Flashbacks

The explosion came from somewhere beyond the thin wall opposite his bed, from his neighbor’s apartment. Loud. Frightening. Jolting him awake.

He sat up. His heart raced and cold sweat gripped his chest, arm pits, and legs. He looked around the room searching for the gaping hole that was sure to be there. Searching for the fire. The smell of burning carnage met his nostrils. He fought to control his breathing. Fought to remember where he was.

“What is it?” came the sleepy voice next to him.

“You didn’t hear that?” he gasped.

“Hear what?”

Ben listened for the screams. For the gunfire. For the chaos that was sure to come. Nothing. No sound. Even the smell was gone.

Dim light streamed in through the small apartment window, overshadowed by a staircase and the parked cars outside. He hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep.

A tender arm wrapped around his chest.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re home. You’re safe.” Her voice soft and tender.

Ben closed his eyes, but the images only became more real. He saw his friends, their dead bodies splayed out against the rocky slopes, cut to pieces by the machine gun nest settled farther up the hill. The nest had been taken, as had the hill, but not without cost. His mind cycled to the charred remains of an enemy soldier hanging from the front seat of an armored truck. His mouth gaped open. What had been flesh now crisp and black, wrapped around the skeletal remains. The other soldiers had escape from the vehicle, but they too lay dead on the ground, their bodies riddled with G.I. bullets. Hell of a thing to see.

Ben squeezed his eyes tighter, his body now shuddering uncontrollably, his mind and emotions imprisoned by the memories.

The woman beside him in bed held him closely. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re home.”

After a few moments, the shaking subsided and his breathing gradually returned to normal. The images began to fade.

“There you go. It’s all okay. You can relax.”

He allowed himself to relax into her hold. His nostrils caught the scent of her perfume. Something he had brought back from Italy. God she smelled good. He concentrated on the warmth of her body. The rhythm of her breathing. The scent of her hair.

In the distance he heard the familiar ringing of the railroad crossing, and the low rumble as a train passed through town.

He rose from the bed, walked over to the kitchenette, and filled a glass with water. The cool water moistened his dry throat. He looked at the empty glass. The water had come from a faucet, not a canteen. He took a deep breath, set the glass in the sink, and returned to the Murphy bed. The woman lay there, propped up on her elbow, her hair fallen around her shoulders. He gazed at her form, partially illuminated by the light from the window, partially in shadow. He was grateful. Grateful to be home. Grateful she still loved him. After the years apart. After the hell. He was home.

~ S.C.M

The Hospital Room

Caleb’s last memory of his mother he was not sure was even a memory. Not like a photograph faded over time proving a place existed or a scene happened, but more like overgrown ruins found along a forest path suggesting that at one time something existed. A photo rebuilds a memory as originally created. Without one, a memory can only be constructed based on imagination combined with known facts. There was no photo to go along with Caleb’s memory, just a hospital room.

The cold, sterile air did not bring Caleb comfort. The whole room was harsh, not created for comfort, but for functionality. Machines stood by the bedside with wires and plastic tubes snaking up along the frame and attaching themselves to the exposed skin of the frail woman lying helpless in the bed. High-pitched beeps sounded from one machine in uniform cadence, confirming the woman was alive. Not much of a life anymore.

Until a few months ago, the woman’s life was happily consumed with the man and two children standing next to Caleb, as well as with Caleb. To him, this woman was his whole life. Caleb could not see much of her anymore. Not much was visible except her eyes and her forehead. The rest may as well have been like those overgrown ruins, hidden underneath thin blankets, cold plastic tubes, and uncaring wires. Even her mouth was muzzled by what looked to Caleb like a large plastic shell. He could only stand there and watch, unsure of what to say or how to act. He wanted to both cuddle up as close as he could to her on the bed, and run as far away as he could from the horrible scene. Maybe he could take her away with him to a happier memory. The one where they cuddled on the water bed and she showed him her new wig or how she wrapped the blue bandana around her head. “I love you.”

Or maybe the one where he took her on a wild goose chase through the grocery store looking for the mandarin oranges. The big squishy ones wrapped in tissue paper. They had been infested with bugs and had to be thrown out, the store manager said. Memories only a few weeks old, but happier still.

A nurse had come in with Caleb and the others. She scurried about the room checking liquids and hoses and readouts and charts, and asking stupid questions like “How do you feel?” The sick woman tried to respond, her voice barely audible. She tried to remove the muzzle, the nurse stopped her. “What was that?” The question was meant to sound caring. The nurse leaned down.

