My status

Friday, February 23, 2018


Grunting through the last few miles at the old railroad bridge, my 50# ruck seems heavier, but I remain resilient. My trusty Garmin GPS watch, circa 2004 with its large digit numbers, maintains perfect time with my heightened, if not bedraggled gait. I pledged in November to ruck for 26.2 miles and only a week past a 3-day stint at the hospital, I am making good on that bit of nonfeasance. Each step brings me back to thoughts of every moment I had rucked prior with various units, companies and companions.

From the stillness of abandoned farm houses in Hungary, to the bitter shadows of mass graves in Bosnia, to the rapidly unsettling moonlit journeys on the Ivory Coast of Africa, each step echoes a pulse of permanence & blinding memories to mind. My feet suffer, reel even, from injuries from over activity, carelessness and duty. I ache and struggle to proceed. My Nike tennis shoes, an opposition of fashion to the monochromatic military field clothing draping my structure, dutifully keep pace, even as my intention strengthens.

On the eve of my 44th birthday, I feel renewed --- inspired even, as much I would ever allow myself to believe in my false hopes of ambition, success or potential. Two seasons removed from a heart attack, loss of both parents, complications of employment, relocation and strife, I feel as rugged as the rip-stop Kevlar embracing my shoulders. The grit, the rebellion finally lining up --- no longer a boy trying to prove to others of his travels, braggadocios or ashamed of his struggles or fortitude, but a man owning these truths and sharpening his steel in purpose, not defiance to the world around him.

The world has changed him yet again, but this time, the reemergence will be legendarylaughing to himself, perhaps surreptitiously meaningful.

Realizing with each step, it is okay to be strong, it is okay to be at peace. It is okay to be me.

I don't have to be weaker, to make others feel stronger.
I don't have to abdicate my dreams, to allow others to realize their own.

In the midst of the shadows and solitude, I am healing. The darkness always provides shelter from the harshness of travel, bitterness of your burdens, absolution from your lies and hope without the promise of the sunrise.

Sometimes, we need to make our own way, be our own source of light.
One day others may rise and fall with our arrivals, our sunsets, look to us for their warmth ----

If God is willing, I shall be that man.

44 --- The best is yet to come.

Sunday, February 4, 2018

Bleeding out...

To bleed is to both purge and perish, equal parts anguish & admonishment. I stood steadfast and unwavering in the chilled rain, weeping blood down my side in the darkened night air. The pathways around my immediate stance all leading down to the center of the concrete parking lot into the metallic grated abyss. Down, down, down we go into the bowels of hell I supposed. Figuring in that moment, the irony swirled around the conflicts waging around my head. Undulating between wearing crown and thorns, I am both hated and revered. This has not changed for a lifetime. Undaunted, I dare not attempt to locate the source of my dribble, my bloodshed. It all seems so routine by now, so expected, so deserved. My walk has never been about glory for its own sake, happiness for its own gain, or believing that the light of the day will lead me home. Blood lost on so many countless souls unable or unwilling to stand beside me when the darkness falls. Intentions, interest, intrigue and intimacy are insufficient. I am far too damaged, too flawed, too disjointed. The murmuring of my tainted path, my journey, piques curiosity, pity even consolation. But not love.

Love has evaded me, perhaps for my own skill in its mishandling. Perhaps for my deeds done in the name of love, the auspices of its shroud, the sanctity of its masquerade. I have never witnessed the mercy of its presence when I stand bleeding. At times from my own hand, from my own words. Other times, just an inconvenient truth that I was not going to be valiant enough to rescue their souls...from both themselves, their own choices and to provide them with better moments. I am easy to give up on and place back upon the shelf in the antique village, no one else the wiser. Means to an end at best for most....At my worst, a soul to bide the minutes with a faded glory scarred and weary athletic frame and at my best, a thought provoking, wise enigma of sorts a bit too whimsical, too angular for anything more a passing friend. Bleeding, I am left alone to relish in the scent of my own demise.

The walkways enlighten with the crimson current and I smile, both from intangible blood loss, and my own sickened belief that maybe this is my penance once again. I care less to terminate its flow as the passing minutes tick onward. I am prepared for my judgment, my day of resolve and reckoning. I have loved, and attempted to have been loved by others in this lifetime, at least as much I can comprehend the concept. I have both drawn blades of steel and cloths of comfort to those who were bleeding before me. It is bewildering dichotomy to live with such memories of my steps, the grounds in which I have traversed.

I feel weary and weak, succumbing to the fervent reality that my choice is clear. Heal yourself, so you can love yourself and others or continue to bleed out and perish in my own recklessness. In my weakened state, I muster my voice and plead out to God, perhaps undeservedly, as others believers have for centuries..... Heal me Father.....if it is Your will.

Heal my walk....

For now, I continue to bleed...



I am weary...

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Holding on...

