I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly.
In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.
While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!
(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 10 reflects Jesus’ words to one of the criminals hanging on the cross next to him, “This day you will be with Me in paradise.”)
Mike knelt at the gravesite and kissed his fingers. The sun continued to shine brightly. It had been a year since Chris’ passing. It had felt like a lifetime. He placed two fingers on the stone and whispered, “I love you.”
As he rose to his feet, Lisa handed him the handkerchief she was holding. Mike wiped his tears away and thanked her.
“You think that’s it?” Lisa asked, putting the handkerchief back into her purse.
“What’s it?”
“Do you think this is the last one?” She pulled the folded blog back out of her purse.
Mike stood in silence for a minute, pondering as if Lisa had asked the meaning of life, or the meaning of death, for that matter.
“I’m afraid so,” Mike finally replied. “It’s finished. That’s it. Isn’t that what the last blog said?” Lisa unfolded the blog and read the last paragraph aloud again.
So as I am stuck in traffic that’s moving slower than I can walk, I realize that how I react to unforeseen problems, what I do each moment, what I even spend my time thinking about, they all greatly impact my character and my life’s direction. Life’s simple moments are not wasted and unimportant. They are the foundations that shape our lives. They are the formational moments, one added upon another. At least that’s how I see things. But what do I know? One thing’s for sure, I guess—it’s finished. That’s all I have to say. Thanks for reading.
She finished the final sentence with a question mark that wasn’t on the paper as if to question whether Chris actually cared if anyone read his blog or to question whether she could accept they were finished.
“It is finished, isn’t it?” she exhaled.
“It looks that way. I hope so at least. I don’t know if I can handle any more. Constantly checking back to the website. The disappointment that comes when there’s nothing new posted. Not to mention the range of emotions I face when reading those blogs.”
Mike would have previously hesitated to say this, fearing that his words would hurt Lisa or that she would think it meant he didn’t love their son. He no longer found himself able to worry about those things. He thought what he thought. He didn’t want to read the esoteric words of his deceased son any longer.
“I’ll miss them,” was Lisa’s response. “I found them cathartic.”
“I know.”
Mike reached over to give Lisa a hug. They embraced at their son’s grave for a minute. Then, with all the love and sorrow and time the two of them had experienced together, Mike kissed her on the cheek.
“I’ll always love you both.”
He turned and walked back down the path from where he came. Lisa watched him follow the path as it curved out of sight behind a grove of trees.
“Me too.”
Lisa sat down on the grass. She took her son’s final blog and put it underneath the candle, which continued to burn protected from the wind and elements by its glass casing.
I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly.
In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.
While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!
(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 9 reflects Jesus’ prayer, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”)
Lisa squeezed Mike’s hand as he bent over to light the candle sitting at the base of the grave. The wind momentarily died down as if to assist.
“We raised a good son,” Lisa whispered.
“You were a good mother,” he replied. “You cared for him like a saint. You gave him everything.”
Lisa smiled as if to acknowledge her appreciation of the kind words. Her thoughts wandered, and her eyes drifted across the graves that stretched out before her. A family gathered in the distance. The family was quite large, maybe eight adults and another ten children or so. One of the adults was an elderly man. They each carried flowers and trinkets, one by one placing them on the ground. A visit to their grandmother on the anniversary of her death, Lisa thought.
“I’m sorry I had to leave,” Lisa lamented.
“I know,” Mike replied. “Me too.”
They both stood peacefully holding the silence.
After what felt like years after Chris’ death, but in actuality was less than five months, Lisa moved out. She could not take the reminders. Every room in the house, the cars they drove, the food they ate, and Mike, poor Mike, they all reminded her of Chris. She couldn’t take it. The sorrow came in waves with each reminder. So with little fanfare, Lisa told Mike she would be moving out at the end of the week.
Mike half-heartedly protested. He didn’t want her to leave. In fact, he longed for her to stay. He hoped they would be able to rebuild a life together, some fraction of the marriage they once had. He knew that this was no longer in the cards, though. Lisa had moved out of the house mentally months ago. While her physical absence would certainly add to the agony, he had been staring down the barrel of this reality for quite some time.
When Lisa left later that week, she kissed Mike goodbye on the cheek. Both of them fought back tears as they found themselves at a loss for words. What was there to say?
