“What a wee little part of a person’s life are his acts and his words! His real life is led in his head and is known to none but himself. All day long, and every day, the mill of his brain is grinding, and his thoughts, not those other things, are his history. His acts and his words are merely the visible, thin crust of his world, with its scattered snow summits and its vacant wastes of water—and they are so trifling a part of his bulk! A mere skin enveloping it. The mass of him is hidden—it and its volcanic fires that toss and boil, and never rest, night nor day. These are his life, and they are not written, and cannot be written. Every day would make a whole book of eighty thousand words—three hundred and sixty-five books a year. Biographies are but the clothes and buttons of the man—the biography of the man himself cannot be written.”

Mark Twain’s Autobiography, with an introduction by Albert Bigelow Paine, 2 vols. (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1924), 1:[xviii].

Twenty Years

Staring out a car window staring into a partly cloudy blue sky and feeling angry that the clouds were moving. Feeling the bumps as we drove over two sets of railroad tracks and we came to a red light at an intersection. To the right was a gas station and I angrily watched as people were carrying on their lives as normal. There was a small breeze blowing through the trees and I even noticed the blades of grass moving. All of the movement was paralyzing. From the moment I entered my art class and had just barely sat my back pack down on my chair before I was called back outside and as the door closed I saw John Durnford and immediately knew why he was there. From that moment there was constant motion and movement all around me. The movement was so paralyzing. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t really think. I needed everything to just stop. I needed the world to freeze. It didn’t. Everything continued to move.

It wasn’t until I got home that I was alone and in my bedroom. I was able to burry my head into my pillow and give me the illusion that everything around me could stop moving.

I wasn’t alone for very long before my friend Noel Datko arrived at my house. I wondered how he made it to my house so fast. His school was way further away. Did he find out before me? Why didn’t my mom tell me? Why wasn’t she with me? Why didn’t John Durnford take me to my Mom? I REALLY needed a hug from my mom. My mom gives the best hugs in the world. I really needed one of her hugs.

Nothing ever stopped moving again. I had to learn to embrace the movement and use the movement of life to push me through it all.

Twenty years ago I lost my Dad, Michael Guymon. Miss you Dad.

This is a picture of my dad when he was around the same age that I was when he died. I’m not sure what month this photo was taken, but I’m guessing it wasn’t December, which means he should be 17 in this photo. This is his picture from his senior year of high school.

Explorers

From a distance I watched as my 7 year old son Jack, who had reached the end of our street and had ridden across to the other side, continued along the sidewalk headed east until he was out of my sight.

Jack had just freed himself of training wheels on his bike, was excitedly riding up and down our street and into driveways. He was filled with joy with this new life accomplishment.

Instinctively I yelled his name as loud as I could as I sat, leaning forward, ready to stand up. I waited for a response, but there was none. I yelled again, this time digging deep to push my voice out as loud and as far as I possibly could. I watched intently waiting for Jack to return. Waited for a small nasally voice to respond. Waiting. Waiting.

Jack finally appeared coming back around the corner and pedaling his way back towards our house. As he got closer he annoyingly inquired, “What? What?”

“You know that you need to stay on our street. That’s what Mom tells you all the time.” I responded.

The next morning I was driving my daughter Hannah to school and as I drove my car through our neighborhood passing house after house my mind thought back to when I was a child. I used to ride my bike all through the neighborhood. I remember when I was 7 years old I would ride my bike two long blocks away to my friend Tommy’s house after school. My Mom just wanted me home before the street lights came on and before it was night time. As long as there was daylight I was free to explore, to some extent. As I got older I would explore further and further into our neighborhood.

As I drove the car, my mind took me back to riding swiftly down hills coasting along the streets in my neighborhood during my early youth. I made sure that I road my bike along every single street in my neighborhood at least once by the time I was 12 years old. I rode my bike through ditches and mysterious dirt paths exploring every inch of my neighborhood.

Hannah will be 13 years old in a few weeks. The furthest she’s ridden her bike alone, has been maybe two blocks. I can tell Jack has that yearning desire to explore and venture off.

I find this kind of sad, in several ways, that my children haven’t had the opportunity to explore and venture off on their bikes together. I ponder over how much my experiences exploring has influenced my life and shaped me into who I am today. I wonder how a lack of these experiences is effecting my children.

Has the world really changed that much, or are we just so paralyzed by our fears of what we hear happening to children?

Be Forgiving

Isn’t it funny, to think about all the things that make us sad? Like losing dreams and kisses that don’t mean anything.

What does it bring?

Isn’t it funny, to think about all the things that make us cry? Like family and the one time that your best friend lied.

What does it bring?

Its time to sit down and reflect, the misdeeds you can’t correct. We’ve all had our missteps. Our shoelaces are ragged and our heart rabid. Have the faces become wood? To burn if you could? You won’t say goodbye though you should. The fire will pass by where you stood. Its an opportunity and it’s good. But it’s hotter than what you’re prepared to do. It’s a realization as you stare into the bayou. That you must lower your expectations. I’ve seen that. It brings hardship at such a fast clip. Broken pride and a busted lip. A wheelchair is your new bridle and horse bit. How will you control yourself at this high idle? When the words you say don’t fit? And the motion in your legs is nonexistent? Would you say boredom is an emotion you feel, but can’t vent? All the memories sealed forever vacant. Friends you can’t even remember, nor how the time was spent. You give in easy now like rag doll, it seems to be the only constant.

Isn’t it funny, to think about all the things that make us sad? Like losing dreams and kisses that don’t mean anything.

What does it bring?

Isn’t it funny, to think about all the things that make us cry? Like family and the one time that your best friend lied.