Observing the sunrise through the scratched plexiglass cover encasing the window serving 7A on my flight, I feel alone. The sun peeks forward in its predictable timely fashion, too routine and ordinary to deem worthy of anything more than a brief respite and assurance that this day will go on with or without my approval. I glide sheepishly into the worn, leather adorned chair, fashioned no longer to impress its world travelers, but just to stand up to the abuse of the masses who must coax their tired, fattened frames into its rigid embrace hundreds of times a week. Like a stained, damp mattress at an hourly hotel, it is up to the repetitive job if rudimentary function is your pleasure. And pleasure is the essence of what you seek here, is it not?

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Say Something

As I peer back through the layers of memories, moments and madness that has encircled the steps of my life over the last 3 years, I pause. The soft music plays gently behind me and immediately it captivates me, hynoptically and without remorse. The words echo, "Say Something..... I am giving up on you....I am sorry I couldn't get to you." I hear different voices signing the same lyric, all now departed ---- lost in time. My mind races in reverse, in pure technicolor magic. I see myself, my dreams, love and life scattered across a field of uncut grass and a maniacally displaced harvest. I cannot connect myself to the steps once taken, the path once so obviously carved, the stones that I crossed to reach where I stand today. Like a waterfall that no longer flows with life, I remain in silence, love removed from the source, no longer foolishly fed by those afraid of the rapids that my journey offers. I pan slowly back to the present, silence the melodic dogma and accept the moment of realization that my choices were not in vain, and I never requested their presence nor their approval of my worthiness. If they gave up on me because I could no longer enrich their lives with a smile, neither a promise of eternal security in this lifetime then I pity their discord and their shallowness.

I smile softly. For the first time in years, I bask in the wonderment of what the future and my choices hold.

Say Something. I will not give up on me...

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Stillness & Silence...

When darkness appears, the still solitude void of thought brings inference.
The metallic click of the obedient second hand languishes with a profound hesitancy.
Every minutia of sound and echo is magnified within our placid & reflective state.
The bustling radiance of the day is reduced to a mild whisper beyond the arid field of thought.
Stillness magnified by its own summoning to the forefront of the stage, bows gracefully but remains unaware.

Reaching across the bed frame, outstretched hands instinctively map out the nearby terrain.
Boulders of formed cotton stitched precisely into delicate patterns cloud the nape of the bed.
Empty pockets of solitude trap my emotions and besiege the delicacy of my idle existence.
Gone is my soul mate, her warmth and her gracefully steady hands and angelic outline.
Her physical body departed, her loving spirit ever present in this place.

Dream softly, my love.

Monday, January 19, 2015

Dream Softly....

A little light reading before my nightly prayers at bedside.
Good night. Dream softly.

Sunday, January 18, 2015

Sitting here in the Darkness...

Pushing back the cloaks of heavy laden dreams with eyes too swollen to close, I sit, pray and think of what a transforming and hellish week it has been. My body is still conforming to a week without sleep nor nourishment. I physically am still battling for my vigor, but my heart is healing. God has truly touched my heart, my soul and my existence in this time. I had lost track of feeling His presence, His strength, His perfection. Being beaten and shaken by every fiber of my roots has transformed me completely.

I cannot shake the moments where I allowed the devil to infiltrate, steal and destroy. I wept tears of sorrow but that same vessel that once contained and overflowed with my despair will know joy in equal measure, in this lifetime. I trust a faithful God will deliver on His promise. I am living in peace, with no more distractions, mistrust or torn moments between relationships or commitments. I have finally broken my shackles, my weights, my regrets, and fear of the past and live completely content in the moment and what the present with God has to offer. I have come clean and been purified by trusting and obeying His word that the truth would set me free...and it has.

God has provided me a renewed heart, a changed spirit, a softened tongue. I consider every single second of time, calculate every individual muttering with precise knowledge of its weight and measure. I no longer believe that anything but the essence of love and God's promise is permanent. Moments are vital for in them we must recognize that we are the purveyors. We decide if the good or evil wolf will be fed. We decide the fate of our lives in each breath, in each tear, in each word we summon forth from our ravished hearts and scarred human experiences.

I see through His eyes and recognize the gift. The gift of each second, every sliver of time. For how we value every precious one of these units reveals and reflects how we value our relationship with God. I now see people with compassion, understanding, kindness, patience and the understanding that I did not embody Him in my actions, words and deeds.

I fall to my knees each morning and every evening and have already made this a daily habit. I pray asking for His strength, and I praise Him for another day of life before bed with words of love, faith and hope on my lips. I cannot yet dream softly and I may never know such a perfect restful sleep without my soul mate, but I still feel her presence, embrace and tender heart, even from a distance.

May God forgive me and continue to use me for good.
May He heal her heart, her injured spirit and remind her of His promise and restore her peace, happiness and salvation.
I lift her up with praise on my lips and a longing but thankful joy in my soul. God will honor our faithfulness, our obidience, our trust, and our unyielding faith.

Believe that you can still live in love.
Until my final dying breath.
On my word, before God.