A Phone Call with my Dad

My dad called me on Wednesday. He also called on Thanksgiving last month, so that makes two total calls in about two years. I love my dad, I know he loves me. Each has sent the other a message here or there, and we've even played phone tag a couple times, but we hadn't actually talked in a long, long while. I grew up with him around only in spurts, so this was no challenge to deal with or anything. Just the way things were. The way things are.

James Edward Harrison is 61 and lives in Oregon. He's lived in a lot of places all across this country. He is a very chill, nice man who has that country type of casual attitude. The kind that uses a lot of idioms but would never say the word “idiom.” He and my mother split up when I was two. He used to be so buff from lifting weights in various California institutions, and so tan from hard work, including a job trimming palm trees in Arizona during the Summer. This last bit has helped me hold my tongue when tempted to complain about work on hundreds of occasions. “At least I'm not trimming palm trees in Arizona in the Summer,” I always say.

He has never yelled at me; we've never been in a fight. But he's also never really given me advice. He was around for a bit when my twin and I were about 9, and Julie told him that I hit her when we were fighting. Before I could state my case, he looked at me and said, “Never hit a woman, son. You don't do that.” And though it was very good advice, that's possibly the only time he has offered guidance. Maybe he doesn't feel like it's his place or something, since he hasn't exactly lived a model life.

He spent five years in a prison in Susanville, California from when I was 11 till 16... Those are formative years! We wrote occasionally (I still have a couple letters) and I'm sure he called a couple times, and we talked, but I really missed him. I missed a man I'd never really known, and had no idea why. When he finally got out, we went to see him at my uncle's place in Lodi. I could have thrown up, I was so nervous. We got out of the car and Julie ran up first and gave him a hug. I was next and went to copy my sister, but he had a premeditated handshake ready and so it was  trapped between our chests as I hugged him. My young, beardless face was crying. I was a good 6 inches taller than him, and much leaner. I felt too tall, and too skinny, and I still don't know why. But the awkward moment ended quickly, he regained his had, and we had a lovely visit.

I've seen him so few times since then... I'm ashamed. We had a tearful but milestone call when I lived in Canada at age 19, in which I told him, in a tiny phonebooth, that I held nothing against him, that all was forgiven, and that he'd be my dad forever. I was so grateful that he was crying too, because I think it meant that he also felt this longing that I felt. This longing to be close because of our blood relationship that could never be replaced by anyone else. And I think that he knew, like I did, that this longing would never really be fulfilled. Not the way it was meant to. I'm grown now, I've been raised. The job was done admirably by my mother, among many others. But regardless, I still wanted him in my life.

I was also raised by a stepfather, who tried fell short in so many ways. It was hard, I'm sure, to jump into a big family and be the best stepfather. But after a while, you start to wonder if it's really that hard to be a nice person. We get along quite well now, and I would say we got along pretty well when we lived together. But that's because of me. Because I grew up trading integrity for quiet evenings. Harsh as that sounds, I constantly admitted I did something wrong or kept silent while I was lengthily lectured on how far short I fell. I absorbed so many insults, delivered as statements of fact, that I grew up questioning every movement, ever decision. But if I argued, even with reason and peace, it would only get so much worse. One night, I stood in the kitchen for ten minuted deciding whether to toss away a peanut bar jar or put in back in the cupboard. There was enough left in the jar that throwing it away could mean hearing that I was wasteful and thoughtless, if discovered, while putting it back in the cupboard could mean that I was lazy and, again, thoughtless. Finally I decided that throwing the jar away would at least be a more hidden decision, even if it was wrong. Unfortunately, I seemed to have chosen wrong, because later he went to make a late night snack, looked for the peanut butter, and found the jar in the trash. I heard all about how much peanut butter was left in the jar and how far it could be stretched, and of course, how that thoroughly reflected my flawed character.

But that's how I grew up. As much as I hate it, fathers have a huge impact on how a person is raised. I've spent my whole adult life convincing myself that I can, in fact, make good decisions! I do not mean to complain, only to show how impactful fathers can be on a person. But I heard so much criticism about the most meaningless things, so that a questioning, condescending voice has stayed in my head for years. But there have been very positive improvements. I also do not mean to compare the two, my dad and my step-dad. One happened to be present and generally supportive, but emotionally distant, while the other was absent, but kind and warm. But still absent.

