The day approaches near, and I feel an empty space.
My thoughts are so depressing, every turn I see your face.

Our mother’s scream still lingers, through my ears and in my head.
As her words slice through the air, “Oh God Crissy Kate is dead”.

Yes, I thought she’d lost it. But I came to realize.
That she wasn’t nuts at all, I soon saw with my own eyes.

Your body lay half on the bed and I turn to take a look.
As I flipped your body over, my entire soul was shook.

Blood oozed out from your nose, your mouth frozen slight ajar.
Your eyes were rolled inside your head. How did it get this far?

You were cold and you were stiff. You were charcoal, purple, blue.
Your entire body swollen, you just didn’t look like you.

Our mother screaming “Make her breathe”, continually she would yelp.
“Oh Crissy you have to save her”. “Oh Crissy you have to help”.

I tried desperately to revive you. Though I knew it was too late.
Dear God I want my sister. Why the hell are you taking Kate?

There was no pulse or movement, as I compressed repeatedly.
My mouth upon your discolored mouth, the only breathing was from me.

Our mother asking, “is she alive”? “Crissy is she breathing yet?
You were so cold and dark, beneath my hands, I can’t forget.

I failed to make it happen. No matter how tirelessly I had tried.
I failed to make you breathe again, beyond the door, our mother cried.

At some point my movements stopped and I took this final sight.
As my sadness and the anger, just consumed me in my plight.

You were gone and I had to tell her. “Mom, I’m sorry she is dead”.
Her scream of horror ringing on, her heart breaking with what I said.

She looked up to my eyes, and said “Oh Crissy that can’t be, tell me no”.
If I could have traded my life right then, but I held her, as we let you go.

If only I could have saved you. If only there had been some way.
If only I could have filled our Mom’s request, then you’d be here today.

Instead we watched them take you. A black body bag across the floor.
Your body dead within it, as they dragged you out the door.

As if you weren’t a person, pulling you like a fleshy inhuman blotter.
Their callousness invokes me, so I scream “that’s my sister and her daughter”.

As they thumped you down the stairs, stunned, they stop to stare at me.
They look upon the body bag, and finally they begin to see.

From the ground they gently pick you up and they move you to the Hurst .
My misery all consuming, I know my rage is about to burst.

But I have to be the strong one and I have to move along.
To be there for our loving mother, to be the rock to keep her strong.

I will not ever forget that day, because a big part of me died with you.
Regardless of the years since then, this isn’t something I can get through.

I’m sorry I couldn’t fix it sometimes the memories just make me crack.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be the one, to save you and bring you back.

I miss you and I love you and I am so sorry this was your fait.
The good of you and that horrid day will always live inside me, my sister, Kate.
My Sister Kate
The day approaches near, and I feel an empty space.
My thoughts are so depressing, every turn I see your face.

Our mother’s scream still lingers, through my ears and in my head.
As her words slice through the air, “Oh God Crissy Kate is dead”.

Yes, I thought she’d lost it. But I came to realize.
That she wasn’t nuts at all, I soon saw with my own eyes.

Your body lay half on the bed and I turn to take a look.
As I flipped your body over, my entire soul was shook.

Blood oozed out from your nose, your mouth frozen slight ajar.
Your eyes were rolled inside your head. How did it get this far?

You were cold and you were stiff. You were charcoal, purple, blue.
Your entire body swollen, you just didn’t look like you.

Our mother screaming “Make her breathe”, continually she would yelp.
“Oh Crissy you have to save her”. “Oh Crissy you have to help”.

I tried desperately to revive you. Though I knew it was too late.
Dear God I want my sister. Why the hell are you taking Kate?

There was no pulse or movement, as I compressed repeatedly.
My mouth upon your discolored mouth, the only breathing was from me.

Our mother asking, “is she alive”? “Crissy is she breathing yet?
You were so cold and dark, beneath my hands, I can’t forget.

I failed to make it happen. No matter how tirelessly I had tried.
I failed to make you breathe again, beyond the door, our mother cried.

At some point my movements stopped and I took this final sight.
As my sadness and the anger, just consumed me in my plight.

You were gone and I had to tell her. “Mom, I’m sorry she is dead”.
Her scream of horror ringing on, her heart breaking with what I said.

She looked up to my eyes, and said “Oh Crissy that can’t be, tell me no”.
If I could have traded my life right then, but I held her, as we let you go.

