A Few Good Men

I have been extraordinarily blessed to hold good men as some of my dearest and oldest friends. Some have been like brothers; others my betrothed; others my stage lovers. We have camped and carpooled together, laughed and cried, karaoked and improvised. They have guided me through break ups, buoyed me through unemployment, clapped for me at performances, paid for me when it meant the most, given me their bed to sleep in, confided in me with news and fears, called me in times of crisis, showered me with thoughtful gifts, inspired me with their faith, cooked their first egg with me. When the world claims “men and women can’t be friends,” I have years of evidence to the contrary. I have Max's uproarious laughter; David B.'s reliability; Justin's creativity; and Paul's generosity, just to start. Frankly, I don’t know who or where I would be without these men in my life, but recently, I lost one.

A World Without

Imagine, if you can, a world without church bells. No quiet evening strolls interrupted by the toll of the time. No deceased loved ones sent out of this earth with musical accompaniment. No noon song that draws out a hum as you go about your business.

Imagine a world without churches. No steeples dotting the mountainside, rising up out of the hills. No stained glass windows or mosaic archways or painted frescos. No grand feats of masonry and carpentry. No structure that brings our eyes and minds higher than our own achievements.

Imagine a world without gospel music. That would mean no soul, no blues, no country, no rock-n-roll, no R&B, no jazz. No Elvis Presley or Dolly Parton. No Otis Redding or Luke Bryan. No Beyonce.

Hope in History

"Hey! Can you come over here and tell us a story?" a man yelled to me from a small distance, waving his paper flags in the air. "We can't leave this area."

"Can't you come over to me when you are finished inside?" I replied.

"It will be raining then. Please," he begged.

Seeing as it was slow, and drizzly, and he had nine people with him, and he clearly very much wanted to hear a story, I walked over and obliged. "Just someone keep an eye on my things," I told them, and they assured me they would and cheered at my accommodation. I made some remark about the barrier between us, and he responded "we're always behind barriers these days," at which we all - the four adults in the group and I - shared a laugh and a "well played." They were a Latino family, you see. The joke was fitting, if a little too real.

Holy Leisure, Batman

4,056 miles. Thirteen gallons of gas between stops. A dozen donuts. Ten states. Six museums. Four Catholic masses. Three barbecue joints. Two beaches. Two state parks. One wedding. One Mississippi River. One broken windshield.

As we traversed the Mississippi Delta and the Atlantic coast, Cerise and I walked in the footsteps of the enslaved and the assassinated, of the Big O and the King; we sang to the tune of Yebba and Abba, to drumbeats and a tambourine; we skipped meals and skipped rocks; we wandered through parks; we smelled jasmine and magnolia and meats smoking on a fire; we skirted around roadkill and planned Cerise's death on a pyre. From the Tennessee mountains to bad margaritas in Mississippi, from the poboys and drunk boys of New Orleans to the pork rinds and early nights of Birmingham, from the sands of Florida to the Glass Doctors of Wilmington, from quiet Shenandoah nights to shouting at a T-ball game under the lights, from wishing love to the bride and bride-to-be to wishing we didn't have to go back home at all.

You Can't Spell Advice without Free Will

I like giving people advice. Sometimes, that means sharing places I enjoy with others; promoting businesses or museums or restaurants I care about. Because I work in tourism, I get to give this kind of advice quite often. I tell people where to get the best cheesesteak in Philadelphia; how to spend their day affordably; what streets to walk down. Sometimes, giving advice means helping loved ones make decisions, both little and big ones, such as how to phrase a conversation with someone they are experiencing tension or simply what clothes to wear on a date. So, too, I like to seek and receive advice. I just as often am given suggestions for what to do in a visitor's hometown as I give for what to do in Philly. I gladly welcome my friends' and family's assistance in solving life dilemmas. Just recently, three of my sainted friends guided me through a far-too-laborious crafting of a text message. Sure, I could have solved it on my own, but isn't there something good about advice? Isn't there something good about involving others, drawing them into one's intimate spaces, affirming the human need to be needed?

These are a Few of My Favorite People

This week, I intended to write a cultural analysis stemming from my overuse of the word "favorite." In the midst of Oxford definitions, grammatical terms, and millennial woes, however, I abruptly changed gears to free write - by hand - about five of my truly favorite things, well, people: my siblings. I was drawn in by all the simple and sweet photos and posts on my Instagram and Facebook feeds celebrating National Siblings Day, and I thought I'd join in on the fun, because not only did the wedding I attended this past Saturday show me I used the word "favorite" too liberally, but also that we don't have enough opportunities to tell the people we love why we love them - and to tell the world about that love, too. Long-form tributes are relegated to toasts at weddings and eulogies at funerals. Well, my siblings all got married quite some time ago, and I'm not waiting til they are dead to remind them just how much they mean to me.

4 - 3 - 2 - 1 Church

Holy Thursday: In the midst of a priest talking in a flurry of Spanish, I slid into an open pew towards the back of the church. Apparently the bulletin had been wrong: the mass started at 7:00, not 7:30. Flipping through the leaflet of translations I had been handed upon entering, I eventually deciphered we were in the midst of the Gospel. Back and forth we went, Spanish to English, English to Spanish, through songs, responses, prayers, and blessings, until at last we found ourselves on our knees with incense in the air and Latin on our tongues. Before the Blessed Sacrament, we finally rested in our common language: silence.