But on Wednesday my dad called me. It was a sunny winter day and he was sober and attentive. I talked about everything to him like I knew him; like he had walked in the door from work every night of my childhood. For fifteen minutes, I paced a parking lot and updated him about where I worked, what I was studying; I asked him where he thought I  should transfer and other difficult life decisions in my head, and of course, sports. He listened, answered, laughed, all in his casual, “Jimmy Smooth” way. (That's his nick name, or so I've heard.) Before we hung up, he told me that he believed I could make the right choice, and that no matter what I chose, he was behind me. How powerful, to hear those words! How they conflicted with what I've learned to believe about myself!

After hanging up, I allowed myself to feel sadness. Deep regret that I did not enjoy this mysterious person, this powerful influence in my life for more than this phone call. I feel like I would have matured so much stronger, more sure of myself, less passive aggressive, more respectful, and that I would have chased after affection far less, if his steady input was around me. But it wasn't, and I've been so insecure. And I have hurt others, and I'm still far from the peaceful man I want to be.

But after this sadness, I felt excitement and possibility! I could be that steady force for someone, someday! One day, little Harrisons will be running around and I've been thinking, What a great thing it could be, if I could be better, trust in God, and be a steady, cool, listening, advice-giving, caring, good father? Well, I think I would be the happiest man on earth, if I was a good father.

I'm James Lowell Harrison, and I'm 24. I have so far to go, so many more decisions to make in my life. But I have friends, family, coworkers, my step-dad, and my dad to ask for advice. It's become a group effort, and there's nothing wrong with that. But I've had a taste of what a good dad is like. And I've seen some great examples over the years, and I have God in Heaven who forgives like no other. Thanks for reading!

All About My Day

"Talk to me, tell me something"
My mother would say
She wanted to know
All about my day

So I opened my mouth and told her about
The girls I had kissed and the cats I had kicked
The shirt I had stained and how I splashed in the rain,
And the graffiti I did and how I threw a big fit
When the teacher had stopped me
From hitting that kid

My mother just sat there
With her eyes so wide
Waiting for me to say I had lied
But I was telling the whole darn truth
And that wasn't even the end, to boot!

So since I had started I couldn't now cease
These secrets and stories from finding release
So I told her some more, though she might abhor
At least she would know all about my day

And how it all started by showing the class
My reddest and strangest, most recent rash
And at lunch I poured a box of milk
On Fred and Ted and Julie and Phil
And then made Sally slip on a banana peel
Because she said I looked silly

How at recess I greased up the monkey bars
And yelled out "Fire" during the play
Cause it was too long, anyways

And then I swung a kitten by its paws
And told little Suzy there was no Santa Claus
And all about how I wrote in a book
That the principal's a dirty, rotten crook
For saying my shoes looked funny

But the worst of my day was still yet to come
Because I had bit little Elvis's thumb
And nearly all of the school gathered around
And suddenly I didn't feel so proud
So I ran and they chased, and I came home to you
Cause you're the best mom, I'm sure you knew
Now all of my actions were uncalled for
And I know what I've done, I'll answer for
But Mom, by God, please don't answer the door!
I'm sure I've learned my lesson.

Two Songs

Capo 4

(Dsus4 D Dsus2 D)
A rabbit hops and sings a song
His voice is deep and it carries on
Through the grass Until it finds
Two ears that hear The hopeful rhymes

The tunes don't change A single thing
Except to give The silence wings
"Don't ever stop raising your voice
It's pointless sound, But more than noise

"The words that come Are from the heart
And shaped into Different parts
Of one big heart That we all share
Each beat reveals The freedom there"

(G Em D C)
And I'd travel the world to tell you a joke
And if it was raining I'd give you my coat
So you could be dry when you heard the punch line
On a day when it thunders as the sun still shines

And I'd climb the tallest trees in the wood
To find you a flower that matches your mood
To give you peace as you see the stars above
On a night when you wonder just what you're made of

The sun's gone down, The rabbit's gone,
But the wind still carries, His faithful song
The wolf that heard Won't move or blink
His heart and mind Think and think

That maybe he's Got it wrong
Because of that Old Rabbit's song
So he howls at the sky And claws at the trees
Knowing now that we all have A heart and teeth

"Gather round you souls And sing with me
Together as one, under This old tree
I dreamt of a world Where I chased each of you
But instead to give you All the love that I knew

A Day In the Life

The cable guy showed up at 7:30am, rounding off a solid 4.5 hours of sleep for me. Saving my mother from having to solely deal with him, I got up, lazily got dressed and cleaned out closets, etc, as he needed to access certain lines. He was an energetic man and fun to talk to, even at such a horrific hour of the morning.

