Tag Archives: family


March 15, 2014:

When he was alive, my dad had ADD and a nasty habit of flaking out on his family. He was the kind of guy who could get in his van, head to the store to buy a package of steak for dinner, and decide halfway there to hit the highway because suddenly he would rather drive to Georgia than buy his steak or head back home. Five days later, he would come home with no real explanation for his temporary disappearance or regard to the appointments he’d missed with his family or accountability to the promises he’d broken in order to satisfy his bout of distraction. He would just come home (with the package of steak he’d gone out for in the first place), hit the grill or go to bed depending on the time of night he’d walk in, or sit down in front of the television as if no time had passed. Of course, four days earlier I might’ve been eager to tell him about something he’d think was awesome, but whatever it was, it had since lost its relevance, or I’d forget about it, and that was that.

His was a self-control issue. I could go into a discussion about his battles with various substances, including alcohol, to make my point, but I think the story tells itself better when one considers how he broke his promise to me (and two of my friends) to take me (and my friends) to a water park down in Dania, Florida, called Six Flags Atlantis. I was just a kid. I hadn’t previously been to this water park, but I had heard so many awesome things about it that I couldn’t wait to finally go for the first time. Dad had promised to take my friends and I to the park that day, but only after we visited the nearby comic book convention first. My friends and I were cool with that because there were things we could browse, and checking out comics before racing down twisting waterslides was not a bad way to spend the day. But time was ticking away, and we were quickly losing hours, and I was beginning to worry that we wouldn’t have enough time to enjoy the park once we got there. Dad assured me we would have time, not to worry. Then he went looking for more comics to buy. I remained worried. I continued to paw at comics to pass the time, but desperately wanted out so I could get on with having his promise to take us to the water park fulfilled.

Eventually the moment came that we were finally ready to leave, with time to spare. I was relieved. I wish my relief had endured.

“We’re gonna have to cancel Six Flags,” he told us. “I ran out of money. We’re heading home.”

Broken-hearted, I said okay. I hated the turn of events in that moment (and temporarily hated comics and all that they had stood for), but I couldn’t do anything about it. I was a young kid: I had no job, no income, and a dollar-a-week allowance. I was somewhere between the ages of eight and ten. I couldn’t afford the trip to the water park myself. My dad had broken his promise to me (and my two friends), and his folly would be repeated many times in other forms throughout the remaining eleven years of his life, up to and including pawning or selling the stuff I had worked hard for or had been gifted with at Christmases or birthdays to support his addictions.

That was my earthly father at his worst. That was my working model of faith.

“Now suppose one of you fathers is asked by his son for a fish; he will not give him a snake instead of a fish, will he? Or if he is asked for an egg, he will not give him a scorpion, will he?”
-Luke 11:11-12 NAS

Because my dad was so good at putting himself first in pretty much any decision he had faced, I was generally surprised when he did something sacrificial or just plain thoughtful. Often I had asked him to give me something specific (a bite of his dinner, a drink from his soda, a toy from the store); sometimes he would give, sometimes not. During big gift seasons (Christmases and birthdays) I would ask for a toy or a video game. When I was a kid, toys and video games were all I really cared about. Usually I had to save the big-ticket requests for my grandmother (his mom) and my Aunt Jeannine since they were the ones who could afford it. I rarely got what I had asked for out of him, unless it was something simple or inconsequential. Sure, occasionally he would bring home a new television or stereo to celebrate the big landscaping job he had taken, replacing the one he had sold or pawned months earlier to support his addictions. But that was for the family, something I could use, something all of us, including him, could use. It was less common to see him come home with anything just for me.

Less common, but not unheard of.

When I was eight, I was eager to check out Six Flags Atlantis for the first time. He failed that one. But I also had another prime interest: Transformers.

Shawn, my neighbor and friend, was out in his front yard playing with this new advanced Go-Bot thing, a toy Porsche that could transform into a toy robot, and I was a bit jealous. The thing was like a Go-Bot, but bigger, badder, and had more moveable parts. As a car, it rolled around on surfaces smoothly, doing everything that a Hot Wheels toy could do. As a robot, it had less mobility, and was really made for modeling, but it was awesome. It had wings, die-cast metal parts, and guns and rockets. He called it “Jazz.” I called it the greatest toy I had ever seen. I had suddenly wanted my own Transformer.

