Love Your Family as Yourself
This is the truth about my life:
I sit at the kitchen table and eat tofu and hummus. I’m staring out the window at skyscraper trees, at mountains like postcards, at a land I rarely see. I can’t see any concrete from where I’m sitting and I like it. It’s December 23rd and my Grandpa just came back upstairs after smoking a joint, is high as a kite, is back at Woodstock or Santa Barbara or wherever else he spent earlier days. He is 72 now and lacks youth but still thinks he’s Hendrix or something. His beard is long and frays at the edges; it begs for a generous trim. On his forearm is a faded tattoo of a tiger, black and muddy, it’s a sure symbol of lost innocence. It’s permanent ink to the memory of time spent fighting a war that should have never been fought.
“We had no business being in Vietnam,” he says on the way to his house from the airport, “but what do you do when you’ve lost 60,000 men?”
“I guess you stop fighting wars.” I say.
“This country just isn’t what it used to be.” he resolves.
Whatever that means. I shrug. I don’t know what it used to be. I only know about markets that crash and tea parties and Bernie Madoff. I only know about not having to worry about a thing in spite of everything. I also only know that no matter what happens there is always food to eat and there is always more than I need of everything.
After I finish my lunch he shows me his ipod and Bose sound system, is proud like a kid who has just finished making mudpies. Backstreet Boys come out of the speakers. Loud and clear. No joke. This feels like fiction, like a story I couldn’t have imagined if I tried. I stand and try to hold my composure. I laugh harder than I have in weeks and there’s no chance of recovering. I don’t know what I was expecting to come out. I just wasn’t expecting late 90’s dream pop. This is textbook stuff.
I tell him I’m going to write about this later and he laughs a goofy, nervous laugh; he’s never read any of my work.
An hour ago there wasn’t any laughing in the house. There was just tension like water about to boil. There was just yelling and dropping bags and doors that were closed too hard. I let a dog out of the house. Out the front door and through the woods the dog ran. My mom stood outside in the rain for fifteen minutes calling “Chloe! Chloe!” Chloe didn’t care about coming back, only cared about being free and getting into trouble.
I wasn’t about to get all worked up about a dog. Don’t cry over spilled milk, or a loose dog, or anything not worth crying over. The way I see it is that if your dog runs away maybe it’s not supposed to live indoors. Maybe it’s supposed to be outside getting dirty, collecting poison oak, chasing wild deer across wet fields. Maybe it’s supposed to be an animal and nothing more than an animal.
Really though, none of this is about the dog. It’s a story about the fact that I just don’t care anymore. I’m not interested in pretending or in performing or in jumping through hoops to keep bitter people comfortable. It’s exhausting and the payoff is terrible. Performing means straight jackets and having bad friends. I pledge allegiance to honest living.
Anyways, three days ago I got on a plane even though my better judgment told me not to. And now I’m in a house in the middle of nowhere listening to my stoned Grandpa talk about his music and his country and his dog. I’m listening to the choir of patience and grace grow weary in my head. I’m listening to the Spirit tell me to chill out and to bite my tongue until it bleeds. That’s the truth of it. The truth of it is that I’d rather lock myself in a room and sleep the next five days away. I’d rather shut the door and not engage.
Really though, this isn’t a story about a dog and it isn’t a story about me not caring. This is a story about loving your family. And bigger than that, it’s a story about who you are when no one is looking. It’s easy to be kind and compassionate and gentle when important eyes are heavy on me. It’s easy to cut my family down with words and be moody like the weather when there is nobody to answer to.
After I got mad and refused to chase a dog through the woods I decided to take a shower. That’s when the anger slipped off of my skin; that’s when things started to make more sense.
That’s when I heard, “love your family as yourself.”
It’s a terribly big task to love the ones who drive us mad; who with biting teeth, clash with our personality. It’s exhausting to love those who are a threat to everything that we’re working to become. It’s necessary though, and it’s essential. It’s the way of Jesus, and just because it’s hard and we’re far from the accountability of community doesn’t mean we get out of doing the difficult work of loving people well.
And so this is what I declare: Doors might slam but I won’t be the hand behind them. Voices might get loud but mine will stay low. Hearts might get angry but mine will carry peace.
