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I really shouldn’t be left alone.

Cathy and the kids are out of town this weekend.  I had to work, so I was unable to go with them.

That means I’m home.

All by myself.

Now, if you were watching a sitcom, there would be images of wild parties, road trips, mistaken identity, time spent in a foreign jail, a mad dash back home, frantic cleaning, and a collapse in my easy chair just as the family walks through the door.

This is not a sitcom.

This is my life, and apparently I am boring.

So, you can pretty much fast forward to the “collapse in my easy chair” part of the story.

I’m not saying it isn’t exciting.  I watch movies I have already seen (that way if when I fall asleep, I don’t miss anything).  I do dishes.  I read “Youth Fiction” adventure novels and wish I were there.  I have serious bonding time with the dog, sitting and staring at the front door…waiting…

So, yeah, I’m saying it isn’t exciting.

I’m afraid that after nearly twenty years of being part of an “us,” the whole bachelor weekend thing is pretty much wasted on me.  I always have these grand plans about how much I am going to accomplish with the place to myself, but when I’m alone, I mostly wander the house… “checking.”  I don’t know what I’m even checking for—I mean, what, do I think my son will have magically reappeared in his room?  That would be a spooky.

Here’s another weirdness.  Being alone makes me feel vulnerable in a way I never feel when the family is here.  It makes no sense—I mean, in theory I’m the one most capable of defending the home, and I don’t have the added worry of protecting my lovelies.  All I can tell you is that when I am alone in the house I jump at every sound and, on at least two occasions, I have shrieked like a little girl.  This never happened back in the days when I actually lived alone.  I mean, I used to live in a cabin in the mountains, totally isolated from civilization, kinda.  I never got scared.

Except for the raccoon incident, but that’s another story for another time.  And besides, that thing was huge.

And what happens if I get hurt?  Just now, I went upstairs to check—I know—and I tripped going up the stairs.  Actually, it wasn’t so much a trip as it was a foot malfunction.  I mean, I didn’t step far enough, and only my toes made contact with the step, so when I put weight on my foot I hyperextended my toes and fell flat on my face.

Seriously, this just happened, not three minutes ago.  It still hurts.

So what if I had been going down the stairs, instead of up?  Who would have been there to scrape my broken bits off the tile?  The dog?  First of all, the dog is the cause of most of my stumbles, between ill-placed chew toys and an affinity for sleeping on the stairs.  Second, you should see the dog right now.  She is lying on the floor, facing the front door, one eye open and one ear cocked.  She wouldn’t come looking for me until she got really hungry—and you can take that any way you want.

It occurs to me that my posts are better when the family is here.  No doubt I have made some grammatical errors that my beloved would have caught.  My daughter would have asked why I wrote about something as humiliating as falling up the stairs, prompting me to remove that bit, and my boy would be pushing me to tell the raccoon story, which I probably would have told but which is even more embarrassing than falling up the stairs.

Fortunately for you, the family will be home next week.

I suppose I could get deep and reflective here, and talk about how my identity as Husband and Father has filled me to the point that I have difficulty functioning in any other context.  I could provide relevant data as to the commonality of this condition, and discuss the social and psychoemotional consequences—both positive and negative—associated with it.

I could.  And it would be fascinating.  But I’m going to leave you to work that part out for yourself.  I have pressing business.

I have go stare at the front door.

I sign my name, and you are no longer mine.

Just like that.

For a decade we have been together, but now it is over.

Please, don’t look at me that way.

You understand, don’t you?  It’s not your fault.  I don’t blame you.  You have been a faithful friend, an excellent companion.  You were there for me morning after morning, mile after mile, and I thank you.  For years you were the soul of reliability—I admit you were so rock steady, I took you for granted, and for that I apologize.  I never questioned whether you would be there when I needed you.  You simply were.

Oh, there were always issues. You know that’s true.   At first, I chose to see them as lessons God was using you to teach me.  Your broken air conditioner taught me to endure hardship and appreciate the blessing of a cool breeze—rare though that be in summer.  Your broken driver’s door taught me to be thankful that I was limber enough to climb in through the passenger side and over the gear shift.  The fact that neither door would lock taught me to hold loosely to worldly possessions, since items left in you would likely go missing.  Your broken radio caused me to unplug from the world and spend more time in prayer.  The rust spots, torn seats, cracks in the dash wide enough to use as a drink holder—which was fortunate since the regular drink holder was broken—all of these just pointed to the passing of time, the ravages that come upon all of us in a fallen world.  After all, I’ve gained some rust spots of my own in the time we’ve been together, along with assorted cracks and tears.  If anything, the external cosmetic issues served to highlight your internal strength and reliability.  So many times we passed beautiful, shiny cars broken down by the side of the road, or strapped to a tow truck, and I patted your sticky steering wheel in thanks.

But then things began to change.  The trips to the mechanic became more frequent, and more costly.  My mantras, “It’s really just maintenance,” and, “Hey, it beats a car payment,” began to ring hollow.

You never stranded me away from home, and for that I will always be grateful.  You always seemed able to rally enough to make it to the mechanic, or at least to our driveway.  Do you remember that morning outside the orthodontist?  Completely dead, until the tow truck arrived.  Then, Sweet Loretta, you rallied for one last start, and made it to the mechanic under your own power.

Then came The Day of the Transmission.

It was so sudden.  From mild slippage on Sunday afternoon to massive meltdown on Monday.  You struggled so valiantly to shift gears, but there was nothing left.  Still, you fought like a champion to gain the refuge of the mechanic’s garage.  You refused heroic measures, arriving under your own power, trapped forever in secondish gear.  Wrapped in your own dignity, you shrieked your defiance of time through the horrible sound of grinding metal, leaving little pieces of yourself along the road.

I remembered our first road trip together as I coaxed you through our last.

Yes, Loretta, I could have given you a new transmission.  But the cost would have been too high.  Please understand that, though my heart considers you priceless, my wallet had reached its limit.

To everything there is a season.

A time to be born, a time to die.

A time to hold on, a time to let go.

I hope that you rest peacefully, knowing that you will continue to live on in other cars.  You, who have always been a giver, can now give all that you have to keep other Berettas on the road.  Be happy, my friend.  You have earned it.

As for me, I’m very glad people aren’t cars, and that when my time comes I will go in my entirety into glory.  I’m very glad that there is no such thing as a spiritual Pick-a-Part.

Although that is an interesting concept…

Vacation.

It’s a lovely word.

Friends, I am taking a week off.  I hope you mind, I hope you miss me, I hope you come back at the end of the week.

I’ll have a post up this Saturday, and we’ll get back to the One-a-Days next Monday.

God be with you, this week and all weeks.

**note–My apologies to those of you who are wailing and gnashing because I missed the last two weekend posts.  Fret not, I’ll have something for you this weekend.  Let’s just say that I was compelled to attempt household repairs again, with predictable results.  In the meantime, I hope you are still getting your One-a-Days.

My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place.  When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body.  All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.  (Psalm 139:15-16)

You are so very important to God.  Don’t believe the lies the enemy or your own insecurities might tell you.  You never go unnoticed; you are never forgotten.  From the day he first came up with the idea of you, he has watched and woven and written your life into being.  And he will continue until he brings you into glory…and beyond.

Take that, Monday!

“For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord,

“Plans to prosper you and not to harm you,

Plans to give you hope and a future.” (Jer. 29:11)

Cathy once saw a church play in which little notes would come wafting down from the rafters into the hands of the main characters.  The little notes were from God and contained explicit instructions for immediate situations.

I want that.

Please. (more…)