If only I could have saved you. If only there had been some way.
If only I could have filled our Mom’s request, then you’d be here today.

Instead we watched them take you. A black body bag across the floor.
Your body dead within it, as they dragged you out the door.

As if you weren’t a person, pulling you like a fleshy inhuman blotter.
Their callousness invokes me, so I scream “that’s my sister and her daughter”.

As they thumped you down the stairs, stunned, they stop to stare at me.
They look upon the body bag, and finally they begin to see.

From the ground they gently pick you up and they move you to the Hurst .
My misery all consuming, I know my rage is about to burst.

But I have to be the strong one and I have to move along.
To be there for our loving mother, to be the rock to keep her strong.

I will not ever forget that day, because a big part of me died with you.
Regardless of the years since then, this isn’t something I can get through.

I’m sorry I couldn’t fix it sometimes the memories just make me crack.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be the one, to save you and bring you back.

I miss you and I love you and I am so sorry this was your fait.
The good of you and that horrid day will always live inside me, my sister, Kate.

My raw and fragile heart pulsed persistently, yet there was no life to its monotonous melody. Where once rhythm and rapture dwelled together, an endless void now stood.

The feeling described above, of downright defeat, falling to that dreaded place called rock bottom, this is the space where your life changes. I’ve encountered it many times, in a variety of forms, and yet each time I find myself there, I find a new refrain with the same answer, a new consolation from a source of boundless comfort, and a new, fuller way of being. It has been my great fortune in these darkest of depths to simultaneously come face to face with an overwhelmingly abundant reminder of the necessity and presence of love- the purest, deepest love imaginable. That which an infant feels, held in the warm embrace of a caring mother’s arms.

Weightless.

Safe.

Valued beyond price.

Cared for beyond measure.

The strength of the sentiment comes and goes as life progresses from those rock-bottom places, dwindling here and dominating there. I’ve had many moments that led me to encounter this old friend, many moments that crushed my spirit, broke my heart, swept the floor out from under my feet, and otherwise left me broken- with a brokenness too heavy for words. And yet, every time I’ve broken myself or been broken by the thousand shocks and stings of life, I’ve subsequently found a pathway to healing through, ironically enough, words.

My memory of hearing the most unexpected news that my brother was gay is less a movie of the moment and more akin to a snapshot. We sit there, frozen in this most unanticipated and yet fortuitous moment, and I’m unable to speak… at least with my voice. Rather, my eyes become the messengers of the full and broken heart within me. The tears that pour out say, “How could I have been so ignorant?”

“How could I unknowingly call my brother a sinner?”

“What does this mean for the vision of the world as I’d come to know it?”

“I’m not sure of all the answers, but I am sure that I love you, then, now, and always brother.”

How I wish I’d said that last line out loud, and perhaps I did. The unfortunate truth is that I can’t recall what I said, and I struggle to see beyond that still frame shot of us, sitting in the bed, knees inclined towards each other, my brothers head bowed in sorrow, shame, and a smidgen of relief, while my face stands awash with tears and a recognition of something- the faintest whisper of my fate. That I am a small drop in an infinite sea of love, and my only purpose is to be sharing that love with everyone I meet, engaging it, walking with it, glorifying it with every breath I have to spare while I’m on this circuital and short trip around the sun.

I became a disciple of love after that paradoxical moment- the one in which a simultaneous destruction/death of the “me that was” and the creation/birth the “me I was always meant to be” transpired. Ironically enough, in becoming a believer in love, I vowed to leave behind religion, and God as I knew him.

As I knew him then, God was cruel, illogical, petty, inconsistent, and could hold his own with those ancient Olympians and all their missteps, petty squabbles, and brutality. I’d waste no more time putting stock into developing a faith in and relationship with this figure. Rather, I’d invest my mind and heart in the service of love. The love that my brother deserved and deserves. The love that lets you know you’re welcome, no matter who you are. The love that cares not for the worst thing you’ve done. The love that in filling you up completely calls on you to share it with one and all. And so, I followed this quest of love, and I still seek to serve it- for no greater love is there than this, to give up one’s life for one’s friends.

I found the best pathway to do so was to spend my life returning the gift of a good teacher. See, after this life-changing moment, I was fortunate enough to have an English teacher who cared for me and gave me the tools of the written word to work through my new identity, my new life. Thus, I became a teacher, trying each and every day to give away that beautiful and life-changing boon to my students. To share the power of hope, love, and to make clear to them that words are an outstanding access point to these most beautifully human powers. I try to live as a testament and a reminder that when our words are made flesh, we change those broken parts and pieces into something even more authentically us.

