Pasta, a Clog and a Really Long Snake

I'm forcing myself to sit and write. Therefore, I preface this post by saying it won't be my best. After writing every day in March, I'm exhausted. The same thing happened last year, and I didn't write anything – other than birthday cards – until November's NaNoWriMo. That's too long of a break, and my dream of becoming a published writer won't happen by sitting idly by. Well, not idly by. I teach full-time, then yard work becomes my nine-to-five profession (or obsession) during the summer. Who needs a gym membership when you're lugging around buckets of rocks from one side of the yard to the other? Besides, it's a good time to flex for my wife, who spends her outdoor time floating in the pool. It's okay. She deserves it. 

 

We're blessed to have our home, and the more dirt I get under my fingernails (my garden gloves look more like glovelettes, a shout-out to all my Harley friends…which are currently zero), the more I give glory to my creator. 

 

I figured it may be a good time to write after having a one-hundred twenty-five-foot snake in my house this week. Don't get too excited (or frightened); that sucker cost me over three-hundred bucks. Yep, the plumbers were beckoned by a regurgitating garbage disposal. What? How did that happen? Oh, right. Pasta. Lots of pasta. But it wasn't the leftovers making the disposal spit up like a newborn. 

 

It was years of build-up. A slow clog taking over twenty years before it reached its limit. Part of being a writer, a big part, actually, is observing. It makes sense that my encounter with a snake in my house would get me thinking about how humans are no different than water pipes. The fact that the snake was on the brim of the sewer at one-hundred twenty-five feet is symbolic. One can't help to think of Shawshank Redemption because, like Andy, my pasta, along with a little bit of god-awful gook, made it safely to the other side. Who would've thought the price of freedom for sauce-stained noodles would be so steep?

 

So long, my tasty cylindrical friends. May the meatballs ever be in your favor.

 

With this experience, I reflected on circumstances preventing me from reaching my potential and my freedom from grease-induced clogs. Water always finds a way unless it's in a clogged pipe. Minus any perforations, the water sits there. Stagnant. Preventing anything good from coming along – redemption, salvation, joy. 

 

It's the human condition. We work hard all day, all week, with aspirations waiting in the shadows, anticipating the light needed for growth, and life gets in the way. Or, in my case, we let things build up, blockading our dreams and desires. The absence of healthy avenues to unchain the necessary light ultimately drains us. Actually, "drain" would be a good thing in this metaphor. How about depletes? Either way, it impedes the importance of positive outlets.

 

Which I do have. I've discovered new music and authors in the last few years and have my reading, writing, walking and yardwork. These help and should suffice, but I need more. These are solitary activities essential for the heart, mind and soul. 

I need more. 

 

I need a consistent small group (I miss you guys) and weekly softball games mixed in with some tennis and hiking. I wouldn't mind if my best friend moved to Virginia, either. But I don't have those now, which leads to a fundamental question: Do I do something about it, or do I become my own clog. The latter, let's admit, sounds gross. It goes without saying the former is the only choice. 

 

But how often are we the culprit of our own stuffed drainage pipe? How often do we find ourselves at the end of a hundred-foot pipe on the edge of the sewer when it all could've been prevented in the first place?

 

We are victims of complacency. At least, I am. I get too comfortable in my routines, too exhausted from daily demands, but there is a workaround. It only takes us prying ourselves from our realm of comfort. No big deal, right? If only. We don't want to get to the end of our lives (we never know when that is) and tell ourselves the ultimate lie: I didn't have time. Or worse, the ultimate utter of regret, I wish I…

 

Because we do have time. If there's time to binge-watch TV shows, then there is time. You could call a friend, join a group, or take the next necessary step in obeying the insistent and consistent voice within, reminding us we are meant for more. That voice doesn't lie. Truth is only distorted if we victimize ourselves, allowing uncontrollable forces to puncture our spirits.

 

I am the culprit for running after my dreams for so long and not having anything to show for it. I let circumstances such as finances, idiotic statements comparing ancient rocks to modern guns, lack of competent leadership and inflation get the best of me. And by that, I mean anger me. I wish I could take everything with a grain of salt. Instead, I them with a grain of sand, and then the wind blows it in my eyes and mouth. The grains of grit blind me, slow me down and ultimately drop me on the soggy ground of defeat. It's not easy picking yourself up, which is why we need those outlets. Those positive community connections. They are the forklifts when we need them most. More importantly, it gives us a chance to lift others up. Otherwise, we reach our boiling point. We bubble with anger, stress and frustration. This does no one any good. Only harm.