Lisa reached into her purse and handed him a folded sheet of paper. Mike instantly knew it was a new post from their son. Lisa liked to print out each entry.
“I love you,” she said as Mike accepted the blog from her.
“I love you too,” Mike replied.
Lisa collected her suitcase and turned to go out the front door. Mike sat in disbelief on the couch at the front of the house. He was numb from the agony of it all. He unfolded the paper in his hands. A blog from Chris hadn’t appeared in quite a while.
“Please don’t you leave me, I feel so useless down here with no one to love though I’ve looked everywhere.”
October 24th
Everyone wants to love and be loved. We often look for the love of others to save us. This is not a new concept. I don’t purport to be providing deep insight into the world. It has been written about since the time of the ancient thinkers. Sophocles knew that love is the only freedom from the weight and pain of life.
While it may not be a new concept, it is quite an astounding one, both in its simplicity and in its difficulty to grasp in our every day lives. Each of us yearns to love and be loved, yet we constantly push that love away when it approaches. We’re afraid to be vulnerable. We are our own persecutors. We are crushed only by the mountains we create. Our need for love is our collective search as humans, it is common to us all. Our constant failure to accept love is because of our own arrogance, addictions, pride, and fear; this failure is the fastening of our hands and feet to the fate of our misery. Maybe Sophocles was right thousands of years ago, we are the sole cause of our adversities.
Mike felt the cynicism building up inside of him. His immediate thought was that his son, his dead son, was naïve. He couldn’t fight the immediate reproach he felt. It washed over him like dirty dishwater. His wife whom he loved dearly had just walked out of his life because the son he missed and loved deeply was no longer with them; because he knew deep down that she thought he didn’t love his son enough because of the way Mike mourned his death. Now he felt as if his son were judging him from beyond the grave. Mike understood the absurdity of the feelings that were rushing over him, but that’s the irony of feelings. They tend to control much of what a man does, but they are rooted in emotional reaction, not logic.
Yet Mike’s feelings, which were once sadness and loneliness before his wife walked out their front door, were now anger. After that day, Mike began covering his feelings of loneliness with anger. It didn’t take long at that point for Mike to cover his feelings of anger with alcohol. He would go to the cupboard for the whiskey and drink until he couldn’t feel a thing. Love, sadness, loneliness, anger, they were gone, awash in a sea of whiskey.
Work me Lord, work me Lord.
Please don’t you leave me,
I feel so useless down here
With no one to love
Though I’ve looked everywhere
And I can’t find me anybody to love,
To feel my care.
So ah work me Lord, whoa use me Lord,
Don’t you know how hard it is
Trying to live all alone.
Every day I keep trying to move forward,
But something is driving me, oh, back,
Honey, something’s trying to hold on to me,
To my way of life.
So don’t you forget me down here, Lord,
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,
Ah, ah, don’t you forget me, Lord.
Well I don’t think I’m any very special
Kind of person down here, I know better,
But I don’t think you’re gonna find anybody,
Not anybody who could say that they tried like I tried,
The worst you can say all about me
Is that I’m never satisfied. Whoa.
Whoa, oh, oh, work me Lord, hmm, use me Lord,
Please, honey, don’t you leave me,
I feel so useless down here.
I can’t find me anybody to love me
And I’ve looked around,
I’ve looked everywhere, everywhere
And I can’t find me anyone to love,
To feel my care.
So honey don’t you go and leave me, Lord,
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,
Honey, don’t you go off and leave me, Lord.
Can’t I show you how hard it is
Trying to live when you’re all alone.
Everyday I keep pushing,
Keep trying to move forward
But something is driving me, oh, back,
And something’s trying to hold on to me,
To my way of life, why.
Oh please, please, oh don’t you go and
Forget me down here, don’t forget me, Lord.
I think that maybe you can ease me,
Maybe I can help you, said uh whoa,
Oh please, please, don’t you go and leave me Lord,
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, whoa, whoa please,
Hmm please, don’t you leave me, Lord.
I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly.
In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.
While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!
(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 8 reflects Jesus’ prayer, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”)
The weeks that followed Mike’s discovery were when everything finally drifted apart. Mike left work early that day and found Lisa at the computer again. She was reading a new blog written by her deceased son. She had a sad yet wistful look in her eyes. Mike crouched down next to her and grabbed her hands in his.
