etc. was that it was really difficult to get a solid purchase with my hands on the cardboard when stooping to pick one up. But, I managed. Here’s where the fun started. I needed to get the boxes from my living room, out my front door, through the hallway, out of the main entrance, down the stairs, and to my truck. You’d think I would have had the foresight to open my front door before hefting a box off the floor – but no, I usually think of such things after the critical moment in which it would actually help has passed. So there I was, half bent over, balancing this once rectangular, crumpled box with my left arm and right thigh so I could open the door. Got it, that went fairly smoothly. Once through the doorway, the thought occurred to me that I’d really prefer to not have my neighbors possibly see what a mess my apartment is – and decided I now needed to close the door. So, again – left arm, right thigh. The box felt kind of mushy. As I reached for the doorknob with my free hand, the thing began to slowly slip down my right leg. In an attempt to correct for this unforeseen complication, I lunged forward with my free left leg – and solidly smacked the door jamb with the right side of my head. Hard. I’d bumped the door with the box in my arms and as my head made contact, the door had swung out of reach. Grumbling, I let the box fall to the floor. Was that a muffled, tinkling sound I heard as it touched down? I really don’t remember if I verbalized the contents of my brain out loud in that moment. I hope not.

Retrieving the box from the floor, my trip through the common hallway to the front entry was uneventful. The entry to my building consists of double doors. Facing them from the inside, the one on the left is for daily use, having one of those automatic door-closing thingy’s mounted on the top inside corner, and an automatically locking deadbolt. The door on the right is locked shut. Planning my strategy for getting the entry door open, I thought it best to set the box down this time. Easy. Now to twist the spring-loaded deadbolt, push the door open, grab the box and stick my left foot in the path of the returning door before it shut and automatically locked. I evidently did not move fast enough. The door swung open just fine, but was quicker to begin to swing shut than I’d remembered and pinched my foot between the concrete and the bottom of the door. My eyes narrowed (my children used to get as far from me as possible when this rare phenomenon occurred), my head still hurt from the first phase of this operation. I pulled my stuck foot out from under the door and flawlessly carried out my plan – until I came to the stairs. Still holding the door open with my left elbow, my field of vision was blocked in front of me by the box in my arms. Then I mis-judged the width of the landing. Stepping forward, my right foot found air, not concrete. Abruptly stumbling forward now, I immediately let go of the box and blindly grabbed for the handrail. The box, then airborne, cleared the stairs, hitting the cement walkway beyond, bursting one side completely open. A definite broken-glass ‘tinkling’ sound came from within. Finding the handrail, I grasped it tightly as my body spun left, my legs firmly pressed into the wrought iron railing to the point of bending my waist over the top, nearly doing a face-plant into the tall shrubbery adjacent to the stairs. I have no idea how both of my size thirteen feet landed squarely on the second step, but was eternally grateful they had.

I don’t like old moving boxes. Why?

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
When Jesus spoke the parable of the New Wine, He was contrasting God’s Old Covenant of law which was given to the Jews, with the New Covenant of love and grace which is offered to any who will come, thereby illustrating the incompatibility between Judaism and Christianity. It’s also worth noting the history of the Christian Church has seen through the ages many outpourings of the Holy Spirit resulting in many new works, pouring new wine into new wineskins. In a literal sense, new wine is fermenting. The strain brought about by gas pressure from new wine poured into old, hardened wineskins is that it would cause the wineskin to rupture. A new wineskin is pliable and will allow for expansion during the fermentation process. As time goes by, man, being predisposed to ‘fixing’ that which already works through a variety of things which can and do supplant the work of the Spirit, causes the wineskin to harden, thereby limiting the effectiveness of that which worked well when it was new and fresh and filled with the life of God. In His infinite wisdom, God then raises up a new work, or wineskin – and pours out new wine – people led by His Spirit – to fill it as He accomplishes His purposes through the agency of the Holy Spirit both in and through the church in a general sense – and specifically in the hearts and minds of His people. He removes both His blessing and His Spirit from the old, hardened wineskin – it has become too inflexible, too rigid, filled with what at that point amounts to empty religiosity.