“It hurts.” Weak. Desperate.

The nurse stood straight. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry.”

A short while later the woman in the hospital room died. Caleb was sitting in the living room of some friend’s home when his father came through the front door with the news. “She’s gone.”

Caleb couldn’t remember if his father cried. Or if he cried. They all must have cried.

Caleb was given a new bowtie and new vest to wear for the funeral. The clothes made him feel fancy and grown up. A man gave him a piece of Dubble Bubble gum. I guess he didn’t know anything else to say or do. Caleb put it in his pocket for later. Gum had always been a special treat.

 

 

Completely Natural

Caleb had never felt so free in all the lands, in all the world, in all his life. He was alone, in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps not quite alone. Far down at the head of the bay, he barely made out the silhouette cast by a crab boat at anchor; and around the point of the beach sat his two friends, enjoying their sandwiches and beer, and resting lazily before returning to the work they had all come to do.

It was quiet and still around him; although, it was a natural quiet. Natural quiet enhanced by the splashes made by salmon leaping from the waters. Natural quiet enhanced by the calls of ducks and geese congregating along the far shore. Natural quiet enhanced by the whoosh of eagles and ravens as they flew low over the trees. Only occasionally was the natural quiet broken by the unnatural whine of aircraft crisscrossing the sky above, carrying passengers to remote destinations not dissimilar to Caleb’s own slice of paradise.

The weather was unseasonably warm and made the water most enticing, and he was indeed enjoying his afternoon dip. He lay on his back and paddled lazily about in the small eddy created by the convergence of the incoming tide and the outgoing river. The ripples from the two movements danced and played in the shimmering sun along the edges of the eddy in melodious concert. Caleb imaged how the song might sound.

The eddy itself was not terribly deep. If he wanted to, Caleb could stand up and the water would be at his belly. At times he lay on his back and kicked about until he hit a pocket of colder water, then he would revert upright, tuck his legs up just above the sea floor, and paddle with his hands back to a warmer pocket. Nor was the water terribly murky. As he floated about, he could clearly see the rocks and small scurrying crabs beneath him. Small jellyfish shared the water around him, floating about the eddy to the rhythm of the current. Complete peace. Complete freedom.

Caleb rolled again onto his back just as the whine of another aircraft broke the quiet. The sound grew louder and he knew it would soon be in view. Caleb surmised the pilot was most likely flying his passengers over the peninsula and down the bay hoping to catch a glimpse of bears fishing for salmon upriver. Rather than a pontooned seaplane, a small white, unmarked helicopter shot out from the tall spruce trees covering the peninsula, most likely coming from one of those super yachts, owned by some mega millionaire who liked spending the summers discovering the natural beauty and wildlife of the land. Caleb watched the aircraft fly overhead, and turned his body so he could follow the flight path down the bay. As the helicopter diminished from view, and the noise along with it, Caleb kicked his feet up a little higher, stabilized his buoyancy with his hands, and smiled. He was alone. Complete peace. Complete freedom. Completely natural.

The comforter

He is coming again.
So many tasks; I am overwhelmed.
As the pressure mounts; fear creeps in
He smolders just below the surface.
Making his presence known,
Waiting for you to surrender.

Sleep is fleeting
My dreams keep me awake.
I toss and turn,
Seeking a solution
A resolution
Replaying an event
Captivated by the thoughts in my mind
I can’t shake them.

“It is okay to sleep tonight
They will be there tomorrow.”

Tomorrow comes.
The is no more song within me, the words have fled in the night.
The light waned, and I lay still in bed.
Shackled by the sheets; pinned by the comforter who provides anything but.

“Do no move, for it is nothing but trouble.”

Still nothing done;
still inadequate;
Can I just finish one?

In the heights of my despair, I look back.
I remember what is gone,
what was taken away,
what I gave up,
what I lost.

The comforter.
My false friend.
He entices me with promise of warmth and rest.
But it is all a lie.

There is no rest.
The more I stay, the more tiredness.
It cleaves to me like a sticky film of sweat after a hard day’s work.

The more I stay, the more fear tightens his suffocating grip on me.

“It is all futile!
There is no hope.
Just stay here and die with me.”

Awake! Awake, my soul!
Come Awake!
Shake off the slumber!
Throw off the comforter
Arise from the shackles
Walk freely in the Light whom has come!