“Honey, I found out where the new posts are coming from.”
Mike then went on to explain what he learned from his coworker. He had called the company himself later in the day and was able to guilt the poor customer service rep on the other side to give him more information. Chris had contacted them via email over a year ago and paid the minimum fee for ten blog posts. The representative said she could lose her job for sharing the information. Mike thanked her, telling her that she was giving peace to the parents of a dead son.
Lisa’s eyes were hollow by the time Mike finished. The wistful glint was gone. The sadness had darkened. Her eyes were wet, but tears were not coming. She got up and walked upstairs past her husband.
Mike stood in front of the computer and then sank into the chair. Like a building that had just imploded, his knees broke, then his waist, then his shoulders, and finally his head sank into his hands. Mike wept uncontrollably in that chair. He had lost a son, and he knew he was losing a wife. The life he knew was crumbling before his eyes.
As Mike’s head pounded from crying, he looked blankly at the computer. Chris’ new post that Lisa had been reading was still on the screen.
“That you never saw the signs, that you never lost your grip. Oh, come on now, that’s such a childish claim. Now I wear the brand of traitor. Don’t it seem a bit absurd.”
August 15th
We can only be who we are. I’m not sure I believe that we have a calling, each of us. The closest I can come to buying this is that we are meant to be who we are. I guess you could say I am “called” to be me, no one else, no more and no less. The most forsaken are those who fail to know who they are, or even worse, know it but fail to be it. If we are true to ourselves, we should never feel forsaken by anyone; we should never feel inadequate. This concept is nothing new. Both Polonius and Theodor Geisel said it long before me, yet we have an incredibly difficult time doing it. Be yourself, no one else. That’s all anyone can expect of you. That’s all you should expect of yourself.
Mike found himself beginning to hate each of Chris’ blog posts more and more. He missed his wife and found himself beginning to resent the fact that these blogs were driving them apart. In reality, each post was really only a conduit for the pain and distraction they both felt. Tragedy changes people, especially when that tragedy involves your own child.
As the days passed, Mike could see Lisa drifting away with every passing moment. There seemed to be nothing he could say that allowed them to reconnect. The distance between them was becoming insurmountable.
“How can you appear so calm?” Lisa asked one Sunday morning as Mike was sitting at the kitchen table with his coffee and reading the newspaper. Her question was posed with a sense of desperate longing, a need to understand how Mike did it, as if he had some undisclosed secret. There wasn’t a hint of disdain or judgment in her voice.
“Lisa, I’ve learned a lot of things through this terrible experience. One of those things is that everyone handles sorrow differently. Everyone mourns in his own way. What you see as calm is just me grasping for a semblance of normalcy.”
Lisa didn’t hear him. She continued with another question. “Why did you have to show me that website? Why did you have to confirm Chris’ death? Out of all people, why did it have to be you that finished it?”
Mike sighed. Taking a long drink of his coffee, he thought for a minute. “I’ve seen you struggling, honey. I’ve seen you flailing in despair. I wanted us to move on together. I wanted us to meet this head on together.”
“I don’t want to just move on, Mike. I can’t move on.”
Lisa grabbed the whistling teapot from the stove and filled her mug. “You just said it yourself—we each mourn differently. Why couldn’t you let me mourn? Why couldn’t you let me hold on to the hope of our son being alive? You took him from me again.”
Well the truth it fell so heavy
Like a hammer through the room
That I could choose another over her
You always said I was an actor, baby
Guess in truth you thought me just amateur
That you never saw the signs
That you never lost your grip
Oh, come on now
That’s such a childish claim
Now I wear the brand of traitor
Don’t it seem a bit absurd
When it’s clear I was so obviously framed
When it’s clear I was so obviously framed
Now you act so surprised
To hear what you already know
And all you really had to do was ask
I’d have told you straight away
All those lies were truth
And all that was false was fact
Now you hold me close and hard
But I was like a statue at most
Refusing to acknowledge you’d been hurt
Now you’re clawing at my throat
And you’re crying all is lost
But your tears they felt so hot upon my shirt
But your tears they felt so hot upon my shirt
Well the truth it fell so heavy
Like a hammer through the room
That I could choose another over her
You always said I was an actor, baby
Guess in truth you thought me just amateur
Was it you who told me once
Now looking back it seems surreal
That all our mistakes are merely grist for the mill
So why is it now after I had my fill
Would you steal from me the sorrow that I’ve earned
Shall we call this a lesson learned?
