Stuck In Drive, And The Day After Dad's Day

It is important for me to be vulnerable with my readers. You see, I am having a hard time of late putting words to page. Part of me has lost my focus, not because I've stopped concentrating, but because I am concentrating too hard. You know how you feel when you've spent too much time in a large bookstore, a mall, a furniture warehouse: you've seen too much and now you can't see anything at all. Well, maybe you have not felt that way, but I feel that way right now. I am blinded by everything I see; I am made dumb by all that I am trying to understand. Imagine playing "Let's Make a Deal" with an infinite number of doors from which to choose; and then imagine that you have a 103º fever and everyone around you is trying to apply nail polish to your nose. That's sort of how I feel as I write.

I am supposed to be working on a proposal for a book on prayer. I have an interested publisher, and, for perhaps the first time in my life, I am having a hard time putting one consonant in front of any vowels. Part of this malaise came from reading the first few chapters of a book by Christian writer Donald Miller. The book is Searching For God Knows What, and it has confounded me. Not only that, it has confounded me to such a degree that I cannot even explain how it is I am thus confounded. Has anyone here read anything by this guy? What are your impressions? There is no doubt that he is an incredible, even enviable, writer. He may be the best Christian writer I've read since Thomas Howard. But there is something disorienting about his prose; it is thoroughly simple and pellucid, but there is something quintessentially postmodern about it all. Thus, I feel that the quest for authenticity has suddenly become inauthentic. Or perhaps what I am responding to is what appears to be an inauthentic quest for authenticity. I don't know. But Miller is a trenchant thinker in a very off-hand way; he gets me thinking, reeling, doubting. But I am not sure any of that is a good thing. Perhaps (or so I hope) one of you can help me here.

***

In other news, Father's Day has passed without me properly acknowledging dads everywhere. My initial sense is that Father's Day should always include a parade, but then I realize that I should nix that idea, knowing that fathers would probably have to organize it.

Yesterday, the day after Father's Day, was a perfect day for this dad. My 16-year-old son, who recently acquired his driver's license and inherited (sort of) his grandmother's 1995 Subaru Legacy, finished his first round of finals before zooming off after school for pizza with his buddies. Afterwards, he went and worked for a couple of hours weed-whacking (where he accidently whacked a frog and its death made him very sad, he later admitted), collected his $15, and then went off swimming with another friend, only to promptly lose his cash somewhere in the nearby lake. Then, after spending an hour or so hanging out at our house, he took his buddy home (two towns away) moments before massive thunderstorms rolled into the region. And, while driving past the local ski mountain, my son (he tells me everything) said this to his buddy:

"Hey, Didge. What do you say we drive up the mountain?"

"Yeah, let's do it!"

(Let me interrupt the narrative here with a question: What are a redneck's last words? Hey, watch this! Not that my son is a redneck, mind you. But he did make a curious decision: he attempted to drive up a ski trail called Pluto's Plunge. Alas, it is hard to find fault in that.)

Now picture this. About an hour later, let yourself see a dad driving a somewhat disabled car's front wheels up onto the sidewalk curbing of an abandoned ski lodge to use as a makeshift jack. Picture him getting out and crawling under a certain Subaru Legacy, using part of a photographer's tripod as a prybar. Picture a teenage boy standing over his father complaining that his perfect day has become something of a nightmare. Picture that handsome lad looking down on his father, whose legs jut out from under said Subaru, and saying "That's just great. My perfect day is ruined, several times now, and on top of that it has to be absolutely pouring out." Picture a dad getting up from beneath that car, gravel and sand stuck to every pore of his body (he's wearing shorts); picture lightning and wind and glasses covered with grit and water, hear the thunder; picture father and son soaked to the skin, and you've pictured the day after Father's Day.

And then picture dad saying to his son: "I completely disagree. It is perfect that it is raining. Just perfect."

(At least the car got fixed, for the moment.)

It was hard for me to be cross with my son, really. For me, it was clear that the facts of the day were punishment enough. Nothing chastizes a young man like the results of his own bad decisions. Why add an irate father to the mix? Besides, my son had me stumped when he said that there is no way I could be upset when I not only have tried such things in the past, I might still try such, well, adventures. I mean, really. What sort of dad would I be if I scolded an inquistive child who wanted to see what would happen if he took his grandmother's Legacy up Pluto's Plunge? It is the stuff of myths, for Pluto's sake. I could write a story about it all.

And if this is the worst it all gets, or even if it gets worse, then I'll take it -- with joy, lots of smiles, and more than a few hugs.

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.