When the news came that his father had died – “slipped away,” a nurse told him, as if he had gone out for milk – Eddie felt the emptiest kind of anger, the kind that circles in its cage. Like most workingmen’s sons, Eddie had envisioned for his father a heroic death to counter the commonness of his life.
We are taught that we come from God, that we were created in His image, but the things we do as we grow, the way we behave, what is godlike about that? And the terrible things that befall us? How does a supreme being permit them?
And then he wakes up. Sweating. Panting. Always the same. The worst part is not the sleeplessness. The worst part is the general darkness the dream leaves over him, a gray film that clouds over the day. Even his happy moments feel encased, like holes jabbed in a hard sheet of ice.
It is the inner torture of every captured soldier, the short distance between freedom and seizure. If Eddie could only jump up and grab the wing of this plane, he could fly away from this mistake.
Men adapt to captivity, some better than others.
The hands on Eddie’s childhood glass then were hard and calloused and red with anger, and he went through his younger years whacked, lashed, and beaten. This was the second damage done, the one after neglect. The damage of violence. It got so that Eddie could tell by the thump of the footsteps coming down the hall how hard he was going to get it.
Just stop, ok? Can’t you see we’re slowly dying here? “People are slowly dying everywhere – they are continuously living. Every moment they draw breath, they can find glory I put here on Earth, if they look for it”. TBH, this feels more like Hell.
But out here, adrift, you realize how often we take our placement on this Earth for granted.
The air went dead. All sounds disappeared. It was like that T. S. Eliot poem, “the still point of the turning world,” as if the entire planet held its breath.
By this point – already a strapping young teenager – Eddie only nodded back. Unbeknownst to him, he had begun the ritual of semaphore with his father, forsaking words or physical affection. It was all to be done internally. You were just supposed to know it, that’s all. Denial of affection. The damage done.
Praise for Tuesdays with Morrie.
With each passing sunset, our hope grows depleted, and we no longer feel like passengers of anything. We are souls adrift.
Some would say that you meet the Lord.
Everyone in this parish is going to die!’ “The minister looked around. He noticed a man in the front pew, smiling broadly. “‘Why are you so amused?’ he asked. “I’m not from this parish,’ the man said. ‘I’m just visiting my sister for the weekend.
It is never too late or.
A deckhand, a haircutter, and a cook. Really useful out here.
Who was this stranger, LeFleur.
Why would God sleep?
We can’t play God.” “Why not? God isn’t doing anything about it.
Idea people need to be around other idea people. They spur each other to change the world.