Shall we call this a lesson learned?
I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly.
In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.
While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!
(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 6 reflects Jesus’ words, “I thirst.”)
Lisa and Mike began checking the site regularly. Since Chris’ apparent death, they had found themselves drifting away from each other. They found that the blog was the only thing that kept them connected, and they found they both dealt with sorrow completely different from the other. Mike focused his pain and sadness into his work. He wanted to remember his son and push on each day with the fervor that Chris would. He loved the gift the new blog posts brought him, but he didn’t believe for a moment that his son might not be dead. Lisa, though, had a much harder time. She fixated on a number of different conspiracy theories—the other American boy murdered Chris, or the other boy didn’t mean to but still caused it, or the Thai government caused it and covered a mistake of one of their own, or, one she seemed to become more fond of with each passing day, Chris wasn’t actually dead. Lisa never spoke these out loud at first, but over time she began to voice them.
At one point, Lisa asked her husband point blank, “Do you think Chris is still alive?”
Mike sighed; the pain of such an idea frustrated him. He wanted to move on, not to forget Chris, but to keep living. “No, honey. Chris died.”
“Yea…” Lisa said as her voice trailed off. She stared across the kitchen table not looking at Mike, not looking at anything at all. She stared into nothing. “It’s odd they never found his body though, right? It makes you think maybe he really isn’t dead.”
“No, Lisa. It doesn’t make me think that at all.”
“Well, why not? Not even a little bit? It’s possible that Chris is still alive. Maybe it’s a small possibility, but it’s possible.”
“No, it’s not,” Mike said matter-of-factly. He wasn’t responding coldly to his wife; he simply struggled to even entertain the idea. “He’s not alive, Lisa. He’s not mysteriously missing but still posting on his small blog somewhere. Why in the world would he do that? I know finding his body would bring some sort of closure, but we don’t need closure through seeing his body. We have the memories of Chris, the laughter he brought us, the frustration he caused always challenging common perceptions, the excitement he gave us. We’ll always have that from our son, and the peace of knowing that he was our son. We raised him. But he’s gone, Lisa.”
“Well I still have hope, however small it may be. I don’t get how you can let him go so quickly.”
“I haven’t let him go. I lay awake at night with an empty hole left in my life, in my soul. But I don’t want to forget the rest of my life. I want to put the pain I feel into each day. I’m trying to keep living, but I haven’t forgotten.”
“It feels like you might have. I wish I could live my life, but I just can’t. I carried him for nine months, gave birth to him, breastfed him, loved him. I simply can’t move on, especially if there’s a chance he might still be alive.”
“I love him too, but there’s not a chance he’s still alive. It pains me to say it, but there’s not.”
“Think what you want. There’s a chance.” Lisa’s voice was distant now. “Why do you think there’s been two more blogs? It makes no sense.”
These words trailed off looking for a home but drifting through the air without finding one. She slowly slipped from her chair and went to the computer in the next room. She found herself reading and re-reading Chris’ old posts every day. Lisa longed for another connection with him. She wanted a new post to be there. She was granted that gift when the webpage loaded. See, Lisa thought to herself, there’s a chance.
“I can see straight down your crooked teeth. You feel so dumb, mouth open large. You’ve got exactly what I’m drinking for.”
June 15th
He came out of nowhere and stunned me. A short statured Indian man popped out of a small alleyway the other day. He looked ragged, tired, hot. “Watah,” he exclaimed.
“Whoa. Excuse me?” I responded, surprised as much by the fact that he was speaking to me in English on the streets of Thailand as I was by his quick approach. The majority of the English I’ve spoken over the last few weeks has been either in my head or with a lot of gestures and pointing. I’ve heard even less spoken to me.
“Can I have some of your watah?” he clarified in very good English.
I looked down and noticed the Nalgene bottle hanging from a carabiner on my backpack. “Sure, I guess so.”