On Christmas that year, someone had informed my grandmother (dad’s mom) of my interest in this toy. Naturally, I was excited from anticipation. But my excitement became weary as the family gift giving that morning had become exhausted, and the extended family gift giving at Grandma’s house was burning through quickly. I had gone through my entire stash of gifts that day, disappointed at one piece of clothing or toy of marginal interest after another. Sure, I was appreciative of the things I was opening. At some point I think I might have even opened an Atari game, which was my other childhood obsession (Nintendo still had another year to make its debut, and it would be another three years before I’d get one of those, using my own money to buy it), but these things weren’t really what my heart had desired. I just wanted a Transformer, and none of the wrapped packages I had left to open resembled the little rectangular box that Transformers were contained in. The only thing that had given me any hope was the command to hold off on opening the big package in the corner of the living room until the end. I was skeptical. Maybe whatever was in there was cool, but it was far too big to be a Transformer. Whatever it was, it didn’t do its job to maintain my hope.

The night was coming to an end. I had finally reached the big one. The shape of the package inside was curious: bulky, hollow, bulky, hollow, bulky. I couldn’t make sense of it. Why did they insist I save this one for last? It couldn’t have been the thing I had asked for. Did they somehow think I would like this mysterious thing better? I had my doubts. But I wasn’t about to let in on them. I had to put on my happy face, if for no other reason but to please my family, the people who thought I would like whatever this thing was. I opened it. My childish heart fluttered. I was right. It wasn’t a Transformer.

It was three Transformers.

All of their boxes were taped together, hence the size of the package. I couldn’t believe it. I was now the proud owner of “Hound,” “Wheeljack,” and “Trailbreaker.” Greatest gift of my eighth year on this planet, courtesy of my grandmother and, I think, my uncle, and maybe one other person. I’m pretty sure it was my dad’s idea to conceal them all in the same wrapping. Whenever he was involved with a surprise, he was good at getting it right.

Inside each box came an official series catalogue. In the 1984-1985 toy season, there was only one series available. This series came with the legendary robots “Optimus Prime,” “Megatron,” “Bumblebee,” “Starscream,” “Jazz,” “Ironhide,” “Ratchet,” “Soundwave,” and a host of lesser-known but equally important characters that any Transformers fan would remember. There was a total of 18 “Autobots” and 11 “Decepticons” available to collect. (Yeah, I may have a sucky memory today, but I rarely forget my obsessions, and I was so obsessed back then that I had studied every inch of that catalogue, and even now I can see the matted action scene on the back side of the folded glossy featuring all of the characters engaged in a space battle). I was so intrigued by the possibility of seeing all of these Series One robots in person, even though I knew I would never have the opportunity to own them all, that every time I went with my mom to the grocery store, the mall, or the toy store (we had a Toys-R-Us back then, but we usually shopped at Lionel Playworld), I would look for the aisle that had the Transformers on display and dream about maybe taking one home, even though I knew that wasn’t gonna happen. And every time I checked that aisle, I would take a mental note of the robots I’d find. “Jazz” was common. “Hound” was a little rarer. Sometimes I’d dare ask for one, but the answer was always no, even when the toys I’d asked for retailed for about $10. I fished for my requests a lot. And I’d keep looking. Kept seeing the common ones. Kept looking for the lesser-knowns.

The presence of “Optimus Prime” or “Megatron” was hit or miss, but at $25 each, I knew asking for either was fruitless and expecting either was lunacy. I asked for them anyway, and I asked for them a lot. No Transformers collection was complete without having at least one faction leader on hand. But I knew how little my family had to give to my toy box, and my mom was strict with the finances, so my expectations were loose.

I’m sure my dad also knew that. But I’m also sure that he took delight in hitting me with surprises when I least expected them, especially when I stopped expecting them. Whenever he tried to surprise me, he would get creative about it. Whenever he had a surprise to offer, I had learned to stop expecting the expected. One of the biggest surprises I had gotten as a nine-year-old was him telling me to go look in the cabin of his truck for something he had gotten for me at the store. I had no idea what to expect. I went out to the truck (he followed behind to watch my reaction), opened the door, let the dome light fill the cabin (it was nighttime), and saw this larger-than-life box sitting on the passenger seat. “Optimus Prime” had come home.

