There comes a point in a man’s life when he stops asking why everybody else did what they did and starts asking a much more dangerous question: What am I going to do now?
I have spent a considerable portion of my fifty-seven years reconstructing conversations, replaying betrayals, and appointing myself judge, jury, and prosecuting attorney. The verdict was usually unanimous. Everybody else was guilty. Unfortunately, the courtroom was entirely inside my head, and the judge had been drinking.
Today I am sitting in a house that smells like cat shit. That is not a metaphor. Although, given the circumstances, it is doing an excellent impression of one.
I inherited two cats after my wife’s death. They are still here. My daughters are not. The room that could be my recording studio has become a feline sanitation department, and I have been appointed its unpaid director. I did not apply. I would like to resign. The cats have declined to accept my resignation.
The Things We Inherit
But the cats are not the whole problem. They’re two furry representatives of a larger collection of things I never expected to carry: grief, addiction, family conflict, financial uncertainty, courtrooms, separation from my children, and memories of jail. Ten years of turmoil do not disappear because somebody dies. Sometimes death leaves the surviving person holding the broom.
I have been angry. At my father. At my sister. At the past. At decisions affecting my family. At unanswered calls and explanations that never arrive. I have questions. I have suspicions. But suspicion is not evidence, and anger is not a verdict. I can tell the truth about what I experienced without pretending I know what happened inside somebody else’s heart.
I said something today that I intend to remember: My mouth is where secrets go to die. That sounds terrific until you realize a mouth without a filter can also be where relationships go to die. So perhaps the better ambition is not to publish everything I suspect. Perhaps it is to say what I can substantiate. Truth does not require embellishment.
No More Secrets
I want the light pointed at me, too. Show me where I have been selfish, dishonest, reckless, proud, or cruel. Show me where my anger has dressed itself up as righteousness. I cannot promise to enjoy the experience. I can promise to try to move toward the light.
A 21-gun salute is a ceremonial honor, not twenty-one opportunities to shoot at somebody who disappointed you. An important distinction in my present condition. I’m borrowing the image to mark the end of a way of living—not the end of another person’s life.
Twenty-One Guns
I want to salute the passing of the man who thought he could control everybody else’s decisions. The man who confused being right with being righteous. The man who believed that if he could explain himself loudly enough, everybody would finally understand. That man has had plenty of time at the microphone. He has not always improved the situation.
Twenty-one guns. Not fired in anger. Fired in farewell. Farewell to winning every argument. Farewell to forcing reconciliation. Farewell to measuring my worth by somebody else’s reputation. Farewell to making my children ammunition in an adult conflict. Farewell to the belief that justice must arrive on my schedule. Farewell to the temptation to publish an accusation simply because I am hurting. Farewell to the fantasy that the past owes me an apology before I can have a future.
That is only eight guns. I am saving the other thirteen. I suspect I will need them.
AC/DC had a much louder way of putting the ceremonial part: “For Those About to Rock (We Salute You).” I hear those cannons and think about the noise I’ve made trying to be heard. Rock and roll has its place. So does silence. The trick is knowing which one the moment requires.
Today I prayed. I told Jesus I was overwhelmed and tired. I told Him I was carrying more than I could hold. I gave Him my anger, fear, and grief, and asked Him to show me the next right step. Not twenty steps. Not the final judgment. One step.
The Next Right Thing
I am fasting, hungry, frustrated, and exhausted. I want the fast to draw me toward God, not become another way of punishing myself. Faithfulness requires discernment, including knowing when my body needs care. I have spent enough time confusing suffering with achievement.
The next right thing might be a phone call, an apology, a correct Humane Society form, a meal when I need one, or saying absolutely nothing. That last possibility is especially challenging for a musician and writer who regards silence as an unfortunate technical malfunction.
I have said the world is watching. Maybe some people are. Maybe fewer than I imagine. Either way, the real test is what I do when nobody is watching. Do I tell the truth? Honor my obligations? Respect the law while pursuing my rights? Seek reconciliation without demanding surrender? Protect my children? Forgive?
The World Is Watching
Forgiveness does not mean pretending nothing happened. It does not mean abandoning boundaries or legitimate questions. It means refusing to make hatred the permanent landlord of my soul. I have paid that landlord enough rent.
I believe in God, liberty, justice, and truth—especially inconvenient truth. I believe patriotism means more than cheering for whoever happens to be in charge. I believe a man ought to stand under the same light he wants directed at everybody else.
The cats are still here. The house still needs cleaning. My bank account remains unimpressed by philosophical breakthroughs. My daughters are on my heart. The questions remain. But I am here. I am praying. I am trying.
Twenty-one guns. Present arms. Render honors. Then put the weapons down. There is work to do.
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
John 8:32 (KJV)
— JC
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