Push forward.
This resistance that you feel is the final rampart.
Life is on the other side.
Push forward
Push forward
Push forward!

 

 

Springtime Singing

Last week my buddy Kyle and I (no relation to Carl) had another opportunity to share a couple of songs during the spring season of Mountainside Open Mic hosted by Marian Call and The Rookery Cafe. This has been our third set together and each one just gets better and better!

Our first song, described by Kyle as a fun, funky-monkey song, covered Matt Stinton’s and Jeremy Riddle’s (of Bethel Music notoriety) song “This is What You Do.” Aptly appropriate for a variety of reasons, one being the first day of spring was the day after our performance, and another being that springtime is my absolute favorite time of year. The song is not necessarily about springtime, but rather how the life offered through Christ is continually regenerative and fills the believer with hope and joy, as all things are made new in life. The believer truly sees the world in new light, and is able to celebrate it with excitement, hope, and joy.

Our second song, led out by Kyle, covered Portland artist Josh Garrels’ “Morning Light.” The song has been one of those songs that has gripped Kyle’s heart for most of the last year. I had heard it only once before, and fully enjoyed the rhythm and feel of the song. As I spent time learning the words I can understand why Kyle fell in love with it. The song conveys how we as people often try to walk out life in our own ways and habits, but all too often this leads to failings. The song offers hope that despite how many times we fail, God is always there to restore us with joy.

My wife, Linda, captured the set on her phone, and I’d like to share it with you. Please enjoy the video of our performance. Like, share, and comment!

Coming up….

Mountainside Open Mic has partnered with Alaska Folk Festival to present this year’s AFF Songwriter Showcase at The Rookery Cafe April 13-14 from 3-6 p.m.. I have been working on a song that I hope will be ready to present at the showcase, but I will keep you updated as the event draws nearer.

~ Stephen

Dog Fight

The large, fat man stood eight inches taller than Sam and spewed spit-laden obscenities down at him. The man’s two small dogs, now standing farther down the trail, had just moments before ran up to Sam’s black Labrador and, whether with playful or aggressive intent (it was not clear), growled, and lunged at the larger dog’s hind leg. Sam, in an effort to protect his own dog and continue his walk in peace, had made a sweeping kick with his leg to discourage the smaller dogs from continuing their aggression. Though Sam had not actually touched the smaller animals, the fat man, never the less, now stood toe-to-toe with Sam, lividly expressing his displeasure with Sam’s actions. Sam, for his part, stood his ground and calmly attempted to explain what had occurred between his black Labrador and the smaller unleashed animals.

Flanked on one side by his dog, looking rather concerned towards his owner, and by his friend Carl, with whom he had been enjoying the walk, Sam mentally evaluated how he might defend himself should the fat man raise the confrontation level. Farther up the trail, people were turned to see the cause of the commotion, and a woman returning  down the trail with her three small children had stopped to await the outcome of the argument.

Sam’s dog leash was wrapped tightly around his left hand to both protect his dog from the fat man, should the man turn his anger toward the animal, as well as limit the dog’s ability to interact with the two smaller dogs. This put Sam in a bit of bind because he was left handed, and therefore unable to utilize this hand as means of defense or attack should the need arise. Sam’s calmer demeanor and persistent defense of his actions so enraged the fat man, that he finally shoved Sam down the trail embankment.

At this, Sam’s friend, Carl, intervened, telling the man to back off. The fat man, perhaps realizing he had just committed assault or feeling he had won the conflict, took several steps down the trail, but returned when he saw Sam, still on his feet, scamper back onto the pathway. The argument ensued again toe-to-toe, with Sam calmly, but firmly, standing his ground, and the taller fat man screaming obscenities. Sam stood looking up at the man’s stubbly face, his eyes hidden behind rainbow-mirrored sunglasses and head covered with a winter fleece cap, and calculated the distance and force it would take to strike the man’s nose. He thought through the series of strikes it would take to hopefully overcome that fat man before he would have a chance to respond. Strike to the nose. Kick to the groin. Strike to the temple. Kick to the knee. Sam figured he would only get two of the strikes in before the fat man could react. But Sam’s left hand was still wrapped with the leash, and both hands were covered with thick winter gloves. Strike to the nose. Kick to the groin. Fight for your life.