 

Perhaps this is why my life lacks strong, solid relationships with my daughters. I know it's normal when raising teens. At least some of it, but I fear the lack of healthy outlets has irreversibly damaged the one thing I want most in life.

 

While I continue sharpening my observation skills as a writer, I must do the same as a dad and husband. I need to seek out the windows of opportunity that will strengthen my relationships. Finding the window isn't enough. I need to get to the other side, but not by going around it. I must go through it. We all do. If they're anything like my windows at home, hard to open and impossible to close, then they you may need to throw a brick. Or use a hundred-twenty-five-foot snake. Be creative. Just get through. What's holding you back? A glob of potentially-pipe-clogging noodles? You're better than that. The voice within guarantees it.

-rg

 

Poem: Across Lifeless Limbs

Poems are still few and far between for me. Maybe you'll see why when you read it, but I was overcome with several images I had to wrap up in a story. As I write my new novel for NaNoWriMo, I have been writing about characters whose past has been a thorn in their side. Sometimes simple things such as thorns are deeper than we think. As years of neglect wear on,  our past, if not dealt with, digs deeper into our souls. But the past can be a gateway. If we stare at it, nothing changes. But if we surrender to it, we also surrender to what is to come.

                          Photo by: Andy Heatwole

Across Lifeless Limbs

stepping out over long shadows

across lifeless limbs

breathless breathing

defending

as the past attacks

walking backward, fists tied

on dead-end winding roads

shards of reverie

have a hold, pin down

isolation in colliding waves

reaching deep

extracting dreams you will never see

visions of what we can only feel

fever high

in lows of life

if it hurts your life

it hurts your soul

keep searching for 

bold rhythms that bind

eyes on bends of light never fold

no more fences keeping strangers in

put to dust isolation

seek and find wide-open arms

in ebbs of flows of empty rooms

unwrap the past 

surrender to what’s to come

if it heals your soul

it saves your life

 

r.s.graybill

11.19.22

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Blessing of a Filled Woodshed

Slice of Life: Day 5

Sixteen months ago, our dream of owning a single-family home became a reality. An expensive one, but that is for another time. Our family of five loved our townhouse in Lake Ridge, VA, but the elbow room with three growing girls was diminishing.

With the help and whole-hearted dedication from our realtor – who is now a great friend – we found what we were looking for. And more. Ever read, He Came With the Couch? Well, our house came with a pool. Being older, it quickly consumed all of our money. But with the pandemic causing us to miss out on seeing friends and family, it was an absolute blessing to hang out with people we had not seen in a long time. It also came with a decent-sized yard – something I wanted because I enjoy yard work; planting seeds and flowers, mowing, trimming trees and learn-as-I-go landscaping.

With the heavy snowstorm snapping several branches, I had my work cut out for me. Literally. The piles of sticks, limbs, and branches increased after shaping a tree out back and tearing down a dead one. With the weather in the fifties yesterday and the late afternoon sun shining at the perfect spot, I took my tools out back and began cutting the pile into fire pit-sized pieces. Visions of roaring flames surrounded by friends roasting marshmallows filled my head while the work soothed my spirit. Mat Kearney tunes helped too.

Growing up, we had the most amazing house ever. A small hill off 896 led us back into a world all our own (mostly) where we were isolated in the forest but not too far from school, church and family. Surrounded by woods, there was always something to do. We lived by an unwritten rule, hanging in the hall in its proverbial frame; Though shall work before though shall play. Okay, my Old English needs fine-tuning, but that was the gist. Saturdays were spent mowing, raking and chopping wood – filling up the woodshed, so the stove in the basement never grew cold. The chores instilled a work ethic and a life philosophy of doing it right the first time means you don’t have to do it again. Or, maybe it was if thou doeth right…well, never mind.