If I were to take stock of all the times I had been surprised as a kid, and given how much I loved my small, albeit important, Transformers collection, it would make sense that finding the leader of the Autobots sitting on my dad’s passenger seat would be pretty top. After all, we’re talking about my childhood cartoon hero. Shoot, I’m in my thirties, and I still get goose bumps whenever Optimus Prime appears in the live action movies and starts ripping Decepticons apart. Naturally, when Optimus Prime became part of my toy collection, I was beside myself with happiness. It didn’t matter that, as a toy, he was pretty uncomplicated and offered no challenge to my skills of mechanical manipulation. My dad had surprised me with something I had spent months asking for, and it was bliss knowing that my request had been answered. Whatever selfish thing he might have rather spent his money on, he decided that that night, he would ignore it and give his kid a good gift. But, this wasn’t the top gift of my Transformers-obsessed childhood, contrary to popular belief. No, when I was nine, dad did something that went beyond my comprehension. Even now, as an adult, I’m stunned by it.

As I said, one of the ways I had satisfied my obsessions was to travel the toy aisles in search for elusive robots. But, like all things that pique my curiosities, the same old same old got lame fast, and seeing the likes of “Ironhide” or “Prowl” everywhere, all the time, got tiring, even to me. The kids would bring their Ironhides and Prowls to school. One kid had even brought in his Megatron (a toy gun, which, by the way, the schools had no concern over back then, because, you know, they were toys and the adults knew they were harmless), and we fans would beg him for the opportunity to “transform” him. But the opportunities to see Prowl in action, or any others that had commonly surfaced, didn’t do much to quench my desire to see the rare ones in action. I wanted new; I wanted different. Yet, I never really spoke of those names that I could never find.

Enter “Sunstreaker.”

In the animated series, Sunstreaker was a virtual no-show. He had, to my memory, one episode with his brother, “Sideswipe,” a much more common character—one of the most common, if I recall—and at least one appearance in the animated movie from 1986. But he was one of the coolest in the lineup because he was a Lamborghini, and not just any Lamborghini; he was a yellow Lamborghini—classy, slick, and uncatchable. As if it should be no surprise, he was one of the fastest movers in the Autobot clan. Only his brother Sideswipe, a red Lamborghini, could hold a candle to him. But he was also one of the sleekest in robot form. Just an interesting character all around. Even cooler than the bulky twin that had a completely different robot mode.

As a toy, he was the most elusive character from Series One. In the catalogue, I took notice of him quickly because he was the one character I could never, ever find. I didn’t know of anyone who had him in his collection. No store I explored had him on the shelf. And there was no Amazon.com circa 1985. Sunstreaker was, in a word, impossible to own. I had never even spoken of him to my parents because the thought of seeing him in the store was hopeless, and the thought of adding him to the collection was ludicrous. Sunstreaker was the character that would live on in that unattainable part of my heart, the same place where the hope of starting my own family seems to live on today, never to rise into that place of hope or expectation. It just simply wasn’t meant to be.

So, you can imagine my surprise when I woke up on a Sunday morning, sleep still in my eyes, and looked over to the corner of my bedroom to notice something highly unusual about my dresser. There was a sealed box sitting on top. A Transformers box. A Transformers box with a yellow Lamborghini encased in the plastic seal and a cartoon image of Sunstreaker posing beside the window.

I was speechless. Speechless before erupting with thanks. Actionless before giving my dad a big hug. I hadn’t remembered ever saying anything about wanting to find, much less own, this toy, but it didn’t stop him from understanding that this was the one at the top of my request list, and I would remain restless until the day I saw it with my own eyes. I never dreamed I would actually hold Sunstreaker in my hands or claim that he was part of my toy collection. Dad had taken the silent thing that I never spoke of but still wanted so badly (to see Sunstreaker in person) and did one better. And this was the same man who, in spite of his faults, failures, and broken promises throughout the years, had somehow stashed eight Go-bots on his body when I was sick in bed and every couple of minutes would reveal one, telling me, “Perhaps what you need is another Go-bot.”