The argument ended suddenly, having had no real resolution other than it simply ended. The fat man returned on his way down the trail, and Sam and Carl continued their pleasant journey up the trail. Those they passed who witnessed the confrontation asked Sam if he was alright, to which he responded he was. The two friends and the dog continued the walk until they reached the turn-around bench. Along the way they passed an off-duty police officer who had not been privy to the altercation, as well as the district attorney who, likewise, was too far down the trail to have seen anything. Sam thought it a bit of poetic justice.

Later that day, Sam and Carl rode together in a car.

“I’ve been thinking about the incident earlier today,” said Carl. “I’m really impressed with the way you handled yourself.”

“Yeah. Me too,” replied Sam.

The car continued down the highway, and the day went on.

~ S.C.M

Faded Graphite

Ben reached into his breast pocket and extracted the small, thin, tattered square of paper. It had been folded and unfolded so many times the creases were torn. The pencilled writing was mostly faded away, but Ben knew the content by heart. He had studied the paper many times. He gazed once more at the penmanship scribbled upon the note. The elegantly curved letters flowed gracefully across the paper like a melody of script. A thought formed long ago, written in visible language for him to read over and over. Was the thought still true, he wondered? Or had it faded like the graphite.

I love you.

The announcement over the loud speaker brought his mind back to the present reality. He stood from the bench, and, gathering his duffle bag and small pack, headed for the platform. He looked at the red and blue striped silver train car in front of him. He could see his warped reflection staring back, almost unrecognizable except for the uniform he wore.

All around him people scurried about, climbing into the linked cars, preparing for a pleasant journey to wherever. He looked up once more at the silver hull, gleaming in the midday sun. With a deep breath, he smiled slightly and climbed the stairs into the car.

I love you. He hoped it was still true.

~ S.C.M

February Morning

As I sit in my reclining chair and watch the morning sun reflect off the evergreens standing in a yard in the next neighborhood, it appears as though the trees are filled with the glorious golden-yellow leaves of fall; and the cold, crisp morning air almost convinces me it is a late October morning. But it is February. And February means the winter is reaching its twilight and the warmth of spring will soon break forth with new life. I am filled with anticipation and excitement for the year ahead.

Epoch

The epoch is passed
But the memories still linger
Every once in a while
A wisp of scent breezes past the nose
And a monochromatic image emerges from the mist
Revealing a guarded secret
These decayed pillars remain
A reminder of the life that once was
And will soon be again
~ s.c.m

For several weeks now, I’ve been pondered the passage of time. I often look back at epochs of my life with regret or wish that I would have changed something I said or did. I’ve spent the better part of my life mourning the past rather than looking toward the future.

The remnants of trees in the above photo are thousands of years old. They were revealed sometime around 2013-2014 when the glacier receded beyond this particular point. This photo always sticks in my my memory. I reminds me that there was a time before the glacier invaded the valley that a forest lived here, or perhaps just a grove. The last time those trees saw the light of day, felt the drop of rain, or basked in the warmth of the sun, the world was still new. Yet here I was, thousands of years later sharing the same moment of time with these decayed pillars of history. Epic.

~ Stephen

Ophelia

The movie Maverick, starring Mel Gibson, Jodie Foster, and James Garner, has always been on my top 10 list of favorite movies. It has all the elements of a fun comedy/action western flick, and is overall just an enjoyable movie to watch. It was from this movie, more specifically, the soundtrack to this movie, that I first heard “Ophelia.” The song was performed by Vince Gill.

I love the crazy mashup between New Orleans/River Boat Jazz and County Rock/Americana music the song delivers. The peppy sounds of the saxophone, trumpet, and trombones mix so splendidly with the beat of the drums and the electric guitars. I remember listening to the song over and over again when I needed a pick-me-up in my spirit. And it always delivered.

This past week, I discovered the song was written by Robbie Robertson and originally performed by The Band, an Americana Roots rock group active from the late 1960s through the late 1990s. As I typically do when I stumble across a song on the YouTube that I particularly like, I search out other groups and versions of the song to see which one I enjoy the most. I uncovered this little gem.

This version was performed by The Band at the 2008 Newport Music Festival. The drummer, Levon Helm, died just four years later at age 72. I love watching him in this video. He looks like he belongs either in a wheel chair or rocking on front porch swing somewhere, but here he is, drumming with everything he has, singing a song he’s probably sung a thousand times, and loving every minute of it. At one point near the end of the song it looks like he about pass out, but he doesn’t. He just keeps on going.

Give it a listen and tell me why you think. At the very least it will bring a smile to your face.

~Stephen