I had read a post from one of my friends earlier, who writes:
The 4th of July. American Independence Day. Most people have a lot of memories from this holiday.
Personally, I am a bit out of step with the culture. I never figured out how to experience joy, pleasure or fulfillment out of watching my money go “bang.”
But, as usual, I do have other memories.
In working with survivors, we deal with a lot of tough stuff – wounds, critters, structures, programming…
If you wish to read the rest of the post, follow the link here.
The few Prophets I know at least moderately feel similarly.
And while the Fourth invariably sparkles because of explosions, and making money go “bang” (I swear at least two portions of my spirit are attracted to sparkles and sulphur), it is tied to some other memories.
My dad used to meet my mother in Baldwin every summer after he left, and then in Macon after he moved back to Tennessee, in order to pick us up for the summer.
I remember the smell of Jovan Musk,
and Budweiser,
and the time he lit Roman Candles from his boat in the St John’s River,
and the time we shot the Whistlers into the water and watched the explosions underwater,
and the times our families connected with Bob Purcell’s family,
and the time Nick nearly blinded himself adding lighter fluid to the grill, and Dad’s response of “so, did you learn your lesson, son?”,
and the trips camping in Salt Springs, and that one time on the side of the road in the middle of the night, where we put up a couple of tents and a few hours later, Dad saw some police lights in the woods and snuck up to one of the cops and asked what was going on, and the cop said that they had just had a major drug bust,
And the trips to Cedars of Lebanon that no one alive except for Pat remembers,
And the trips to Mammoth Cave and the spaces under the earth so massive you could fit a small city into them,
And the trip with Joey to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park,
And his unending sense of enjoying a good laugh, telling a good joke, and his capacity to make anyone feel welcome,
And the scratch of his beard
And the summer I taught at a summer camp for his friend, Pam Stockett,
And the hoards of explosions and the smell of sulphur.
And the places and times when he in all of his drunken woundedness (even though he never laid a hand in an abusive fashion on me) actually manifested compassion and affection.
It was not just about the explosions.
It has been the fabric in the foreground of the explosions.
These summers, I am the father now, and my two sons visit me, and there is no alcohol floating around.
And they enjoy the explosions.
And soon they will also enjoy the camping,
There is a bedazzling, kaleidoscopic array of color that flows in the night sky.
And there is the memory of the year I drove back from Bryan, OH, on July 4, 2012 and remembering the conversation I had had with David and Wendy, after first hearing about what had happened to Hannah Pettengill, and David’s counsel to me concerning my response to Kresha’s list of demands. And how I could accede to the list of demands for reconciliation except for one: the taking of medication of any sort. She was under the delusion that I needed to be medicated for depression and ADHD, and I realized the truth of what needed to happen–namely, that I had for years been starved for community.
And the memory of driving back through Cleveland, knowing what I was going to say in that conversation.
And the trip from Cleveland to Manhattan, and the realization that I needed to stop off in downtown, and walk around, something I had never done before.
And the calm solitude of what I felt when I was in the North Cove Yacht Harbor. And the massive spirit of fear in the vicinity of One World Trade Center.
And driving out of Manhattan along FDR Drive.
And calling Kresha to tell her what I was going to agree to, and what I was not.
And the sound of something snapping in the spirit realm, like a brown stick, and hearing her accusation that I had DID.
And knowing where this thing was headed.
And the season of alienation, and the few friends that remained loyal in that season of aloneness.
And then…
Death over the course of 5 months.
Filing for divorce on December 7th.
Loss of credentials with the Assemblies on December 31.
And the divorce being finalized on April 15th, the same day as the Boston Marathon Bombing.
And then, the slow recovery of life…
The following July, the trip to Mount Washington. And the decision that I had made to marry Pam.
And now, living in South Carolina and being able to enjoy my joy, walking with my family in a place where enjoying my joy is legal.
It is definitely an enjoyment of watching my money go “bang”.
But there are added to it a host of memories that…color…the whole experience.
Happy Fourth, gang.
If you enjoy fireworks, then hallelujah, get your fuzzy buns over here next year and most any year and let’s cook ’em off together. And if you do not, fair warning, my home invitation is open on this day, but know that it will be loud.