“If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him?”
-Luke 11:13 NAS

My dad passed away in late December 1995, and any gift he had ever wanted to give prior to that day but didn’t, he would no longer have the opportunity to give. Outstanding debts were stuck in limbo. Empty promises would remain empty. On that late December evening, the job of being a father to me went exclusively to God, my heavenly Father. And given the kind of unpredictable earthly father I had, I had gone into this transition with numerous faith issues. I had spent years praying for my dad to overcome his addictions. It had taken his death for him to finally let go of them. Maybe that was a matter of free will, and maybe he was so stuck on what he wanted that he didn’t want to let go of what was clearly ruining his family dynamic. But I still asked for it. I still wanted a dad that didn’t flake out at any given moment, or rob his son of hard-earned possessions to pay for the vices that kept him enslaved (we can critique my childhood toy vice another time). I just wanted a dad who did his part to be a father. Consistently. Not just when he felt like it. Something pretty much all of us want and few of us ever get. I never did get that. God is, was, and will ever be the only one who can be that kind of father, and, let’s be honest, it’s hard to cry out to a dad that I can’t even see, or ask of things when it’s so easy to misread or mishear His answers. Watching my earthly father fall apart after enduring years of broken promises left me with a shaky faith. Having my own personal problems that I couldn’t control, that had little to do with another person’s free will, and waiting forever for the prayers I’d prayed regarding them to receive an answer, had left me with anxiety and shaky hope. Patience had always been required of me, but enduring it has never been an easy practice. Even today I struggle because, as I’ve mentioned in another recent journal, I’ve prayed tirelessly for the last twenty years for the opportunity to meet a good woman and start a family and to take on an income that would make doing so possible—my prayer obsession today and rival to any amount of heart I had devoted to my Transformers collection of yesteryear—and yet everything that looks like an opportunity is in fact a misread. I feel like my hands have gone bloody from all the asking, seeking, and knocking I’ve been doing. It has become more than an Optimus Prime moment for me. It has been my Sunstreaker. Sometimes the waiting for it leaves me in pieces. It’s not just a deep-seated hope that constantly eludes me; it’s the thing that keeps my faith on edge. It’s the thing that, in spite of those messages of hope I sometimes receive, whether through the words of a stranger or the acts that God performs through His sovereign hand, I still wait for, and trust Him for, and even respond with hope when the opportunity seems to arise, and it leaves me discouraged when that hope is shattered by someone else’s free will taking it all away, giving me no opportunity to fight for it, or punishing me with abandonment when I decide to fight for it anyway. When those messages of hope arise, it feels like thievery and broken promises when circumstances call for their destruction. I need that reminder of the time when my dad surprised me to keep those moments from hollowing me out inside.

“And [Jesus] said to them, ‘Suppose one of you shall have a friend, and shall go to him at midnight, and say to him, “Friend, lend me three loaves; for a friend of mine has come to me from a journey, and I have nothing to set before him”; and from inside he shall answer and say, “Do not bother me; the door has already been shut and my children and I are in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.” I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything because he is his friend, yet because of his persistence he will get up and give him as much as he needs. And I say to you, ask, and it shall be given to you; seek, and you shall find; knock, and it shall be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives; and he who seeks, finds; and to him who knocks, it shall be opened.’”
-Luke 11:5-10 NAS

My dad can’t surprise me anymore, but God sure can. Many friends and family now know about my infamous “dolphin prayer” that I had prayed in late spring/early summer of 2012. As I often did and still do, I was struggling with my trust issues and how they related to prayer, and wanted to reach that state in my spirit that I could finally let go of my fears, insecurities, and senses of hopelessness, and trust God for anything and everything. I wanted to believe that “ask, seek, knock” is a real thing. So, after taking a friend’s advice to start a prayer journal, I had come up with a series of insignificant things to ask God for, things like a free dinner and an invitation to a pool party, just to see if my prayers were heard and if they had even mattered. I called it the “prayer block.” Among the things on that list included a free dinner, a free computer monitor (I couldn’t afford a store-bought one), a free car stereo (my current one had a broken CD player, and I was forgoing much needed trips out of town because I get tired without music, and I couldn’t afford to replace that either), $100 in the mail (just because why not?), all of which had since been answered within a few months (the $100 in the mail was my insurance check to replace the car stereo that was stolen from me later that year when my car itself had been stolen and its steering column damaged, and even though that $100 paid for a new car stereo with working CD player, I had never claimed that the $100 should be mine to spend on whatever I wanted or that someone else had to physically hand me the already-paid-for stereo, so I considered that two prayers answered in one). But the most insignificant member of my prayer list, one that was so easy to check as answered, the desire to see a whale or a dolphin in the wild (really, God could just tap the underside of a dolphin at that one moment I happened to be looking at the ocean, and send it just high enough above the surface of the water that I could see it, and I can call it “fulfilled”), ended up becoming that summer’s obsession, because God would not answer me, no matter how often I asked, no matter how often I sought, not matter how often I knocked, and it was driving me crazy because it was so simple—way simpler than asking Him to provide a path to that one woman that He knows would take me seriously as a love interest, and certainly way simpler than leading my dad to the right store at the right time with the right amount of money in his pocket to bring home the ever-elusive Sunstreaker.