So I shared with him some water. He opened his hands out to me, as if suggesting I pour the water into his cupped fingers. I insisted he drink directly from the bottle. There’s something about traveling and living in dingy hostels that changes your disposition to grimy strangers, I guess. I’ve found that people are more willing to assist with someone else’s homeless people. For some reason, the man struggling on the street in your own hometown is easy to ignore, but find a man on the street halfway across the world, and we all become bleeding hearts. I found myself reacting the same way. Maybe I assume the homeless man in my own city has been afforded the same opportunities and options in life that I’ve had, but I don’t know what the man in a foreign land has been afforded. I’m not sure what it is. It’s a silly way to think, whatever it is, but I digress. Back to the man on the street in Thailand.
The man drank the smallest sip of my water, to which I encouraged him to drink more. He clearly needed it more than I. After a long gulp, he looked into my eyes and frowned. I patiently waited for him to say “Thank you,” but he didn’t speak a word. Finally, surprised that my supposed kindness was not being recognized or appreciated, I shrugged and said, “You’re welcome.”
I saw a smile creep across his face. He looked up at the sky, then to the ground at his feet, then directly into my eyes again and said in his Indian accent, “For what? For sharing with me what you have plenty and I have none? I’ll notify the authorities to throw you a parade.”
Once again, I stared at the man in amazement. It seems that’s all this man caused me to do—be stunned. He popped out of nowhere and startled me. He acted as if I would pour water into his fingers. He took the smallest sip possible for his first drink. Then after drinking nearly half the bottle, he mocked my desire for thanks. I was stunned. He didn’t say another word to me. He nodded politely and turned back down the alley. I stood for a moment unable to move. What just happened? I slowly walked away pondering the encounter in disbelief. It’s stuck with me since. I can’t seem to shake it for some reason. I would typically chalk the encounter up to him being rude and disgruntled. He wasn’t though. He was polite and unfailing. I, on the other hand, was startled and entitled. And, at that point, out of water.
Lisa smiled at the screen. “See,” she mumbled again to Mike, knowing full well that he couldn’t hear her.
Maybe it was the timing of the post, right after the argument with Mike about whether there was a chance Chris could still be alive. Maybe it was her inability to accept what everyone else was telling her. Whatever it was, Lisa became fixated on the possibility of Chris still being alive.
She began by calling the local police. An officer was sent to the house of the frantic woman explaining how her dead son might still be alive. The kind officer took notes about the death of their son in Thailand, but it was clear he’d drawn the short straw among all the officers down at the station. Lisa didn’t seem to notice, though, and pointed out blog post after blog post.
“I’m not saying he’s clearly alive,” Lisa acknowledged. “I’m just saying it’s a little odd isn’t it?”
“Maybe his account was hacked, ma’am,” the officer responded kindly. “Or maybe Chris has friends that wrote with him, and they are still writing. Maybe it’s their way of coping.”
“Chris would never let anyone write for him. It just doesn’t make sense. Maybe he’s kidnapped somewhere, but still has access to the blog.”
The officer nodded politely, wanting to point out that if her son was kidnapped but still posting blogs, it would probably make more sense for him to be posting messages of distress or cries for help. He opted to keep it to himself, realizing that reason had left this discussion long ago.
At one point, Mike looked at the officer as if to say, “Thanks for humoring us.” Lisa caught the glance and felt completely betrayed.
“Thanks a lot,” Lisa said and marched off upstairs. Both Mike and the officer stared at each other briefly, unclear what words should be exchanged next. After the pause, they exchanged niceties and shook hands.
“Tell your wife we’ll be in touch if anything comes up.”
“Thanks so much for your time,” Mike replied as he closed the door behind the police officer.
Darling you have yet to hold me close
During the war, with your heart
I can see strait down your crooked teeth
You feel so dumb, mouth open large
You’ve got exactly what I’m drinking for
Darling you can bet to see my ghost
Up on the wall watching you eat
Yeah its true i dream about you two
Grinding my mouth losing my teeth
You are exactly what a night-mares for.
I’ll night marry you.
Skipper i can barely swab the deck,
Slipping around on fishes bones
Commonly i write more than i speak about our love with sticks and stones
I’ve seen you cast away this cast before
And your casting spells again
Doctor I’ve got bandages and bloods
Places underneath my minute gun
Finally the funeral unique
To all my sins, there all long long
They are exactly what this crying is for
They are exactly what this dying is for
You are exactly what I’m dying for
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