What I loved the most was looking out over the property and admiring the freshly laid mulch, trimmed grass, and woodshed filled to the brim. When finished, I’d stand back admiring the work, or rather the change our hard work created. Now, I do the same. Whether it’s a diminishing woodpile or a row of a hundred sunflowers lining the fence, I stand and admire the land. My wife makes fun of me for standing, nodding, hands on my hips, “surveying” because I’m proud of what I’ve done or thinking about what I want to do next.

I feel I need to accomplish something during the day before sitting on the couch at night. Downtime needs to be earned. When my older brother was here a couple of weeks ago, he brought up a good point I hadn’t considered before. He, too, is the same about working and earning time to relax. It’s the blessing of a filled woodshed. He asked me if I think it is related to the expectation of working before playing or going out on dates when growing up. I didn’t need to give it another thought. It’s exactly why.

My dad has resided in heaven since 2005. People do not turn into angels when they die. Another thing I know wholeheartedly is our dearly departed are still part of our lives, looking down (in a way we cannot fathom). I know when my brothers and I are together, or we’re out working in the yard or winning districts in basketball, he isn’t just watching us. He’s surveying, nodding, looking at what he and my mom helped shape. As much as I wish he were helping me with the yard work, I feel his love. I feel him nodding. Proud. 

Originally Published: March 5, 2022

My Grandpa: A Composer of Character and Grace

Yesterday, Pastor Birch did a wonderful job leading the memorial service for my grandpa. My uncle said it best when he shared with me that the best funerals are the ones that are about the person. I couldn't agree more. It is exactly how every funeral - a celebration of life - should be where both touching and funny stories are shared as well as the qualities and quirks that made them a unique individual. 

He was a great role model touching a lot of lives, which was made evident by the size of the gathering showing up to pay their last respects. 

Following is a tribute I wrote for my grandfather. I am very thankful to Pastor Birch for being willing to read it - and for reading it so well. I am touched by the kind words that some of you expressed to me, but I feel a greater sense of gratitude to you for coming and supporting our family. Whether you were local or flew or drove miles and miles, your heartfelt appreciation for my grandfather will not be forgotten.

I also want to thank Diane, Karen and Gayle, for their beautiful music as well as to those who shared stories and memories.

Here is my tribute:

Finding the words to describe a loved one that has passed and how profoundly they have affected my life is never easy. With each passing of a loved one, I reflect on how their lives were grandiose, vibrant, unique, meaningful and prevalent in their overflowing capacity of grace. A grace that was bestowed upon us with every greeting and goodbye and the fulfilled, unforgotten moments in between.

Grandpa was no different.

Twenty years ago, Linda Ellis wrote a poem called The Dash. Since then, I would like to think that most people spend more time reflecting on the small line that separates our earthly birth from our heavenly one. Until that poem was written, that small line encapsulating every hill and valley and triumph and defeat was not contemplated nearly enough. Few have composed such a magnificent life as Grandpa did. If the dash was a badge of honor, he earned it undeniably. If it were a badge representing how many he served with an attitude of grace and how those people were affected by his high standards of character, then he earned it without question.

When it came to a commitment of faith and family, Grandpa raised the bar. God and family were always, without hesitation, first. Just as importantly, it came easily. When church was in session, he'd be there. If there was a lesson to be learned, he'd teach it. When there was time to play ball with his grandsons, an opportunity to show off his fancy pitches – each one with the promise that it was unhittable – he would take it willingly.  If there was a sporting event, a birthday, or anything involving family, he was there. Usually right next to my dad.

Few have composed a magnificent life like Grandpa. He lived his dash with a contagious joy. Comforted by life around him whether birds at the feeder, or great-grandchildren climbing his walker, he enjoyed life like he lived it. To the fullest.

His most significant composition...well, it wouldn't take you long to figure it out if you were peering in through the window during the holidays. I think it's safe to say that his greatest love was his family. From his wife and children all the way down to his great-grandchildren. We are his opus.

Grandpa took every note the Good Lord gave him and composed a symphonic masterpiece. We, the orchestra of instruments, each unique in style, shape and sound play different notes with our own fanfares, but all playing for the same purpose. All playing variations of the same song he hummed and whistled into the fabric of our family. Each instrument, each note playing the tune of character and grace so we, like Grandpa, could epitomize the Great Conductor the best we can.