I went to the beach three or four times a week. I’d walk the shoreline two miles north and two miles back, getting exercise and giving God plenty of opportunities to provide the answer to this prayer. For two and a half months I would persist in my prayer. “Just let me see the freakin’ dolphin,” I’d cry out. Of course, God knew what I was really asking: “Answer my freakin’ eighteen-year-old prayer.” He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t let me see that dang dolphin, in spite of me looking at the ocean, the place where dolphins live, giving Him many opportunities to show me. I had started this prayer in early June. By late August, I had given up asking. It was pointless. Stupid. It was obvious God would not be manipulated by my prayer block. It was obvious that He would answer only the prayers that He wanted to, and my reasons for wanting to see this dolphin weren’t in accordance to His plan, or something philosophical like that.

Or, maybe, just maybe, it had nothing to do with any of that. Maybe he was just preparing to pull a Sunstreaker on me.

That summer was the summer that I had begun getting my walking exercise at the beach. My routine was and is that I’d park on the other side of the Intercoastal for additional exercise and to save on parking fees. On a Thursday in late September, more than a month after I had stopped asking God to answer my dolphin prayer, I was walking across the bridge to head for the beach when I spotted a dinosaur perched on the seawall. It was actually an iguana, but the thing was at least two feet long and probably weighed about thirty pounds. I was tempted to take a photo of it, but because I was planning to walk the shoreline, and the turbulent ocean loves to get my pockets wet, I decided to leave my phone in the car. So I kept walking, crossed A1A, entered the beach parking lot, headed for the sand, and started my journey northward. Seeing the iguana was cool, but it was nothing I had asked for, and I didn’t give it anymore thought once I’d reached the shore.

I had completed my roundtrip walk without having any prayers answered. I wasn’t surprised. Wasn’t even thinking about it anymore. I left the shore, left the sand, headed across the parking lot and across A1A, and started walking toward the bridge. As I neared the base, a man from Pennsylvania was riding his bike toward me, mentally preoccupied with two things: the 24-pack of beer under his arm and the creature that was swimming around in the dead waters of the Intercoastal. When he pointed at the swirling wake in the water, I had said, “Oh, that iguana must’ve jumped in.” I was disappointed because I was on my way back to my car to get my phone so I could get a picture of the thing. And now it had jumped in. Needless to say, the northerner was fascinated by the prospect of seeing a two-foot lizard swimming around in the Intercoastal. Yet, he was also skeptical. “What iguana?” I told him I had seen an iguana sunning itself on the wall. Then I pointed at the location where I had seen it. Then I was surprised. The iguana was still there, right where I had left it an hour earlier. Then what was that thing swimming in the water?

Everyone, including me, thought it was a shark. It was a dark creature that swam high enough to show its round-tipped dorsal fin but not one that would surface Jaws-style to devour lizards, fisherman, or anything that someone might’ve thrown in. It was just a roving shark, seeking whatever God commanded it to seek. I thought, “Well, it’s not really what I had asked for, but it’s something.” My spirit was giving me another signal: “Everything you’ve been told is true. This is how I’ll answer your big prayer: in the place and time that you least expect it.” I didn’t know how to turn my heart and brain off enough to “least expect it” because when I pray for anything specific, especially for the deepest desires of my heart, I prepare for the possibility every time I walk out my front door, even if my faith for it is shaky. But the message was nonetheless clear to me. I hadn’t seen the dolphin, but I did see something close enough to what I had asked for that the point was made. I went to my car, grabbed my phone, got to the lizard a minute too late to get a decent photo, went back to my car, and left the park. Later, I told my mom about the shark I had seen in the Intercoastal. She looked at me with confusion, clearly knowing something about the waterway that I didn’t. “There are no sharks down by the bridge,” she told me. “What you saw was a dolphin.”