Next on the agenda was to make bread! I've been meaning to for a while and finally got around to it, and Lord knows I can't go back to sleep when I've awoken and the sun is out. Moist banana bread does something for my soul... Or my tastebuds; what's the difference? It was much easier than I expected and I left it to bake in the bread-maker while I went to my tennis class at the Junior College. Tennis was fun and afterward I ran into Chris Beatty, an old church friend who has also spent some time in Canada!

When I arrived home after that fun morning and refreshing rendesvous, my surgery-recovering mother was hungry for lunch, and she had the kind of post-op hunger only a burrito could answer. After briefly tasting the bread (which was good, but dry), I left the house again.

The road to the burrito ran right past Doctor's Medical Center, and as I passed I saw an old, ragged man on a wheelchair, propelling himself backwards with one foot. It must have been easier than using his arms. As I began to pass him, a loud question boomed within me: "Why not ask to help him?" It's just a question, maybe he'll say no. My next immediate thought was more interesting: "How can you ever teach Jesus-stuff without doing something like this?" So I betrayed my comfort zone, rolled down my window, and asked, "Hey bud, are you okay - do you want a hand?" Alright, that's two questions, but he still answered, "Yeah, actually... I'm trying to get to the bus stop!" Agreeing to help, I stabled Shadowfax, my white Jeep, in a nearby parking lot and approached the man. I said I could push him down the road and so I did, but this is very important; it was only after I introduced myself as James and asked his name, shaking his gnarly hand. If I didn't shake his hand, what's the point of doing the whole thing? I wasn't afraid to shake his hand because I thought maybe his life experience, his dignity, and his overall manliness would overcome the dirt and germs in those etched callouses, transferring to my hands some of what I've always wanted... Because if Rusty were a tree, he would have been an old, red maple, with knobby branches reaching out from a scarred bark, with dried-up leaves and a white moss growing upon it.

After our quick introduction I began pushing him down the road, and asked questions. I learned that Rusty had just gotten out of the hospital, was taking the bus to the Greyhound, hoping his son could take care of him, and was still in some significant discomfort. We got to the stop and I parked him next to the bench. Finding out that he needed nothing further, I asked if I could pray for his pain. He said something that almost froze me. He said, "Well sure, that always helps." I sought for physical healing, I asked that his son would look out for him, and prayed that he would always know his Father in heaven loved him and is taking care of him. Rusty was all for this prayer and when we said our "Amens," a lady sharing the bench asked me what church I go to, and she told me hers. Another web was spun, a yarn weaved as it turns out she goes to church with a good friend of mine from school! We both know Jamie and then the bus came. I said my goodbyes and Rusty thanked me about 5 times with the most sincere smile - it truly made me feel like my simple obedience actually, honestly, helped somebody. And by God was it so easy.

I dropped off the burrito and went to give blood. It's something I care about, another easy thing to do that makes a difference, and everyone knows the best part is the unlimited, free snacks and juice once you're done! I make myself watch every time the voluminous needle goes in my arm. Is that weird? Probably. But I got a voucher for a pint of ice cream and watched a girl almost faint, so it was an eventful time.

A few hours at home to reproduce some blood cells helped me rest a bit before work, which was standard. After work, though, there was a man parked just past an exit with his hazards on, at about 12:30 in the morning. Again, I made myself admit that I wasn't in a real hurry, and if I were him, I would have loved some help with a flat tire. I rolled down my window and asked the question, and he answered an enthusiastic, "Yes!" So I parked safely and learned his problem, while a kind-hearted man cycling by stopped with us. We learned that the tool that takes off the lugnuts was the wrong size for his car. After a few moments of brainstorming, he used my phone to call his family (because he didn't have one and I hypothesized that he could not drive away very far if he decided to actually steal my phone, given his flat tire). In the end I just gave him my number so he could call with his family member's phone when they arrived, and I could drive the short distance from my house with some tools that he wasn't sure his family would have.

I had an eventful day and one that birthed several good stories. The good stories rarely arrive when I obey my own demands for comfort and routine, but instead when I dare to meet another set of eyes face to face, admitting that we're all cut from the same cloth.

The Voyager

The flashing lights blink and scream

That something's wrong within your dream

The timeline shifts and spins around

The waters rise with threat to drown

Where are we now? It feels so wrong.