In the way that I’ve written this note, I hope that it’s no surprise to you, that I have somehow found my way back to a relationship with the creator, the one who is, the one who is love, or as I call him now, God, Jesus, my friend and redeemer. The one who takes the broken pieces, holds them in love, and allows for new connections to form.

I also hope this strange twist makes you wonder: just how did you spend ten years in agnosticism and a more than robust skepticism of formalized religion to ultimately find yourself asking in earnest for the waters of baptism and rebirth in Christ? Well, I suppose that’s a life-changing moment for another story.

Fallen

How my heart hurt beloved,
How betrayed I felt,
By this hand, so cruelly dealt.
Do you know what that’s like?
When anger, disgust,
Bitter distrust
Seep in and threaten consumption?

My angelic brother
Banished to hell.
Like Lucifer
He was dropped, and he fell.
Yet, it was no pride in my brother that created this spell,
This damnation, his being cursed to live as a shell.
It was no fault of his own.
He desired no throne,
And still, it all just makes me groan
Because the word “fault” should not be a part of the conversation at all.

This denial of love,
Does not come from above.
Hatred only lurks within the human heart.
While they all beat the same,
We still insist on differing names,
Giving us reasons to blame.
Has this been there from the start?

This fear of what’s different,
What’s outside the box,
It’s a tale as old as time.
And now I ink my version down in rhyme.
These words on the page
Bring a sense of control.
A sense that this broken age
Could be something turned into a whole.

Dear world,
The message I’m sending to you today may sound indelicate, abrasive even, and I sincerely apologize for that. I’m a part-time people pleaser trying to unlearn the more negative aspects of that personality dynamic, one of which is the notion that people should be kept happy AT ALL TIMES. That being said, I will forewarn you that my message may not make you feel happy,, but I promise you, it will bring you joy- that joy which is an abiding and abundant reality, always awaiting our approach, deliberately desiring our determined efforts to dwell within its keep.

The only way through to this true joy, requires the swallowing of a veritable buffet of what at first glance appear to be bitter pills- the first of which is the fact that you will suffer and you will die. When you swallow this truth, you free yourself from fear and despair. Suffering has the potential to be our most powerful teacher, and it can become a friend, if we are brave enough to reach out a hand. Now get me wrong, I don’t want to encourage you to intentionally seek out opportunities to get hurt or to cause suffering for others. What I mean is, suffering may be inevitable, but we can choose to transform its energy within us to strengthen ourselves and to bring that same gift of healing to the world around us as well.

Depending on how we approach the wounds we bear, we can choose to shape a future of growth and evolution. Through the shattering capabilities of grief, loss, and evil, we can learn to truly appreciate the beauty of life. That is the balancing act, seeking gratitude for life despite its myriad challenges and afflictions. We have the power to transform our hurts into growing pains.
Although, we can just as easily turn them our slowing pains. These wounds can fester and rot, weighing us down with crushing regret. What makes the difference between the two outcomes? How do we choose the better way?

We must summon the courage to swallow the bittersweet pill. I found it through writing and being still. Now I’d like to share (bear with me if you will). More words onto this page are ready to spill. Watch now how they turn to a poem. I pray they may help steer you back home.

Yo, is it true? Do I have the world’s ear?

Then the first words I’d disperse would be about fear.
Our greatest nemesis; it lives in the mirror,
Love alone beats it and can help you see clear, And without love, living’s so cavalier.

It’s hard to believe that…

The mere marvel of living, of your being here,
Can be so easily swiped up and stolen within fear’s hostile grip,
It’s right at your feet now, tryin’ and lyin’ to make you trip,
It tells you you’re tiny, an insignificant drip.

Just a
drop
in the sea.

That’s a lie, an illusion, a thought we must flee.
It’s a curse, a delusion, and we’re born just to be,
Something much greater, Dig deep and you’ll see,
That you are surely a drop
But of your own degree,
And that makes you much more,
In fact, that sets you free.

You must believe that…

There’s a little bit of you in every me,
There’s a little bit of sadness in every glee,
An infinite universe in each little inch of a tree,
A little bit of bitter coupled with every sweet.