With our familial leaders only in our spiritual vision, our path looks and feels differently now. By walking together and carrying each other, we continue our journey with our backpacks filled with the tools and gifts given to us by their gracious hands. Grandma and Grandpa lived every day as if it were a beautiful day. Not once did they let one slip away.

I was at your home yesterday and I was reminded of something. It’s not a house that makes a home, but rather the love that resides there.

I love and miss you,

Ryan

Edited 7/25/20

Breaking Down Every Breaking Wave: Stanza 1

Although Bono's lyrics sometimes seem simple at first glance or initial listen, there is always an unyielding spiritual deepness in their meaning. His lyrics, like U2s music, is never on the surface. Only one listen to their latest stellar album may seem just that. Where's the rich, dark, deep, meaningful lyrics that helped make Achtung Baby one of the greatest albums in the history of music? Well, they're there, and just like so many Bible stories or even verses alone, the magnitude of their meaning and purpose transcend to multiple levels - leaving me inspired. And if you're not a fan, I encourage you to open your heart, and you too will be uplifted.

The purpose of my latest blog entry is to deconstruct their beautiful rock ballad/anthem, Every Breaking Wave - track two on Songs of Innocence.  I'll explain how this song, although unique in its own way, mirrors all of their other songs. Behind the music behind the lyrics, when stripped down, it is what they all are. A hymn. A hymn as powerful as all the breaking waves that come our way.

The following is my own personal interpretation. With all great writing comes varying interpretations. Bono may have had a completely different story in mind. Although after years and years of reading the meaning behind his writing, I feel I'm pretty close to hitting the nail on the head.

Every breaking wave on the shore

Tells the next one there'll be one more

Breaking waves represent the fingertips of Satan. Later on, in the song, Bono refers to the sea being a friend turned enemy. Thee Enemy. And what Satan touches and ultimately destroys is overwhelming and can be frightening to anyone that doesn't put on their full suit of armor. His plans and ideas to turn and churn our lives are relentless. Trickery that may begin as a trickle only grows in strength - if we let it. We are the shore - or rather, all of God's goodness and light represent the shore. If untouched, waves crash and return to the sea...return to the enemy. But there's always one more. Always more temptation. Always a plan to destroy. And he's good at what he does. It can take us down, knock us out, and be the burden on our backs we can become accustomed too. We don't realize it's there.

And every gambler knows that to lose

Is what you're really there for

With every decision whether a choice concerning ourselves, our spouse, our family, or our work, we are gambling. Those with humbled hearts hope whatever is decided is the path God wants us to take. Sometimes we lose. It isn't our purpose to lose or to fail, but it's part of our path no matter what. The agony of defeat over a wrong decision doesn't move us backward. I don't believe we ever move backward on God's path. We simply turn in another direction. We're here to lose. It's what we do in defeat, it's the direction we face that matters. We're saved by undeserved grace, not by wealth or position. It's a gift. Jesus said, "For those that are first will be last and those that will be last will be first." What a great paradox!

Summer I was fearless
Now I speak into an answerphone

Summer, in this case, isn't talking about the season of the year, but rather a season of life enveloped in fear, hope or recklessness. The character telling the story here is speaking of a troubled time in his life. Whether he exited that stage with reflection and realization is answered in the next line. The answerphone (also known as an answering machine/voice mail) symbolizes his calling out, his prayer for a new direction - guidance on how to change his current course.



Like every falling leaf on the breeze

Winter wouldn't leave it alone

Alone

  

We are all leaves close to falling. It's not a pessimistic view, just a statement about our fragility. The enemy knows this, hence his relentless waves. He wants us to crash. He knows how easily we fall from our trees as soon as a new season (winter) comes along. We hold on tightly, but it's inevitable - we fall. The question is, do we keep an eye on the shore. Do you see the footprints of the man who picks us up and carries us?

This ends the first stanza. The song only gets more beautiful from here. I'll continue unwrapping these lyrics next time and explain that not all waves are necessarily the fingertips of the enemy, but rather choices in our lives. Satan wants to convince us that we must have everything. He wants to convince us that what we have is never enough. There's always more. If we keep chasing every breaking wave, we divide ourselves from the things that really do matter - God, family, friends.

U2. Every Breaking Wave. 2014.

Originally Posted: 11/1/14
Edited: 5/31/20

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