The ground is dry and lights turn on

Darkened tent, with crashing notes

Should I feel fright? I do not know

As I stand, the ground so shakes

A ball drops hard, a crack it makes

The racing line draws to me first,

My feet no longer touch the earth

I fall and fall to depths unknown

The blurring faces sing and moan

Of years and lives of fallen dreams

And I alone can hear their screams

Darkness fades, replaced  by mist 

My face, the clouds begin to kiss

Wet and wetter, my clothes are soaked

Cold and ice become my bones

My frozen mass smashes down

The icy shards float around

But melt away once they touch

The spiky plants and ground so rough

A desert dry, and wide, and long

I walk and sweat and trip and fall

When down the hill, I see the sun

Shining off a golden pond

The water makes me stand and run

Down the dunes, oasis come!

My toes are wet, my mouth is dry

But just before I'm set to dive

I hit a wall, hard and rough

The unforgiving brick has scuffed

My chest, that now groans and heaves

My arms respond and stretch and reach

Up and down and side to side

The fear pours in and blacks my eyes

Encased, the bricks almost complete

But leave a hole, with room to see

A way to go, just too small

For me to fit, so I start to claw

And rip and pull and lose my breath

About to faint, at last I slip

I slide and roll on rocks and stone

Till at last I crash upon

A rock so high, somehow I stopped

From falling off this endless drop

I catch my breath, I breathe, and breathe

I look and think and finally see

My final fear now realized

Weary, broken, I close my eyes

All those years I ate and drank

I took my fill, myself to thank

It comes to me now, so very clear

All those days were borrowed years

But this is mine, this moment here

And if I choose, there's no more fear

I step, I fall, all alone

And all my senses become one

The Owl Leaps Over Running Water

Here is a little random story I wrote in a short sitting to get the creative juices flowing. Enjoy!

Once upon a time,  there was an owl. Not an old, wizened owl, and not a young, cute owl,  but a teenage owl,  and that means danger. This owl's name was Kaba,  and he grew up in a dark green forest. Kaba never liked the forest,  and instead wished he was raised on the cliffs by the water.

Heights intrigued him,  and because of the thick canopy of the forest,  could never break the ceiling and fly to the clouds. But if he lived by the cliffs he could dive of every day and enjoy what must be that wonderful sensation he could only taste from falling out of his nest.

And instead of eating mice, he wished he could eat fish! Flying over the water, stabbing a swimmer with his beak seemed to him the way to live. He wanted to be an eagle!

But eagles were to be feared in the forest,  and without a covering, every animal in the forest would be eaten by the huge, mighty eagles. So kaba could not even speak of them,  let alone meet one. But it is what his heart desired,  and for youth,  the heart's desires are always louder than the counsel of another, and more powerful than the fear of danger, or the allure of peace.

So as soon as the sun set,  Kaba ventured out, for only the second time in his life,of the forest. Across the grassy fields,  under the bright moonlighted he walked in silence, smart enough to keep from flying, even at the risk of snakes and foxes. He climbed the slopes and reached the top within an hour.

Dozens of nests filled with eagles and eggs lay before him. But he was not interested in meeting one, especially under the premise of a surprise in the night.

For laying before him, across the whole plateau, we're bones. Fish bones made the floor of the eagles' abode and awakened in Kaba the hunger for fish! He bounced to the cliff edge and took in what he saw. After feeling the breeze on his feathers stronger than he'd ever felt before,  he beheld a great drop, far to the ground, the rocks and frothy water breaking on them.

It would take moments to reach the bottom and that realization spurred him on into a silent frenzy. Vaguely knowing what it took to dive, spread, soar and stab a fish, his youthful vigor seized him, And down he dropped.

The wind, the torrents of air that found their way past every feather to run its course across his skin slapped his body into real consciousness. Kaba was born in that fall, not physically but in just as real as way. The ground approached, but it would not ruin this second of joy, of creation. He turned his wings and curved, slowing, bending parallel to the water. The mist wet his wings and within seconds he spotted a fish, sleeping near the surface.

He speared it with his short break like he'd done it a thousand times! He flew and flew, with fish in beak, for days and days, forever. He never lived under a forest again and never ate another mouse for the rest of his days. He was alive, And happy.

THE END

Breathing Alive

We walk each day

With thoughts of life,

Pretending that we're not

All burnt inside.

We lie and swear

That nothing's wrong;

Meanwhile limping

And stumbling along.

The wound's too big 

To cover with hands,

So we cover our eyes

And forget how to stand.

For all we know,

We're all alone;

Everyone's outside

And perfectly fine.

But if we could only

Take just a peek,

Ignoring our shame,

Looking up from our feet,

We'd gape and stare

And see and learn

That every one soul

Has suffered a burn.

Then the doctors could heal,

The builders could make

A bed for us all 

To rest and awake;

Living again and learning to thrive,

Tasting the sun

And breathing alive