And once you start to believe that…

You’ll come to see…

We’re shaped for our spot, and where we stay to our zone,
You’ll find in those “ruins,” that you sit on a throne.
Not just the word,
But the meaning inside it,
Abide now in peace, ever beside it.
Let the words guide you, as you grow on your way,
Let them reveal themselves like the light of new day.
Now gently breaking, now a luminous bloom,
This presence now here that could fill up a room.

The power of healing lies in each word you lay,
To learn where love’s leading, let there be no delay,
It’s calling your name, to be bold if I may,
Here’s what you have, and here’s what I pray:

You hold in your hands one moment, one day,
And I pray you’ll unfold the wonder within it, That you’ll embrace the buffet,

And in those moments of sorrow, when living looms grey,
Let the love that still lingers reshape you like clay.
Feel the power of love’s fingers arranging a novel array.

Your greatest teacher and your greatest friend lives still in the wallows, in the shattered remains of your heart,
And that broken heart within you isn’t the end,
love, it’s the start.

Dear Unsealers,

My dreams so it seems
Always happen in steams,
Moments overflowing with love.
But believing in dreams
Can lead to extremes,
So, remember the stars up above.

Care for yourself,
And realize you’re worth it.
Then help to tell others,
They also deserve it.

A dream’s what we make it,
And I know for me,
My dream is to live,
Completely
Free.

When you’re young, people often ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” It’s an exciting puzzle, and the bigger the dream, the more enthusiasm that meets it. As you grow, however, the pressure behind the question increases, and the vigorous responses are fewer and farther between. It was in this stage of life, when the world seemed to demand I pick a career and stick to it, that my notion of dreams took an unexpected turn. After all, at that point, my dream was to simply float around- a dirty, long-haired, guitar-strummin’ hippie. Boy, was that boy in for a surprise.
Although I still chafed at the idea of picking a permanent job and becoming part of what I saw to be a messed-up machine, my mentors got through to me. My scholarship shouldn’t go to waste. What harm was there in further learning?

Enrollment in the university meant declaring a major (there’s that pressure again), and in a fateful moment, I realized that teaching wouldn’t be the worst thing. After all, my English teacher had lit up my life dispelling the darkness that threatened to edge me out. She equipped me with beyond brilliant books, the power of the pen, and sent me to do some digging- into my hurt, into my power, into my truth, into my purpose.

If I could repay the lifesaving gift of a teacher who cares, well, that would be something. And, hey, summers off? Hippy time! Thus, a dream became more practical, but also so much more complex.

I got that dream job (even if it took a while to realize it), working at a Junior High, in the sweaty hormone-filled halls of the school so mid they call it middle. Despite the shenanigans, I sincerely loved it- the fruits of working with young people are incalculable. I had a great team of support around me, but it was still so heavy. And so hard. I felt like a complete failure many times those early years. Visualizing handing in my keys became a pastime.

And yet, it was my dream. Was that the secret? That embracing the reality of a dream makes your dream a reality? Seemingly at the same moment that these thoughts began to bubble in my brain, I received word that I would have to transfer to a different school due to student numbers and budgetary concerns.

Leaving the dream that I’d just begun to build? Fortune allowed me to keep a job, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d been dealt a losing hand. The change, as always seems to be the case, was brutal. I struggled and longed to return to my home school. A colleague would retire in the spring, so there was hope.

If I could only hold on for a year.

That mentality had me living a half-dream. I didn’t realize this until spring rolled around, and I did not get my dream job back. This ironic twist had the potential to crush me, but instead I stayed strong. I was the key factor in my dreams, not my circumstances. I decided then and there to reclaim and build upon the dream: to be fully me and more importantly to start rapping for my students. That single choice changed my classroom and my life in ways that could (and hopefully will) fill books.

3 years later, the principal of dream school 2.0 informed me that the graduating class selected me to speak at commencement. This was the class. The group of kids who caught my first rap. Who saw me, believed in me, and helped me recreate a dream. Those were the students who witnessed my decision to lean into vulnerability, to own my expertise, and to unapologetically love myself. I couldn’t wait to have one more moment together on our serendipitous journey.

I mostly kept to tradition and filled the speech with cliches, cheesy jokes, and of course, life advice from Shakespeare, but I couldn’t resist signing off with a rap. Standing on that stage, spittin’ bars in front of those kids- who’d grown so much, who’d made me so proud, who’d driven me so crazy, who’d helped me build a new home- now that was a moment that makes you pinch yourself.

So, yes, I’m living my dream. Still, I wish more people asked me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”