December 6, 2018

I remember, as a child, being astonished to learn that polar bears had black skin beneath their white fur, that a hummingbird could beat its wings up to 70 times per second, that a California barking spider was not a real arachnid, but rather, one my father invented to disguise the fact that he’d farted. Later, I learned other things: that it was possible for the temperature to be too cold for snow, that duct tape over a bathtub drain could suffice as a stopper, that my natural way of speaking made it difficult for some to detect whether or not I was being sincere. Even later, I learned other things still: that losing a parent rips out a child’s center of gravity (no matter how old that child is), that stress can wreak incalculable havoc on a body, that no amount of guilt can make me head down a path I know in my marrow I am not meant to walk. What I would still like to learn: what it means to let go, what it means to hold on, what it means to have a God who can bind up the tattered pieces and untie all the knots.