I don’t know if the dolphin became my present-day Sunstreaker, or just a present-day Optimus Prime, but seeing it reminded me of something real, true, and maybe profound. It had certainly refueled my faith. It had reminded me that God hears me. It had reminded me that He’ll even answer me—in His timing and in His way. Yeah, I could’ve just gone to Sea World or the Miami Seaquarium to check this one off my list. Sometimes faith requires action, and sometimes we answer our own prayers, or, as some people have made popular, “make our own luck.” But I’m convinced that action can be anything, and letting God answer prayer His way and through His wisdom is far more satisfying to me, and sometimes less costly, sometimes, than doing it myself. After all, I’m an idiot. I thought seeing dolphins from the beach or a boat was the only way to see them. Nope, God knows better how to reach me and how best to answer my prayers and how, incidentally, to best surprise me.

“I’ll answer your big prayer in the time and place that you least expect it.” Kind of like waking up on a Sunday morning to see Sunstreaker sitting on my dresser, in spite of me never telling my dad I wanted it, but God knowing that my heart desired it more than anything else in childhood. It didn’t matter that Sunstreaker was one of the clunkiestly-designed Transformers from the original series or that he was the hardest one to use given how badly the toy company designed his arms. What mattered was that I had needed my heart fulfilled, and God used an incompetent dad and poorly-designed toy to remind me that faith is not a temporary thing, that all prayers are heard even if we don’t like the answers or solutions, and that we shouldn’t let circumstances convince us that what we hope for is impossible. Because I couldn’t make a dolphin pop up out of the ocean or feel satisfied that God had answered my prayer in His special way if I had to look for it at an aquatic preserve, and because I couldn’t do anything on my own to see, much less own, Sunstreaker, I know that sometimes I’m at God’s mercy. Yet, it’s at His mercy that our prayers seem to have the biggest impacts.

“Ask, and it shall be given to you; seek, and you shall find; knock, and the door shall be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it shall be opened. Or what man is there among you, when his son shall ask him for a loaf, will give him a stone? Or if he shall ask for a fish, he will not give him a snake, will he? If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him! Therefore, however you want people to treat you, so treat them, for this is the Law and the Prophets.”
-Matthew 7:7-12 NAS

I may still struggle with asking God for the desires of my heart. Those feelings of robbery and broken promises surface every time I respond to an opportunity in faith, especially those that come to me in a time and place I least expect, and the person that could be the instrument to fulfill that hope and that prayer has other plans in mind. Even with God’s sovereignty, free will takes all bets off the table. Dad didn’t have to bring home Optimus Prime or Sunstreaker. Likewise, he didn’t have to blow all of his money at the comic book convention when his kid and his kid’s friends trusted him to take them to Six Flags Atlantis. But sometimes he did his part and listened and responded. Eventually I made it to the water park, as did my friends. It was a year later, and my mom had to take me, but I got there. One day I’ll get my own family started. Eventually, someone will discover the desire stirring in her heart and respond favorably. I know that discovery will happen by divine appointment. God, like my earthly father, has a habit of surprising me when I least expect it.

It has become my core understanding. And it all started with a yellow Lamborghini that could transform into a robot.


The Christmas Reaper

More than five years later, the subject matter behind this one still kinda haunts me.

Originally posted to MySpace on:

December 21, 2008:

Three weeks ago, I was told to start leaving my cat, Sniffy, inside the house at night. Raccoons had built a nest somewhere near the backyard Schefflera tree and they’ve been sleeping only during the day. Not that I’d consider that a problem, of course, because they’re just raccoons and don’t really bother anyone. But someone had told my mom that raccoons are overgrown rodents, and natural enemies of cats, and can kill cats. So my cat, Sniffy, the backyard prowler, has to stay in at night despite his whining.

I left him inside overnight maybe three times since.

He can take care of himself. He always does.

Two weeks ago, I went for a walk to clear my head. My creative life had hit one disappointment after another, and I just had to re-collect myself, so I put on my flip-flops and headed for the sidewalk. It was pushing eleven o’clock at night. It was also chilly. And I had no jacket. And my incentive to walk was replaced by a thirst (for an actual beverage, not a metaphor for anything else), and not strong enough to warrant continuing, though I continued anyway because I was still discouraged over creative problems. So I walked about a block or so, contemplated whether to keep walking; then I stopped. I saw something furry in the street.