What does it bring? 

I am a chauffeur. This life is over. Drive where you want to. I can’t take you there. I can’t take you there.

Your arms hurt when you twist. And even the best docs and psychiatrists can’t help answer why me why this. They still think ignorance is bliss. Did you tell them all the things that you missed? That your life is over and the chauffeur’s been thrown out? Golf clubs and baseball gloves, but you can’t even get out of the dugout. You hit a home run and try to laugh. You see the ball and then zone out. And it’s your favorite thing to watch the weather channel, wrapped in your best flannel. Your eyes void you can’t handle the honest precipitation or Its sting. What does the rain promise? What does the pain bring? Forever a doubting Thomas, you begin to ask yourself about everything.

Isn’t it funny, to think about all the things that make us sad? Like losing dreams and kisses that don’t mean anything.

What does it bring?

Isn’t it funny, to think about all the things that make us cry? Like family and the one time that your best friend lied.

What does it bring?

- Bombadil, “Isn’t It Funny”

Hopefully the takeaway from these lyrics is to just forgive and let go of your grudges. Be more forgiving.

I Give Unto Men Weakness

And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them. - Ether 12:27

God gives us weakness to humble us. As we are humbled and come unto Christ those weaknesses that humbled us and were an instrument in bringing us unto Christ thus the weakness will make us a stronger person. The weakness will then be a source of strength or a vehicle to make us stronger just by the fact that it humbles us.

That’s not to say we aren’t able to overcome things and become better people. I just don’t think it’s ever meant to be that weakness is completely removed. Especially since I believe that it’s all one single weakness (notice that in the verse the word “weakness” is used as opposed to “weaknesses”) that God gives unto all of us to humble us. That weakness isn’t impatience, yet it can manifest itself as impatience. Rather I believe God gave us all a body of flesh that is our weakness. It’s all of the passions, appetites, & desires that come along with the flesh that God clothes our spirits in.

For some of us, that “strength” will involve longsuffering and continual reminders through our failure that we have been “given weakness” for a purpose - that we may be humble. As we struggle, we find exposed to our view the weakness we despise in ourselves, long to overcome, and struggle with daily, like a thorn in our flesh tearing at us. Paul begged the Lord to remove his, and was told repeatedly this weakness would remain there to afflict him so he might be humble. (2 Cor. 12: 7-9.) Therefore, Paul took consolation in the knowledge this struggle was godly. (2 Cor. 12: 10).

Why should we be spared the struggle? Why should we not be kept humble by the weakness we have within? Why should we not take up our cross and follow Him (Mark 10: 21)? Should our cross be anything other than a revelation to us of our own dependence on God, and need for Him?

The Little Drummer Boy

A few years ago, I was driving to the store in December and listening to a radio station playing Christmas music and the song, “The Little Drummer Boy” and came on. It was one of the first times in my life I actually listened to the lyrics of the song. By the last verse of the song I had tears streaming down my face as I appraoched the store. From that moment it has become my favorite Christmas song and continues to bring me to tears as I drive in my car alone listening to the lyrics.

I suppose that I enjoy the song and have an emotional connection with the song because I feel like, I am that little drummer boy, in the song. I too feel that “I am a poor boy too” and that, “I have no gift to bring, that’s fit to give a king.” I feel deeply indebted to Christ and overwhelmed by my weakness as a human. I feel completely unworthy of His love. I can envision myself coming upon an old manger to visit the King of Kings. I can look around and see the multitude that has gathered for the arrival of this child. From my perspective they all seem more prepared with great gifts, worthy of a king.

There I am, standing in the back… I am empty handed… Completely out of place and ill prepared for such an occasion, but I heard the call… I heard the news… I had the desire to come and welcome the King of Kings into this world…

It reminds me of these dreams I often have, where I am going some place, but I realize I’m not prepared for the place I am going. Mostly my unpreparedness manifests itself through not having the correct attire. As I run in haste to get the necessary missing attire I find that I’m unable to find what is needed. Nothing is ever in the place that it should be. Most of the time, in the dream, it is only one article of clothing, a shirt, pants… Mostly though, in my dream, it is my shoes. Sometimes, I’m needing to play in a basketball game and I’m at the court and the game is about to commence… I look down and I am wearing only socks. I panic and run back to the locker room and I am unable to find any shoes… I can’t remember the combination to get into my locker, other times I realize that I forgot my shoes at my house. Other times it is just needing to go somewhere simple, and still I am shoeless.

That’s how I feel when I listen to “The Little Drummer Boy” and just like the little drummer boy, I only have some mediocre talent to give. Will it suffice? How will it measure up to what the rest of the people have brought?

From the lyrics of the song, we don’t really have any real understanding of how talented the drummer boy is at playing his drum. I almost always imagine that the little boy is mediocre at best. Perhaps it’s because he’s so young. The only tune the boy is able to play is a very simple “pa rum pum pum pum.” Which, to me is so beautifully perfect, for the lesson being taught.

The thought of this little poor boy, that I imagine is dressed in ragedy cloths and most likely shoeless, is how I picture myself in the world. From the beginning of the song it appears like the boy isn’t really prepared for the arrival of the King. The boy simply hears the call of the people, to come, and that he needs to come now, and he needs a gift.

I imagine in haste, he quickly grabs his set of drums and throws them over his shoulder and runs to catch up to the group of people that were more prepared than he was, otherwise he would be part of the ones inviting people to come.

The part that really brings me to tears, is at the end, when the little drummer boy says, “I played my drum for him. I played my best for him.” Then the response of Jesus says it all, “Then He smiled at me” which is the confirmation that the gift was well received and sufficient.