It was small, lumpy, lying in a puddle of liquid or some kind of grease spot, and clearly road-kill. Cars were coming—it’s a busy street after all, not some quiet residential road—and probably destined to do what other vehicles had already done, which was to run it over some more. And since road-kill wasn’t my problem, I kept walking.

Until it moved.

I looked back. It was the size of a kitten. And lumpy. Not squished.

Traffic had drawn closer; though, being that it was eleven o’clock on a Sunday night, it wasn’t coming in volume, or particularly quickly, so I had time to investigate this moving object.

And it was definitely a kitten. And it was still alive.

I thought it was dying—maybe three inches from death—so I wasn’t sure it was worth going into the street for (a girl from high school had died over something similar years ago). But it still moved, and traffic had yet to run me over, so I took the chance and scooped the creature off the pavement, uncertain if it would even come up in one piece. And it was shaking.

Then I had to figure out what to do with it. It was, after all, eleven o’clock at night in a not-so-upscale neighborhood, and the closest neighbor it could’ve belonged to had a “Beware of Dog” sign on his front door.

I took it home.

My sister is something of a pet nurse (not officially; she’s just good at taking care of animals), so I told her she had a “project.” She immediately took the kitten and started cleaning it up when she noticed its mouth was bleeding. The kitten had bitten through its tongue.

We kept it overnight, gave it water (which it didn’t drink), and waited to see what would happen over the course of the next couple of days before deciding whether to take it to the shelter or chance contacting neighbors about it. Because I found it in the middle of the street at one hour to midnight, however, I decided that taking it to the neighbors—if it had in fact belonged to anyone at all—would’ve meant dooming it to another night spent underneath passing cars, so I decided that if it lived for the next couple of days, we’d take it to the shelter.

“How’s she doing?” I asked my mom the next day, when I was heading off to work.

“She’s dying. Or still in shock. But she hasn’t been drinking anything.”

I prayed, of course. I didn’t rescue a kitten from the street just to have it die on me. It was supposed to go to the shelter and bless some kid. Or best case scenario, Barack Obama would hear about the kitten, request to adopt it, and the kitten’s story would become a feature in Time magazine and tickle the world. Either way, it wasn’t supposed to die.

Well, it recovered, we didn’t take it to the shelter after all that, and now she—my sister called her Nami—thinks she owns the house.

Now I have a third cat.

My other cat, Nova, has this tendency to get nervous around new felines, regardless of their age. Nami is the third rescued kitten to come into this house since the summer of 2007, and the third one to put Nova’s whiskers in a bunch. To show her contempt of the situation, she has spent the last two weeks running outside at any chance she could get.

A couple of nights ago, I heard a really aggressive cat fight take place out back. I went out to break it up, but all participants had already scattered. With my socks now covered in grass, I went back inside.

The following evening, or last night if you’re keeping score, my family told me to start covering the furniture with blankets. Apparently, Nova was the one in that fight, and was still bleeding from it (a day later). She didn’t seem off-kilter initially, but then I took a closer look and realized just how bloody she had gotten.

Turned out, though, it was just her mouth that was bleeding, and all that red fur had to do with her cleaning and biting herself.

That was last night.

This morning, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. Well, not a knock—a pounding. I got up, opened the door, and saw my sister standing there with a somber look on her face.

“Really bad news,” she said.

Oh no, I thought. What happened to the cat now?

“Uncle Lee died this morning.”

* * *

It was just before 9:30 when she woke me. My alarm was about a minute from going off anyway, but 9:30…it wasn’t the first time that had happened. I just stood there, as anyone would from receiving such news first thing in the morning, and didn’t really know what to say. What was I supposed to do with that?

He was 44.

I didn’t know what to do with it, so I turned around and closed the bedroom door.

Everyone deals with this kind of thing eventually. These surprises, in essence, aren’t surprises at all but inevitabilities with undetermined clocks. Sooner or later the alarm goes off.

But then, after considering this moment, I have to wonder just how undetermined that clock can be. When you’re fast asleep, you have no idea the end of dreams is coming. Or you might, but you’re not aware of the time. Then it comes and snatches you away from your vision of purple monkeys dancing in a tree. And it’s over.

Always. It always ends.

Freaking alarm clock.

I suppose the news itself isn’t what bothered me, though. Well, it did, but I had known for several weeks that the possibility was coming (though I refused to believe it—he had to be the one man in my family to break the fifty barrier by more than two years)—just like I knew that when my head hit the pillow last night, my alarm clock would buzz soon enough. No, the thing that weirded me out most about this was the patterning. And the timing. The fact that maybe the clock had already been set.

First of all, Christmas is coming. In just four days. Four days. Never a good time to lose a family member. The holidays are brutal enough without that cherry on top.

But I suppose it’s not unusual that someone, somewhere, has to lose a family member so close to the holidays. The peer group for such an occasion, I imagine, is larger than I realize.

But as I said, there’s more to this than timing. There’s the patterning. The fact that my alarm clock goes off at roughly the same time every morning, regardless of my dream state.

Thirteen years ago, at just a few minutes before 9:30, my mom burst into my room and woke me. It was on December 29th, 1995. Four days after Christmas.

“The hospital called,” she said. I was still groggy. “It’s more serious than we thought. It wasn’t a heart problem. Dad had an aneurysm and he’s in a coma. They don’t think he’ll make it through the day.”

And they were right. He didn’t make it through the day. In less than twelve hours he was gone.

Four days after Christmas.

Christmas. Four days.

I suppose that peer group is a bit smaller now.

My uncle was beside him when that alarm clock finally buzzed thirteen years ago. I doubt that, as he saw his brother pass away before his eyes, however, he knew his own Christmas alarm clock was about to set.

Now, I’m not gonna pretend I understand any of this. It could just be weirdness through and through. But then I think of a New Year’s invitation I have this year and wonder how many different clocks are running. There’s a woman my mom had worked for back in the eighties and early nineties that I’m sure I haven’t seen since my dad’s funeral, which happened ten days after his death. This year, that same woman is throwing a New Year’s Eve party and we’re all invited. That’s ten days from now. I haven’t seen her since January 8, 1996, if memory serves me.

How many clocks are really running here?

That said, I’m now officially the oldest male in my family. And I’m only thirty-two. And I’m reeling. And while my biggest question in all of this still remains, “Why the hell am I sleeping in the same room after thirteen years—is the economy really that bad?” I still have to wonder, do I have a chance at breaking fifty? Only one man in four generations has done it, and he made it only to fifty-two. Will I be the first to see fifty-three? Sixty? Or will I have to hear that blasted alarm clock at a few minutes to 9:30 again?

This has nagged me since I was nineteen. And I’ve tried to make the most of my life since. And while I’m not particularly afraid of death, I am afraid of dying without having anything to show for my life. As of now, despite my bloody, sweaty, tear-filled efforts, I’ve yet to achieve my dreams or create a legacy. I’ve written a couple of novels, yes, but I have close to twenty ideas still on my plate, and I have to complete each one if I’m to feel like I’ve done my job. And none of them are published yet. And none of them have been made into a movie. And ten of them belong to the same story arc. I have to finish them. Sometime between now and the next twelve to twenty years. And then there’s the legacy. I’ve had zero luck with women. My whole life. Zero. And I’ve never gathered why. And while those same women I’ve had zero luck with have tried to convince me in subtle ways that I don’t need romance, relationships, or whatever, and that to expect it from anyone, especially them, is to lessen my need of God—easy way out for them, I suppose, though I never figured out why they even wanted the escape clause—they somehow conveniently forgot to understand that the whole point of seeking out marriage and intimacy, and those little dates that lead to marriage and intimacy, is to ensure that I can leave a legacy behind once my clock finally expires, which I’m certain now, is coming, and probably sooner than I’d like.

People used to ask me when regarding the affairs of my life (like the career, marriage, and all of that), “What’s the hurry? You have your whole life ahead of you.”

My answer, though never in so many words, has generally boiled down to this: “Isn’t it obvious?”

Now, after the events of today, I can add a secondary response that states, plainly: “You’re delusional if you really think that,” in case they still don’t get it.

Though, in fairness, they don’t ask the question much anymore. In fact, they don’t ask me much about anything. I suppose they think thirty-two is kinda late for one to be getting his life in motion. Even when he’s spent every day since high school trying to make life happen.

What’s the hurry?

In case it isn’t obvious, my head is still spinning.